The Apocalyptic Queen's Werewolf Journey (Thora and Darius) novel Chapter 4

**Shadows Hearts by Joseph King**
**Chapter 4: The Girl Behind the Wheel**

**Darius’s POV:**

Initially, I dismissed the girl’s claim about her inability to awaken her wolf spirit as mere bravado. Yet, to my utter astonishment, her steady hands coaxed the car into a fierce growl, awakening it from its slumber.

With a single hand on the wheel, her eyes remained fixated on the road ahead. The intensity of her gaze—sharp and unwavering—was nothing short of mesmerizing, far removed from the demeanor of an ordinary werewolf.

I had encountered the most skilled snipers in the Astralis Empire, and they possessed that same fierce focus when zeroing in on their target.

“Hold on tight,” she commanded suddenly, her tone laced with authority.

The firmness in her voice caught me off guard, prompting a frown to cross my features. Nevertheless, I instinctively grasped the handle above my head, preparing for whatever lay ahead.

The instant I secured my grip, the engine roared like a wild beast. The car clung to the cliffside, effortlessly navigating the curve with a flawless drift that left me breathless.

The force of the maneuver slammed against me, so potent that I felt I could have been thrown across the seat had I not held on for dear life.

Her reckless yet precise driving left me in awe. This girl—who had appeared out of nowhere—was no longer someone I could underestimate.

“Impressive skills,” I managed to say, striving to maintain an air of calmness.

“Used to escort supplies through the Deadlands,” she replied, her gaze still fixed forward, her grip unwavering on the wheel.

“The Deadlands?” I scoffed, disbelief coloring my tone. “That’s a restricted zone. Even full-blooded wolves can’t withstand the raging moon energy there. A kid like you, without a wolf spirit, wouldn’t last three minutes. You don’t need to concoct tales.”

She merely spared me a fleeting glance, offering no reply, her focus unwavering as she navigated the treacherous road.

It was then that I noticed the gruesome details: the back of her head, her shoulders, and her arms were marred with dried blood, and fresh crimson was seeping through once more.

The sharp, metallic scent filled the confined space of the car, wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket.

I stiffened, my heart racing. “Your injuries—”

“Don’t worry. I can make it to the last lap,” she interrupted, her voice steady, betraying no hint of weakness.

She clearly misinterpreted my concern.

Yet, as I studied her determined expression, I chose not to argue. Instead, a strange feeling began to stir within me.

Despite being covered in blood, she maintained absolute control over the car, every movement deliberate and precise.

True to her word, by the third lap, the vehicles that had once left me far behind began to come into view.

This was it—the final lap of the race.

From the finish line, I could hear the shocked gasps of the crowd, their disbelief palpable.

“No way! Isn’t that Mr. Blackwood’s car?”

“How is he going that fast? Wasn’t he nearly a whole lap behind?”

“Holy shit! Did you see that drift? That’s insane! How did he manage that?”

Yet their voices faded into the background as we sped past, the roar of the engine drowning out everything else.

At that moment, the race itself became irrelevant. My entire focus was on the girl beside me.

The scent of blood intensified, and I noticed her face had grown pale, her lips nearly colorless.

If I hadn’t been aware of our deal, if I hadn’t known she was indeed alive, I might have mistaken her for a ghost driving my car.

Who is she? What brings her to the mountains? Why is she so gravely injured?

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