Chapter9

The smell of gunpowder seemed to linger. Leaning against the cold hospital wall, my chest heaving, Liam's final, wounded look was branded into my mind. At least I didn't need to worry. This pack Alpha was a man of his word; if he said he'd let go, he meant it. Three months later, the neon lights of Manhattan hurt my eyes. I slumped over the old oak bar, watching the silver liquid swirl in the bartender's shaker, suddenly reminded of another silver touched by moonlight—that chain, that bullet. "Another." I traced circles on the rim of my glass, my tongue numb from whiskey. "Why can't I buy a decent drunk, even after spending all my money?" The bartender took my empty glass. "Miss, you should go home." Home? I stared at the amber residue in the glass and suddenly laughed until tears came. That word had long since shattered into pieces, along with the werewolf's lies. By day, I played the recovered daughter for my father; by night, I counted the sounds of my wounds scabbing over here. "I'