Three weeks.
That was how long she’d been hiding out with the Dire Wolf MC in Blue Valley, a suburb in south Jersey. Three weeks. That was when Domenica Corvo, Nica to her friends, had plummeted to what she’d thought was her death from the sky. Only she did not die.
Nica didn’t even hit the hard, black asphalt that had been getting closer and closer as she lurched into a panicked freefall when the last thread holding her wing in place came undone with an agonizing snap. Something had stopped her fall. No, not something, but someone.
She’d been saved. Caught in the arms of a hulking brute who should have scared the poop out of her. But there was always something a bit off when it came to Nica and her sense of self-preservation. As in, she simply didn’t have any.