I took a long, deep breath, trying not to sob with relief. What was I thinking? The Reapers were a biker gang. They'd probably committed worse crimes than arson. They probably wouldn't call the cops on us even if their lives depended on it—at least, I hoped not.
A horrifying way to die. A way of pain and suffering.Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth as he spoke to Ōkami. As he tried in vain to reach for the collar of Ōkami’s kosode to draw him near.
The Wolf leaned close. Who was it? Mariko saw his fists clench.A low hum rippled from his body.In this moment, Mariko realized she had never seen Ōkami truly angry before. Even beside the teahouse that night last week, she’d witnessed a flash of fury, but it was nothing like this. When she’d tried to pry for more information about his powers in those first few days, Yoshi had claimed very little ever warranted the Wolf’s wrath.
In order to hate, one must first love, the cook had said.And Ōkami did not love many things.
Before Akira-san could say anything more, Ranmaru came crashing through the burned brush toward them. He skidded to a halt, his face pale. Akira-san reached for the leader of the Black Clan, and Ranmaru flew to the old man’s side, clasping his bloodied hand tight.
Akira-san’s eyes traveled to Mariko. They narrowed. His breaths were becoming shallow and fast.She confirmed the address on her phone. This was the right place. Michael’s M3 was even parked in the driveway. Before she could drive herself crazy deciding what to do, the door opened.
Michael smiled at her. Right on time.She tightened her grip on the stuff she’d brought, basically having an internal meltdown of uncertainty. I don’t know if I got the right things.
He unloaded the flowers and chocolate from her hands with an odd expression on his face. You didn’t have to bring anything. Really.Panic surged. Oh, I can take them back. Let me put them—