“Thank you,” I say, though it hardly seems adequate for the pain she’s saved me. “I don’t think I could have fixed it without—”

She waves me silent with her hand again. “Think nothing of it, youngun. We keep the old ways here, and Dugan has deemed you welcome.”

A high-pitched yip interrupts me as I open my mouth to ask. Startled, I turn in my chair.

FUCK!

There, beside the large hearth, is a tiny grey clump of fur and legs I cannot be near. Our eyes connect and he realizes he doesn’t know me. He drops his head and shows his tiny teeth, and growls.

In one tiny instant, in those tiny eyes, I watch all the goodwill they’ve extended us evaporate into nothing. I dart my eyes over to Dugan’s mate and as quickly as I can—but without any sudden movements—back up and out of my chair, away from him, towards the door. It’s still ajar. If only I can make it . . . . My hands up, I beg, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize . . . please forgive me, I had no idea—”

I steel myself for the vicious assault I’m sure will come. She won’t be rational, she can’t be—old instincts, I’ve threatened her infant.

But she bursts out laughing, instead.

“Orlaith!” she calls toward the back of the room, “come and get your little brother. He’s scaring our guest.”

She turns back to me, still laughing. “Be still, youngun. He’s small, but he’s a yearling. You wouldn’t have made it through the door, otherwise.”

Oh, shit. I laugh out a breath and suck in a few new ones. “I guess I’m still a little jumpy.”

“A little?”

We share a laugh as a young girl, perhaps three years old, steps around the hearth and picks up the pup. She looks at me, eyes steady, no sign of fear, and asks, “Who are you?”

Funny that I should be warier than her. I look over to Dugan’s mate. She nods.

“My name’s Tiergan. You’re Orlaith?”

She nods, as the little puppy squirms in her arms, and tries to lick her face. She tilts her head to one side, and says, “You want to hold him?”

I can’t help but smile—of course I do. I haven’t held a puppy since Conlan, and I was still a puppy myself. But she doesn’t realize what she’s offering. I shake my head.

“Go on, if you want to,” Dugan’s mate says.

I look over to her and she smiles encouragingly, and directs me towards her daughter—no, granddaughter, more likely—with her arm.

“You’re sure?”

She nods.

Orlaith crosses the dirt floor, holding the squirming puppy out for me to take and I step forward and drop to one knee to meet her.

I hold out my hand to the little guy and he sniffs at it nervously a few times, then seems to decide I’m okay—he licks my fingers with his tiny little pink tongue. It feels soft against my skin. I giggle, and smile into Orlaith’s eyes as she drops him into my hands.

“Thank you for offering,” I say to her. She eyes me quietly, and steps back.

“His name’s Morey.”

I pull him in towards my chest, and he squirms around in my hands. He thumps his little paws up against my chest, and cranes up to my face. “Well met, young Morey,” I say, and he sniffs at my breath, then starts licking at my chin. It tickles and I pull him a bit away, rearranging him in my arms against my chest.

“He is a bit small for a yearling,” I say to Dugan’s mate, and rub his little head.

“Aye. He was sick for a while.” She frowns for a moment, then continues: “We thought we were going to lose him, but he pulled through. He’s starting to grow again, but he’ll probably always be a bit small.”

I feel his wet nose against my right bicep, and I look down to find him craning for the wound. I cautiously move my elbow a bit closer to him and let him sniff at it. He sneezes once, then starts to lick at the sheen of still-forming scab.

“No, no, little one,” I say, as I pull him away from it. I hold him up and look into his eyes. “It’s a bit sore for that. Thank you, though.”

He sneezes again, and tries to lick my face again. I giggle and put him down on the ground. He wriggles around my feet, and tries to climb up my leg again. I reach down and rub him behind the ears and he drops down onto the ground and rolls over. He squirms quietly, licking and batting at my hand as I rub his tummy.

I look up to Dugan’s mate with a huge smile on my face.

She smiles back.

I stumble into the house, my arm burning like it’s on fire. The muscles want to tighten, to lock down into protection against the pain, but I refuse to let them.

They are idiots.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I breathe sharply as a wave crashes over me. “Definitely stupid! Definitely stupid. Definitely stupid.”

I pull in a deep breath, and let it out again, slowly, focussing on the sound, withdrawing from the pain, letting it wash past me. I need it to settle, so I can sort out what I’ve done, so I can fix it.

Dugan’s mate’s hand is on my back. She follows behind, gently guiding me towards a chair by the table.

Did I miss her name? Or was it not said?

“Sit,” she says, without emotion. I nod once, and do as I’m told.

“Just relax,” I mouth to myself, and breathe through my open mouth. “Just relax. Come on, ten.

“Nine.

“Eight.

“Seven.

“Six.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, let it go—five.

“Please, just . . . let it, go.

“Four.”

It’s not working!

And she’s at my side again. I look up to her face.

“Now,” she says, and holds up a small jar. “This is gonna hurt, at first. But it will numb the pain.”

“No, no, don’t!” I breathe, and pull away from her. The pain grinds again at the movement. “I can’t, I can’t,” I whisper, through clenched teeth. “I need to . . . to feel it . . . to fix it . . . .”

She shakes her head and reaches out to take my arm, “Don’t worry, youngun—it’s an old family recipe. For just this kinda thing.”

I shake my head, but dare not resist as she carefully lifts my arm up, onto the table. I push down hard with my leg, and focus on the tension there, to keep from tensing anything else. She dips her hand into the jar and pulls out a thick smear of oily-looking ointment. It stinks.

“You’re sure about this?” I beg, but she just waves me off with her clean hand.

“Don’t be such a pup!”

I glare at her: You fucking try stretching a wolf’s muscle over a man’s arm.

“Ready?” she asks, with a wink.

I put my other hand between my teeth and bite down as I look away.

I nod once and she lays into it.

With a red hot poker.

I drive my teeth into my finger and focus everything there. Harder I bite.

I taste blood.

And the pain in my arm starts to fade. Holy shit, it’s actually starting to fade!

I look up and she’s smiling proudly. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it.”

“What the hell is in that?” I ask, and laugh while cringing, as the pain drains away.

“None of your business, youngun! Now get to your fixing it.”

I nod and she steps away.

Slowly—carefully—I reach into the tissue, regaining awareness of the muscles and fibres in my arm. There are blockages and snags everywhere, snarled lines with jagged edges, caught into each other, tied in knots. Fuck, I made a mess of it. But I feel them now. I start to collect them, in my mind, in my being, taking each in turn. They start to slip into place, like the workings of a lock.

Finally, barely daring to breathe, I change, halfway and back.

And it’s done.

I inspect it, but the pain is mostly gone. It feels right. The skin still hasn’t healed, from where I peeled it off yesterday, and there’s still some swelling, but everything else works again.

I turn to her and smile.

I steel myself against what I know will come, and change.

The just re-injured tissues in my right foreleg-arm-elbow don’t respond to my wishes. They twist and shear, stretch and grate, across bone, across ligaments, against tendons. White lightning that doesn’t flash, that grows only brighter, louder, angrier. I clamp my jaw shut to keep from screaming out, driving my teeth together, and drag myself through.

Into screaming, blazing agony—the pain of swelling, abused; cold, sharp glass, driven deep, twisted about.

The promise of something that

will

last.

Desperately, I grab for it. Please! I beg. But its solace is closed to me now. We aren’t friends. We never were. It smacks me away with a curse and kicks at me on the ground. I grind my teeth and squeeze shut my eyes, as it shrieks through me, around me, over me, hateful and unequivocal.

But the reason for it all yells at me, too, through the violence.

Tiergan! Here!

Now!

I drag my focus away, back to the real world, back to bigger problems. Back to him.

I force my eyes open. He’s waiting, jaws still open. Ready.

“Please, Sir,” I gasp, and blink away tears. I meet his yellow gaze, and refuse to flinch. “I am Tiergan. My cousin is Brennan. We are here to arrange, passage.”

His jaws spread, a growl, rumbling deep.

“Please, Sir,” I plead. “We come from Aiden. He was supposed to call . . . .”

The pain pulses outward, inward. Pins and needles roll up my fingers and into my wrist. I hear my breathing—ragged, and uneven.

I want to clench my fist, to react to it, to tense at it.

But that would be a grave mistake.

The rumble in his chest softens, and his jaws close. He stalks forward, slowly, eyes never leaving me.

I cringe as he moves his nose in, towards my arm, but he stops short. He sniffs at it then steps back and changes.

He’s older than I thought. And built like a tank.

“You are not one of Aiden’s,” he spits.

I shake at the force of it. “No, Sir. I’m one of Faolan’s.”

“I don’t know any Faolan. You said Aiden.” His voice drops, gravel becoming flint. “I would not lie to me, boy.”

Hasn’t Aiden called?

I shake my head and plead again. “Aiden’s our neighbour, Sir. We are travelling to Carrigan’s. We have Aiden’s leave. We came to ask yours. He was to call ahead.”

“Phone’s out.”

Oh, shit, no.

“Sir, please, I promise you, we have his leave.”

He eyes me again.

“You smell familiar, boy. Who is this Faolan?”

“He’s my brother, sir.”

“You are from the east?”

“No, Sir,” I reply and shake my head. “The city.”

“You are trying my patience, boy. Why are you here? Carrigan is north of you.”

“With Rian between, Sir. That path is now closed to us.”

His eyes widen. “Between Rian and Aiden? You are one of Kael’s!”

“Sir? Kael was my father.”

He throws his head back and laughs, a deep, cavernous laugh. He waves his hand and instantly his pack backs away. Brennan releases an audible sigh of relief, but doesn’t quite relax. Dugan looks back down to me.

“Sir?” I ask.

“What have you done to your arm, son?”

Huh? What the fuck just happened? “Sir?” I plead again, and pull slightly away from him.

He smiles at me. “I knew Kael. You have his scent. You may cross my lands.

“Now, what have you done to your arm?”

I whimper a greeting and drop tail, but it does little good. They stalk in towards us from all sides, growling to shake the Earth. I back away, but already the gap we came through is no escape—there are fangs and claws within striking distance on either side. I bump up against Brennan’s flank. His tail flickers by my head, not quite down—not quite down enough. I can feel his indecision, his growing agitation, and it scares me more than they do.

If he tries something, we’re fucked. If we aren’t already.

I crane around frantically, but there’s no way out. Every direction, there’s another gaping maw, all teeth and anger.

The biggest one stalks in, just ahead of the closing circle. I whine a warning to Brennan and thump his flank with mine. I feel his muscles respond and I yip, “Stop,” at him, without looking.

I crouch down—all the way down, stomach flat on the ground, right foreleg protesting sharply at the strain—and whimper again, before the First.

“Mercy”, I beg.

He leaps at me, jaws wide. And I freeze.

Brennan dives away as nearly twenty stone of muscle and snarl land hard on my side, knocking me away. I scream out in fear and agony as my right front leg overextends at the damaged knee, and he’s on top of me again instantly. A giant forepaw lands hard on my left flank, knocking the wind out of me, and his jaws are at my throat.

I close my eyes and from somewhere deep, everything goes oddly calm. Still.

The pain in my foreleg radiates up, vibrant and deafening. It wants to be friends. I ease myself into it. Slowly, calmly, I let it run through me, filling every fibre with its own strange, sharp reality.

Death won’t be so bad, I think, and almost laugh. I feel my body go limp.

I’m sorry Brennan. Looks like you shouldn’t have followed me, after all.

Dimly, in the distance, outside of my new world—my safe world—I feel his hot breath and cold saliva on my throat, I smell the scent of blood and entrails. His growl tries to rattle into my brain.

And I wait, floating in that fiery ocean. A tiny part of me panics at my lack of panic. I should be afraid, it tells me. I should be desperate.

I should beg.

It makes me want to smile, but I pour the emotion back into the ocean and wait.

Three seconds pass.

Five.

Ten.

The pressure on my flank lessens, and his hot, fetid breath retreats.

I open my eyes, just a crack, to see him, still standing over me, still all teeth and anger. But less then there had been.

Across the clearing, Brennan is crouched, facing off against two wolves bigger than him, and another behind. His growl is quiet and low, full of fear, but fear held in check. Nobody moves.

I look back to the First and ease myself back out, just a bit. Instantly, what was sharp and fiery becomes jagged and angry, and I wince at the pain, but it’s okay. I use it. I whimper, “change,” and make it a question.

“Mercy,” I add, though now I’m not sure who I’m asking it of.

He steps off me and back two steps, then closes his jaws halfway, and nods.

It’s a scent trail only, and barely that—at least a couple of weeks old, maybe more. But every time I think I’ve lost the trail, I find another marker, still potent, after all this time.

Brennan follows behind, true to his word. Fucker. If ever he was going to challenge my authority, this would be the time. But I guess it’s like he said—that’s my bit.

With each step forward, my uneasiness grows. How can this intrusion possibly go unpunished? Especially when it’s so clearly marked? I start to lay my feet down more heavily, just in case.

I’d rather not surprise anybody.

The trail leads down into a wide gully, so choked with tall grasses and mullein, that it must be utterly invisible from above. The ground closes in around us as we descend, and the wind drops, or, at least, whistles softly past us, overhead. The herby scent in the air grows much stronger, but, then, so does the scent of the trail. We thread our way through.

As we climb out, the trail grows suddenly fresh, and sharply intense. I freeze, every hair on my back instantly upright at the story it tells—of a vicious, gleeful hunter—strong and huge.

Someone who will not welcome us as friends.

Brennan bumps up against my flank and stops, then leans down to take a sniff for himself. He’s nearly two stone bigger than me, but he still backs off from the marker. I hear his tail flick nervously at the weeds behind him.

I look back. Our eyes meet—mine tense, his apprehensive, but steady. His tail gives away more.

If these people are so reclusive, we could probably just go back to the car, and head straight through. They’d never know we passed through their territory. We could just drive until we were clear.

But that would be a monstrous slight. Maybe even an act of war. And we’d have to run the same risk through every territory until Carrigan’s, because nobody would be vouching for us.

He flicks his tail again, but shows no sign of leaving.

I nod and turn back to the path, take a deep breath, and set out again. Brennan’s footsteps resume, behind.

The trail leads off to the left, along the bottom of a small rise, becoming more solid—more trodden—in short order. The scent markers grow less frequent, but also more intense. I sniff at one that is no more than a day old—sharp and pungent, full of all sorts of little details that had aged out of the earlier ones. They needle at me with a thousand tiny daggers of warning, but I push on. We’re invited, I tell myself, though that’s only a half-truth.

We round a corner into a wall of earth. I leap up and everything comes clear. Across a small flat area, a house is built into the side of a hill. A heavy wooden door hangs in a wall of rough-sawn timber, and leaded glass. The scents of fur and old meat hang in the air, mixed with the scent of burning peat, all hidden from us earlier by an unhelpful wind.

Brennan leaps up beside me, almost silently.

I glance at him and take a step forward. Then another.

A loud bark startles me from behind, above, on a rise. I spin to look as nearly a dozen Faolan-sized wolves emerge from nowhere around us.

To a one, fangs drip saliva and malice onto the ground.

The bitumen of the old road dies a natural death, petering out to a deeply rutted dirt track, clogged with tall, browning grasses and weeds. They close in around us, quickly, obscuring the view both forward and to the sides. Only the path behind us remains open.

Brennan downshifts, and we slow to a crawl.

“You’re sure this is the way?” he asks as we splash into a deep puddle, throwing water up and out into the meadow with a loud hiss. “This road hasn’t been used in months.”

“I don’t know,” I reply and shrug. “She seemed pretty clear about the directions . . . . Maybe they just don’t like company—she did seem to think they were a little . . . odd.”

He glances at me then back to the . . . track. “I hope you’re right. It’s going to be—”

“Stop!” I yell, and at the same moment he slams on the brakes. We slide to a stop, just short of a wire gate, closed across the track, almost entirely hidden in the weeds.

“Shit,” he breathes.

Yeah.

I glance around and spot a very old wooden sign, just off to the right of the gate. “Look,” I say and point. No trespassers. And, just below it, Beware of Dogs.

“I think this might be the right place.”

I open my door and climb out, reaching to avoid a slimy-looking mud puddle, then slog to the gate. The air smells heavily of rotting vegetation, and something else.

“It’s locked,” I call back to him when I see the chain. “Heavy steel—no way we can open it. Just a sec—I need to check something.”

I glance down the track, but it’s deserted. I peel off my shirt and toss it on the bonnet of the car, then start unlacing my shoes.

Brennan leans out of the window. “What the hell are you doing?”

Stupid question. “I’m horny—I want to fuck you. Isn’t it obvious?”

He watches me cooly as I toss my shoe and sock up on the car, then start on the other.

“I can smell something, all right? Old urine, I think. I’m going to check it out.”

“You’re serious,” he replies, raising an eyebrow.

“Got any better ideas?”

He doesn’t reply, but slides back into the car. I finish undressing and change.

Definitely urine. From several people. All of them big. Even the females. All of them strong and healthy, too. Sheep eaters, I think. A loud announcement—a threat, even.

And so much more effective than a little wooden sign.

There’s a trail, too, off to the right.

I change back.

“You ever met this Dugan,” I ask, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else.

He shakes his head and leans out the window again. “No. Why?”

“Nothing. This is definitely the place.

“Leave the car. Looks like we’re going in on foot.”

“What?”

I nod my head back, over my shoulder. “There’s a trail. Smells like the way in.”

“You’re sure about this?” he asks as he opens the door. It’s oddly comforting that I’m not the only one with doubts.

“Not even remotely. But we’re here, so what else are we going to do.”

He wades over to me, but I shake my head.

“We’d better leave the clothes in the car.”

A bell rings over the door and announces my presence as I step into the small shop of the petrol station. A middle-aged woman behind the counter looks up from her book and smiles. “Top o’ the morning, to you, lad. Now what can I be doing for you today?”

Her smile is easy and infectious, and I find myself returning it without effort. “Top o’ the morning, to you,” I say and step over to the counter with my map.

I glance out to the car, but Brennan hasn’t moved from the driver’s seat. He hasn’t even turned off the engine. I return my eyes to her, and the warmth of her smile burrows right down inside me. A mother’s smile. I remember one a lot like it.

“Ah,” I say, and lay down the map in front of her, “we’re a little bit lost? We’re trying to find our way to the home of Dugan Coey, and, our . . . map . . . ?”

At Dugan’s name, her smile has utterly vanished, replaced by what can only be fear—even her scent changes, though it would say much more to my other nose. She stumbles back a half step and hurriedly crosses herself—head, stomach, shoulder, shoulder. “Oh, Mary, Mother of God,” she whispers.

”I’m sorry . . . is there . . . something wrong?” I ask.

“Leave now,” she mumbles, her voice cracking. “I don’t want no trouble. Please just be on your way. I ain’t never done you any harm.”

“Harm? Ma’am?” I ask, totally at a loss. Okay, perhaps not totally at a loss, but incredulous, at least. The sign of the cross? Seriously?

“I know you be one of the them—none other would be asking after that one. Please, just leave me be!”

Odd. Dugan’s lot not been keeping out of sight when changing, or something?

I blink at her a few times before I formulate an adequate response. “Ma’am, I’m really . . . not sure what you’re talking about,” I say, shaking my head slowly. I hold my hands out, palms up, and shrug. “We’re just lost, and need some directions. I have no intention of hurting you . . . .”

She huddles further back against the wall, her hands up defensively near her shoulders, and says nothing.

“Ma’am, please. I’m just up from the city, I’ve never been out this way before. I have to deliver a package for my boss. Really! I just need some directions . . . . “

I do my best to sound innocent and confused. I don’t have to work too hard on the confused part, at least.

What the hell has been going on out here?

I hold the map out again, but she still doesn’t budge from the wall. Tears are forming in her eyes, and her breathing is fast and shallow.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry Ma’am,” I say, as sincerely as I can. “I really didn’t mean to trouble you. I’ll go. Again, please . . . I’m sorry.”

I turn and step to the door. The bell peals out again as I pull it open.

“Don’t go out there, lad,” she says, in a strangled whisper, as if it might cost her her life.

“I’m sorry?” I ask, turning back to look at her. Her hands have dropped from her shoulders, and are now clasped together in front of her chest.

She makes a strong effort to calm herself, and the smile almost manages to regain a hold on her face, but not quite. “It’s not a place for . . . good folk, the Coey lands. You mustn’t go out there.”

Wow. But at least she’s decided I’m human.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, I have a package I have to deliver. My boss . . . he’s not the kind of man you want to anger.” And my own smile returns, at the thought of how much truth I wrapped up in that lie.

The look of worry on her face doesn’t ease, but perhaps I can reassure her. “I won’t stay long, if that makes you feel better . . . just drop it off and go.”

She watches me for another moment, then reaches out her hand. I close the gap and give her the map.

“You’re here,” she says, pointing to the spot I’d already identified. Her voice and hand are shaking. “Take this road to here”—she traces a route with her finger—“and then turn down here. You’ll be going all the way to the end, over here.” She looks up and meets my eyes with one of the most worried-motherly looks I’ve ever seen. “And please, lad, do your business and get away from there as fast as you can.

“That lot is unholy.”

I nod and do my best to reassure her with my smile. “I will. I promise. Thanks for your help—and the warning.”

As I step out the door I say again, “I won’t stay,” and nod. She manages a smile in response.

I run to the car, eyes wide, and hop in. I point in the right direction and Brennan pulls the car back out onto the road.

I haven’t a clue what I could say about what just happened, so I say nothing at all.

The narrow road rises steeply towards a line of trees. Brennan guns the engine, a little harder than perhaps he needs to, and my stomach floats as we crest the hill. For barely a moment, I glimpse the wide valley laid out before us, a broad expanse of old woodland; one of the few real forests left anywhere near the city. And then we’re over, and my stomach drops again as we shoot down the other side. Trees close in around us in a dense tunnel of grey branches and low, green brush.

So many times, she said we should come out here, but I had no idea. It’s as if we’ve driven out of our world and into a much older one. It’s nothing like the woods near home, nor even those at Rian’s estate. Those places feel young, man-made. Civilized. This place is not.

Massive trunks grow every which way, branches intertwined, stretching far above. Some have fallen where they stand, so little space between that they are still mostly upright. They lean against their neighbours and slowly crumble in place. The undergrowth is dense with smaller trees and bushes, rotten trunks—every last square inch of terrain is covered with something grey or green or brown. And even now, as winter approaches, this place feels alive, a dark, brooding presence, as if it has stood here, both changing and unchanged, forever. A place that keeps its own secrets.

And those of others, too.

Do all old forests feel like this?

A rabbit breaks on the left as we round a sharp bend, and I crane around to watch it dart for cover. It scampers around a tree and dives into a bush. I smile, in spite of my mood.

“So when do you step in?” I ask, returning to the conversation we haven’t been having, and look over to him.

Not that I expect him to answer it truthfully.

“Huh?” he replies, and glances over at me.

“This whole me in charge thing. I’m just curious—how much do I get to fuck up before you take over?”

He watches me for a second longer—steering instinctively around another curve—before returning his eyes to the road, and laughs. “Tiergan, that’s your bit. I do what I’m told. I’m here to get your back, nothing more. Whatever shit you get us into, it’s your problem.”

“My problem.”

“Damn’ straight. Good or bad, I’m not answering to Faolan for you.”

Ah. So that’s how it is.

His left hand rests casually on the steering wheel, not even really gripping it. The other rests on the door frame, against the window. He barely tenses as we bounce across a series of potholes, and fly around a tight curve.

I look out the window again, into the ancient forest.

Another thing to regret.

“She wanted me to come out here with her, you know? To hunt together.”

“You said no, of course,” he replies, and fixes me with a worried look.

I laugh, without feeling. “Of course. I’d have felt like a thief.”

“Yeah. No way Aiden would’ve given his consent.”

“Yeah, well, he made that pretty clear this morning. But it’s not like I didn’t already know.”

He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again, and taps the gas a little as we glide through an s-curve.

“What?” I ask, as the road straightens out again.

He doesn’t answer, but I wait. It feels like a fight’s coming. But what else are we going to do?

“I don’t know why the fuck you got involved with that bitch. You had to know what would come of it.”

“Her name’s Keaira.”

“Her name might as well be Bean Sídhe, for someone your size.”

“Yeah—fuck you.”

“I’m serious, Tiergan. If her father doesn’t kill you for sniffing around her, there’s got to be a dozen other guys—big guys—who would consider her a worthy conquest, and you a nice snack. Even Faolan’s going to find it a job.”

Fuck.

“I don’t understand you at all,” he continues. “You’re young, you’re attractive—what do you need a mate for? You can walk into any bar in town and walk out with something to fuck, any night of the week. Hell, even half your pack-mates would be willing to play with you. You could probably even talk me into it, if you tried.

“Why even go after her?”

“I think you should shut up now.”

He laughs. “Yeah, well, you’re the boss.”

Fucker! “You don’t know a damned thing about it! It’s not about the sex, and I didn’t go looking for a mate! We became friends, and then . . . we became more.”

I pause for a deep breath.

“It’s like we’ve known each other forever. Do you have any idea what it’s like, for someone to know you so well that half the time, you don’t even have to speak. You just know what the other’s thinking? To be so comfortable with each other that you don’t hide anything? Wouldn’t you want that?”

He laughs again. “Oh, get off it, Tiergan. You and Tara have been that close since birth. You don’t need a mate for that.”

“It’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“Of course it is. You just want to pretend that it’s love or some other human bullshit. A mate is for making puppies, Tiergan, and for running a family. Nothing more. You have no use for a mate. You couldn’t take care of one if you had one, and you certainly couldn’t take care of a whole family.

“You know, you really are an asshole, Brennan.”

“Maybe,” he replies, and nods his head. “You showed you had some balls yesterday. But it changes nothing. You’re forty pounds light and a whole lot of speed and viciousness short on being a First.

“And that’s not going to change, because you don’t want it to.”