Chapter Two

I glared into his perfect pair of eyes and growled. I've never growled quite so realistically before, it felt kinda good though, like it was natural.

He looked a little scared, but then again, my green-eyed glare had that affect on people. While he was distracted, I reached over and grabbed his hand and twisted.

Hard.

He yelped in pain, but I wasn't done with this creepo. I pulled my weight forward and on to my right hip and yanked his arm. He sailed over my left knee, and crashed down onto the cement flooring.

Before I could shout out in triumph, he was back up on his feet. I blinked, taken aback. That move made most grown men cry, if they didn't pass out. Hottie, I mean Logan looked barely fazed. Not even his wrist seemed to bother him. And now he was circling me.

"You clearly don't want my help, and I don't want to hurt you. If you leave New York now, I won't call the Pack, and no one needs to know about you. You seem to be doing alright as a lone female mutt, I won't change it. Just leave by tomorrow morning. Deal?"

What the fudge nuggets?

Pack? Mutt? Leave? What?

"What the hell are you talking about? You don't own New York! Lone female what? The Pack better not be a gang, 'cause I don't get mixed up in that shit!" Logan finally stopped the damn circling when he took a look at my genuinely confused expression.

"You mean you don't know anything? Who bit you?" He asked angrily.

Gah! I shouldn't be this confused! This should be a lesson to all, to never confront your creepy hot stalker. Why don't they teach you that in school?

So seeing as how asking questions wasn't getting me anywhere, I tried a different approach.

"Please start at the very beginning?" I asked in my sweetest, most innocent voice I could muster under the circumstances.

Something must have worked, because Logan started rummaging in his pocket. I was about to tackle him- who knew what this crazy person was gonna pull out? A switchblade or gun was what I was thinking- when he finally dug out a little red cell phone.

"I'm going to call a friend," he talked slowly and quietly, as if fearing he would scare me. "He'll be able to explain everything."

I was so not going to stick around for round two of this. So when he turned his head for privacy, I carefully slipped out of the pavilion and made my way through the insanely huge crowd. When I got my silver Colorado pick-up unlocked, I risked a backwards glance. I could just see Logan's blonde head bobbing above the crowd. And he was aiming straight at me.

Well too late for you sucker! I thought as I hopped into my truck and drove home, away from Mr. Logan Danvers, a.k.a. Hot Crazy Dude. Either way, you get the picture…

XxXxXxX

I pulled into the short driveway that led up to our little house and shut off the engine of my truck. Our house wasn't that small; it could fit a family of four comfortably, and had three bedrooms. It just wasn't anywhere near roomy.

The outside was painted an egg-shell white, with maroon colored shutters. There was no garage, and the lawn was run-down. But then again, no one had lived there in over three years. So it was bound to be a little creepy.

I reached the door and unlocked it with the key we kept under the swing cushion. As much as I hate to admit it (even to myself) my thoughts were still centered on what Logan had said.

No, I'll think about it later. I told myself forcefully.

As I came in the door I realized that William was hiding behind a stack of boxes that had yet to be unpacked. I don't know how I knew it, I just did. Kind of like a deer knows there's a hunter in the trees without looking.

William, or Willy as I like to tease him, was my thirteen-year-old brother. But he looked absolutely nothing like me. Where I have black hair, he has blonde. I'm tall, he's short (well average I guess). I'm lean, he's just knobby and skinny.

"I know you're there. Where are mom and dad?" He always tried to scare me, but I always win.

"Do you always have to ruin my fun?" He groaned. "I think they're in the kitchen." And with that, my eternal pain stomped away to his room.

As I rounded the corner, I stubbed my toe on another box that has been sitting there for the two weeks since we moved from our small town in Ohio. I liked our old house a lot more than this one. The one that was in Hartford, Ohio was bigger, with more space to store stuff and the property that came with it was amazing. There were at least three acres in old soybean fields and another four and a half in forest. It was heaven for the outdoorsy person I was.

But then my mom got a wild hair up her ass and decided to move us for no good reason that I could see. According to her, it was for a change of scenery.

Bull shit.

My parents didn't do physical labor unless it was life dependant.

Which was why I about blacked-out when I saw my mom and dad actually cooking dinner. And no, I don't mean popping in frozen pizzas, I mean actual cookage.

"Sooo…" I dragged out the o's, "Watcha making?" I asked, trying to act as if everything was normal (even though everything was definitely NOT). I hopped up onto one of the high bar stools that were placed around a little island in the center of the kitchen.

"Tacos, rice and beans," was all that my dad replied with. I studied him, looking for some clue as to why they were cooking my favorite meal.

My dad didn't look like he was trying to hide anything. His brown eyes betrayed nothing but annoyance at a small burn on his left hand he must have gotten from touching the hot skillet. His blonde hair was turning gray at a faster pace than before we moved. He still had his long crooked nose and ears that stuck out too far. All in all, he was still his slightly pudgy self.

My mom on the other hand, had a horrible poker face. I could see the little beads of sweat running down her smooth complexion. She would wipe it away as it ventured to close to her hazel eyes.

Yup, she was hiding something.

If it was anyone else, I would have started digging. But my mother tends to lock down and never tell you the secret if you press her for it. So, against my true nature, I waited there not-so-patiently, hoping that someone would spill the beans.

Minutes ticked by in awkward silence until good old dad told me to get my brother for dinner.

I made my way through the towers of boxes and down the hallway that led to mine and Willy's rooms. I banged on his door not so lightly and opened it when I received no response.

My brother sat sprawled on his bed, earbuds sticking out of his head. I walked over and tapped his shoulder. He totally wasn't expecting me 'cause he jumped two feet of his bed and let out this totally girly shriek.

"What?" He was irritated, great. Willy might not have a temper like I do, but when he was irritated it was like being around a teething baby who had a dirty diaper. Yeah, that bad.

"Dinner time!" I sung merrily, and made my way back down the hallway of Treacherous Towers. I was trying to forget about the possible reasons why we were having tacos, and more on the fact that we were having them.

I set the table and grabbed seven tacos and added some massive helpings of rice and beans. That was only first helpings.

For as much as a growing teenage boy, and two slightly overweight adults eat, I ate more. And yet I never gained weight, my friends totally envy me for that.

Throughout the meal, we just made polite dinner conversation. Never once bringing up what could possibly be the cause of- dare I say it? Family time! You see along with home cooked meals, family time was something of a rarity for us. We probably hadn't had a sit down meal in months.

So I was soaking up every minute of it. I was happy, something I hadn't been since I found out we'd be moving.

And then supper was over.

I should have known bliss wouldn't last long. But when we cleaned the table off and mom sent Willy to his room, I knew it was serious.

"Kaine," I swiveled my head toward dad and sat down. He looked nervous. "Since you'll be 18 next month, we feel you should know some things."

"Okay," I responded a little nervously.

This couldn't be good. I started to get queasy. Words were something that I, sadly, couldn't punch and kick until they relented.

"There was a reason we moved back here." Mom finally blurted out after a minute. I sat there for a while trying to comprehend what was being said.

Back?

"What do you mean?" I asked in my deadly calm voice my parents hate when I used.

"We lived here around the time we got you." Seeing what must have been a hilariously blank face under any other circumstance, dad continued.

"You were adopted sweetie…"

And that, my good people, was the phrase that changed my life.