ALPHAS of the PEAK
I followed him down, catching him on the sidewalk as he fumbled with a lighter.
“Those will rot your lungs before a silver blade touches you,” I noted.
“Thanks for the tip,” Marcus snapped, taking a long, shaking drag. “But Adrian will probably rip my throat out before the cancer gets a chance.”
We sat on the bench, watching the traffic crawl through the rain-slicked streets. Marcus was seething. I didn't blame him. Adrian was my polar opposite—a tattooed, edgy disaster in black leather, while I stood there looking like a poster for the High Council’s elite. We were born to clash.
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