Free Racing The Beast (Dirt Track Dogs #2) by P. Jameson Page B

way?
    He’d kill the fucker. Kill him so hard. Rip him into shreds so small no one would ever find him. He’d grind his bones to powder, spread those fuckers on the dirt track and race them straight to hell. Every lap of the oval would be his revenge for what was done to his woman. The bastard would be the mud on his tires.
    Beast paced the length of the garage, wrestling his wolf and fucking losing. It had been too long since he’d shifted. And too long since he’d been this angry. Had he ever been this angry?
    He couldn’t hold his animal back. Mate was wronged. Hurt. Humiliated. It was unbearable. The sound of danger filled the room. He pressed his hands to the sides of his head.
    Keep it together. Keep it in .
    “Punk baby,” he gritted through his teeth—teeth that were turning to fangs. This was it. He was going to fuck this up beyond repair. “ Get out .”
    A piece of him died, eaten alive by his rage.
    But then wolf took over and there was only instinct and fury and fight.

Chapter Eight
    Get out ! The words lashed Punk. The pain was physical, drawing an embarrassing whimper from her. Her eyes welled with tears.
    Shit.
    She yanked his shirt over her head.
    She hadn’t expected Beast to like what she had to say, but he’d done such a fantastic job convincing her that he cared for her. His complete and utter rejection was a knife in her fucking back.
    She was so sure he’d understand that the past was the past. Whatever this was between them over the last few days, felt substantial. It felt real and completely necessary. Like oxygen in her blood. She’d wanted to be up front with him. Something that special deserved pure honesty.
    It wasn’t easy to say those words out loud. Vocalizing it, even a decade later, was hell, but she’d done it for him. For them. For whatever connection they had that she’d been unable to deny.
    But he’d taken her admission and spat on it.
    She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. And worst of all, she couldn’t leave. Her motherfucking crutches were left in the shop when Beast caveman-carried her in here.
    Dashing her tears away, she decided she’d hop out of there on one goddamn leg if she had to.
    Beast made an awful noise that sounded purely animalistic. She stared at him, watching as he shook like he was having some kind of seizure.
    Suddenly, her hurt feelings didn’t seem so important. Fuck, something was wrong with him. His body jerked in an unnatural way that made her blood run cold.
    Punk screamed for help, hoping like hell someone was close enough to hear her. How would she get to her phone? Shit.
    “Beast? What’s happening? Help !” she yelled again.
    She tried to stand, but he let out a terrible shriek and between one blink and the next, he’d transformed into something incredible. Something… unbelievable.
    Where an angry man once stood, there was now a ferocious wolf that would easily reach her waist if she was standing.
    Punk gaped, unable to catch her breath.
    He stood tensed to attack, all power and muscle underneath pale gray fur tipped with black. He snarled at her, his lips pulling back to reveal razor sharp teeth. He was beautiful. He was terrifying.
    She blinked over and over hoping to clear whatever hallucination this was. Fucking hell, what was happening?
    The door to the garage flew open and Diz skidded to a stop, taking in the scene. “Oh… fuck .”
    The wolf—Beast—roared, shaking with rage. Chills raced up and down Punk’s spine at the sound. Beast was dangerous. He could kill them.
    There’s a wolf under all this sheep’s clothing .
    He’d warned her before. But how? How was this possible?
    “Punk,” Diz said, keeping his tone low. “You need to leave. Now .”
    “I-I-I can’t. I don’t have my crutches.”
    “Shit,” he hissed as the rumbling from Beast grew louder. It filled the small space, vibrating her chest.
    Drake pulled up behind Diz. “Motherfucker,” he muttered. “Ella, stay in the shop.”
    Ella.