Oliver's POV
"She is serious," my wolf growled, pacing so hard I felt my muscles twitch with the need to shift.
"Damn it!" I roared, slamming my hand against the stone mantel. I didn't have an hour; I had minutes.
I moved fast, with sharp, practiced movements, ripping off the "Oliver" clothes as if they were too heavy. I ran the black dye through my hair, turning the red strands dark, then put in the emerald lenses. I cleaned the concealer hiding my tattoos, pulled on the black leather, the heavy boots, and finally, the mask.
I didn't take the car. I took the Ducati. The engine screamed as I sped out of the packhouse gates, pushing the bike so fast I definitely broke every traffic rule.
I reached the club in twenty minutes. I didn't park—I left the bike on the sidewalk and walked straight past the line. My presence made people move aside without even thinking. The bouncer didn't ask for ID. He just felt the cold, dangerous aura around me and stepped back.
