Hunted
The wolves poured out behind us, all rushing for their freedom, their snarls filling the air as they disappeared into the night.
Marcus rounded the front of the car, his movements quick, his hands already moving to wire the engine.
“I smell gas,” he gritted out.
A sharp hiss filled the air, the unmistakable scent of leaking fuel mixing with blood and smoke.
My pulse stuttered.
“Marcus,” I panted, my grip tightening on the car door.
The truck roared to life.
Marcus didn’t hesitate.
He threw it into reverse, slamming his foot on the gas. The tires screeched against the pavement, and then we were moving—tearing through the compound, past the running wolves, toward the open gates—
Bab Populer