The Wolfpack's New Receptionist
It was a Combat Wraith, a custom-built powerhouse, trapped in a cage of steel.
Cane leaned over the tank, his massive body dwarfing the bike. He had changed into a clean black T-shirt. His hair was windswept, and his eyes, though brown again, held a slight glow of amber that suggested the beast was only inches beneath the surface.
"I told you I wasn't going back to the penthouse," I said as I approached him.
"You’re not going to the penthouse," Cane said, his voice low.
He reached out, handing me a black helmet.
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