Chapter 82: The Pawn and the Blade
Cassandra~
The stench of rust and rain-soaked pavement clung to my lungs with every ragged breath. Slumped against the car door, I let the shadows swallow me, their jagged edges drawn by the flickering light of the streetlamp. The alley was narrow, boxed in by towering apartment buildings that felt as suffocating as the anger burning in my chest. It wasn’t the most dignified place to nurse my wounds, but here I was—bruised, breathless, and seething.
I glared at the werewolf who had dragged me out here, standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his broad chest like he actually believed he had me where he wanted. Griffin Blackthorn he called himself. Arrogant, handsome, and about as smart as a broken doorknob.
He had one of those annoyingly symmetrical faces—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and dark brown hair that looked like he spent exactly five seconds running his fingers through it to achieve that perfect messy-but-not-messy look. His gray eyes gleamed with a cocky sort of mischief, the kind that said he thought he was untouchable. Tall, lean, but strong, he carried himself like a man who knew how to fight, how to command a room.
And yet, he was a complete idiot.
I had fallen into a cheap trap set by this nitwit and a few bloodsuckers?
I curled my fingers into fists, resisting the urge to punch something—preferably his face. My injuries weren’t healing fast enough, and that only made me angrier. Normally, Kalmia would have warned me if I was heading into danger. Normally, my demon would be whispering in my mind, guiding me out of this mess before it even started.
But tonight? She had been silent.
My lip curled. "So, let me get this straight," I said, my voice laced with mock amusement. "You think I, Cassandra, should go after Mist?" I laughed, low and dangerous. "Mist. The divine, untouchable, terrifying Wolf Spirit?"
The father of all werewolves was the kind of being you didn’t mess with unless you had a death wish. I felt my hands twitch at my sides, wanting so badly to grab something—his face, his throat, anything—to shake some sense into him.
Griffin smirked, leaning against his car. "That’s the idea, yeah."