Kitty and the Midnight Hour

Chapter 4

Dressed in sweatpants, sports bra, and tank top, I stood on the mat, and at the instructor's signal, kicked at dust motes. Craig, an impossibly fit and enthusiastic college student who looked like he'd walked straight out of an MTV reality show, shouted "Go!" and the dozen of us in the class—all of us women in our twenties and thirties—kicked.

Rather than teaching a specific martial art, the class took bits and pieces from several disciplines and combined them in a technique designed to incapacitate an assailant long enough for us to run like hell. We didn't get points for style; we didn't spend a lot of time in mystical meditation. Instead, we drilled moves over and over again so that in a moment of panic, in the heat of an attack, we could move by instinct and defend ourselves.

It was pretty good exercise as well. Breathing hard, sweating, I could forget about the world outside the gym and let my brain go numb for an hour.

We switched sides and kicked with the other leg a dozen or so times. Then Craig put his hands on his hips.

"All right. Line up so we can do some sparring."

I hated sparring. We'd started with a punching bag the first few sessions. Where most of the women hit the bag and barely budged it, I set it swinging. I got many admiring compliments regarding my upper-body strength. But it had nothing to do with upper-body strength. Something about werewolves made them more powerful than normal humans. Without any training at all, by just being myself and what I was, I could outfight all my classmates, and probably Craig as well.

That wouldn't help me with vampires.

What the episode with the punching bag taught me was that I had to be very careful sparring against humans. I didn't know how strong I was or what I was capable of. I had to pull every punch. I didn't want to hurt anyone by mistake.

I didn't want to hurt anyone at all. The Wolf part of me groveled and whined at the thought of fighting, because she knew Carl wouldn't like it. Wolf, ha. I was supposed to be a monster. Ferocious, bloodthirsty. But a monster at the bottom of the pack's pecking order might as well be as ferocious as a newborn puppy.

Dutifully, I lined up with the others and gritted my teeth.

We practiced delivering and taking falls. Tripping, tackling, dropping, rolling, getting back up and doing it all over again. I fell more often than not, smacking on the mat until my teeth rattled. I didn't mind. My sparring partner was Patricia, a single mom on the plump side who'd never even thought about sports until it looked like her eight-year-old son, a Tae Kwon Do whiz, was going to be able to beat up Jackie Chan soon (she claimed), and she wanted to keep up with him. Patricia seemed gleeful at the idea that she could topple a full-grown adult with a couple of quick moves. A lot of these women had to overcome cultural conditioning against hurting other people, or even confronting anyone physically. I was happy to contribute to Patricia's education in this regard.

"You're holding back, Kitty."

I was flat on my back again. I opened my eyes to find Craig, six feet of blond zeal, staring down at me, weirdly foreshortened at this angle. He was all leg.

"Yeah," I said with a sigh.

"Come on, get up." He offered his hand and helped me to my feet. "Now I want you knock me all the way across the gym."

He had the gall to put a twinkle in his eyes.

The rest of the class formed a circle around us, an audience that I didn't want and that made me bristle. Wolf hated fighting. She was better at cowering. Inside, I was whining.

Craig bent his arms and hunched like he was getting ready to charge me. If he charged, I was supposed to drop, letting him trip over me, and shove, making sure he lost his footing. Sure enough, he ran at me. I dropped. Instead of tripping, though, he sidestepped. If I'd shoved like I was supposed to, he would have lost his balance. But I just sat there, allowing him to jump behind me and lock his arm around my neck.

"I know you can do better than that. Come on, let's try it again."

I could fight, I was strong enough. But I had no will for it. Too used to being picked on, a victim by habit. I closed my eyes, feeling like a kid who'd flunked yet another test Slowly, I got to my feet.

Craig faced me again. "Okay, let's try something. This time, imagine I'm your worst ex-boyfriend, and this is your chance to get even."

Oh, that was easy. That would be Bill. All Craig had to do was say it, and I saw Bill there, and all that anger came back. I clenched my fists.

Being angry meant not holding back, of course. I wasn't sure I could have pulled the next punch if I'd wanted to, once I had Bill on the brain.

Craig charged. I ducked. Then I shoved, leading with my shoulder and putting my whole body behind it. I connected with his side. He made a noise, a grunt of air, and flew. Both his feet left the mat. Women squealed and dodged out of his way as he crashed to the floor, bouncing twice. He lay on his back and didn't move.

The bottom dropped out of my stomach and I nearly fainted. I'd killed him. I'd killed my self-defense instructor. Shit.

I ran to where he lay and stumbled to a crouch at his side, touching his shoulder. "Craig?"

His eyelids fluttered. A few panicked heartbeats later, he opened them. Then he grinned.

"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about! You gotta learn to hit people." He was breathing hard. He had to gasp the words out. I'd probably knocked the wind out of him. "Now, never do that to me again."

I gave him a hand up. He was rubbing his head. I bet he would hurt in the morning. How embarrassing.

"Wow," Patricia, coming to stand next to me, said. "Your ex must have been a real winner."

"You have no idea."

Between my mystery phone call and Rick's visit, I had my research assignments for the next week set. I worked on my mystery caller first.

The Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology was the government agency that had conducted the study on lycanthropy and vampirism overseen by the CDC and NIH. It was relegated to footnotes in the back pages of the obscure report that had been all but buried in the CDC archives. I couldn't find any names of people there I could contact. No one wanted to be associated with it. The people I called at the CDC hadn't heard of it. The NIH referred me to the CDC. It probably wasn't a real agency, but some kind of think tank. Or smoke screen.

I didn't usually buy into conspiracy theories. At least not where the government was concerned. After all, when Congress had trouble voting itself enough money to continue operating, how was I supposed to believe that this same government was behind a finely tuned clandestine organization bent on obfuscating the truth and manipulating world events according to some arcane plan for the domination of the minds and souls of all free people?

Unless vampires were involved. If vampires were involved, all bets were off.

I worked on Rick's flyer next.

As much as I hated to admit it, I started with the website for Uncharted World. The Internet had a thriving community that dealt in supernatural news. The trouble was separating the hoaxes and fanatics from the real deal. Most of what Uncharted World posted was sensationalist and inaccurate. But they had a search engine that filtered for "news of the weird," and with enough patience and by following enough links, I could trace the Web to good sources and cross-check the information to verify it.

I hit pay dirt when I found a collection of bulletin board postings and some missing persons reports filed with various local police departments. It seemed that about four months ago, an old revival-style tent had sprung up in the middle of the night on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska. Posters appeared all over the bad parts of town, the likely haunts of lycanthropes and vampires, advertising a cure based solely on faith and the intercession of a self-proclaimed holy man, Elijah Smith. I couldn't find any documentation of what happened during that meeting. The tent had disappeared by the next morning and a week later showed up in Wichita, Kansas. Then Pueblo, Colorado. Stories began circulating: The cure worked, this guy was for real, and the people he healed were so grateful, they didn't want to leave. A caravan of followers sprang up around that single tent.

Smith's congregation was known as the Church of the Pure Faith, with "Pure faith will set you free" as its motto. I couldn't find any photos, any accounts of what went on inside the caravan or what the meetings were like. I couldn't find any specifics about the cure itself. No one who wasn't earnestly seeking a cure could get close to Smith or his followers. People who came looking for their friends, packmates, or Family members who had disappeared into that tent were threatened. Interventions were forcibly turned back.

I came across a couple of websites warning people away from Smith. Some people screamed cult. After reading what I could find, I was inclined to as well.

Vampirism and lycanthropy were not medical conditions, so to speak. People had studied us, scanned us, dissected us, and while they found definite characteristics distinguishing us from Homo sapiens, they hadn't found their sources. They weren't genetic, viral, bacterial, or even biological. That was part of what made us so frightening. Our origins were what science had been trying to deny for hundreds of years: the supernatural. If there were a way to cure vampirism and lycanthropy, it would probably come from the supernatural, the CDC and Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology notwithstanding. In the case of a vampire, how else could one restore the bloodless undead to full-blooded life? Faith healing just might be the answer. That was the problem with trying to expose Smith as a fraud and his church as a cult.

I didn't believe there was a cure. Someone would have found it by now.

"Welcome to The Midnight Hour. I'm Kitty Norville. Tonight I have a very special guest with me. Veronica Sevilla is the author of The Bledsoe Chronicles, The Book of Rites, and a half-dozen other best-selling novels that follow the trials and tribulations of a clan of vampires through the centuries. Her newest novel, The Sun Never Rises, has just been released. Ms. Sevilla, thank you for being on the show."

"Please, my dear, call me Veronica."

Veronica Sevilla, whose birth name was Martha Perkins, wore a straight, black knit dress, black stockings, black patent-leather heels, and a black fur stole. Her dark hair—dyed, I was sure—framed her pale face in tight curls. Diamond studs glittered on her earlobes. She sat back in the guest chair, hugging herself, hands splayed across opposite shoulders. It wasn't because she was cold or nervous—it was a pose. Her official biography gave no age or date of birth. I couldn't tell how old she was by looking at her. Her face was lined, but not old. She might have been anywhere from forty to sixty. There might have been surgery involved.

She wasn't a vampire. She smelled warm and I could hear her heart beat. But she sure was trying to act like one. I couldn't stop staring at her, like, Are you for real?

"All right, Veronica. You write about vampires in a way that makes them particularly vivid. Some critics have commented on your ability to take them out of the realm of standard horror fare and turn them into richly realized characters. They're the heroes of your stories."

"Yes, of course, why shouldn't they be? It's all a matter of perspective."

"You've gathered a following of admirers who seem to identify strongly with your vampire protagonists. Quite a few of them insist that your novels aren't fiction, but factual accounts of real vampires. What do you say to this?"

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture that was totally lost on the radio.

"I wouldn't know where to find a real vampire. Vampires are a product of the human imagination. My books are all products of my own imagination."

I had my doubts. Putting Sevilla's rabid fans and her florid overwriting aside, she got too many details right. The way vampire Families worked, the things they said to one another, the dominance and posturing games that went on among them the same way they went on among werewolves—details that an outsider wouldn't be able to make up. So, she either did a great job on her research, in which case I wanted to know what her sources of information on vampire culture were, or she had connections. Before meeting her, I half-expected her to be a vampire, or a human servant of one, or something.

"Why do you think your fans are so attracted to your characters and stories? Why do people want to believe in vampires?"

"My books create a world that is enticing. My world, the Bledsoe Family, vampires in general—these are all metaphors for the power these poor children wish they could have in life but can't because they are so… so…"

"Insecure?"

"Outcast. Misfit Badly adjusted."

"Are you saying your fans are social misfits?"

She touched a bitten-down fingernail to her lip. "Hm, that is imprecise."

"You have fans who come to you wanting to learn about vampires, wanting to become vampires. They see you as an authority on the subject What do you tell them?"

"I tell them it's fiction. Everything I have to say is there in the books. What do you tell them, when people ask you such questions?"

"I tell them that maybe being a vampire isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Have you ever met a vampire, Kitty?"

I paused, a smile tugging at my lips. "Yeah, I have. And frankly, I find that your novels are pretty accurate."

"Well. What am I supposed to say to that? Perhaps you could introduce me to one."

I thought about it and decided that Arturo would love to have her for lunch—but he had better taste.

"Why vampires? You write centuries-long family sagas—why not write historical epics without any hint of the supernatural?"

"Well, that would be boring, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, God only knows what Tolstoy was thinking. Seriously, though, what's your inspiration? Where do you get your ideas?"

"Writers hate that question."

"I think writers only say they hate it to avoid answering it."

"Is that any way to speak to a guest?"

I sighed. She was used to being pampered. Dressing room and a bowl of peanut M&Ms with the green ones taken out, that sort of thing.

"I apologize, Veronica. I tend to be a bit on the blunt side."

She looked me up and down, nodding slightly, agreeing.

The interview wasn't one of my best. We got off on the wrong foot, and she was entirely too closemouthed to make it work. She didn't want to be here. Her publicist had set up the interview as part of the promotional tour for the new book. She'd probably done a dozen of these appearances already.

I took some calls and got the expected round of gushing, ebullient fans. Veronica handled them better than I did, but she'd had lots of practice.

At last, like the door of a prison cell slamming open, the show ended and we were done. I pulled off the headphones and regarded Veronica Sevilla.

"Thanks again for being on the show. I know my listeners got a kick out of it."

I expected her to humph at me, make a dismissive gesture, and stalk out leaving a trail of haughty slime behind her. Instead, she licked her lips. Her lipstick needed touching up. Her gaze downcast, she straightened and took a deep breath before speaking.

"I owe you an apology, Ms. Norville." Oh? "I was not entirely truthful with you. I have met a vampire. My son is one."

I had no response to that. I tried to look sympathetic and waited for more.

"I don't want that information made public. With a little imagination I think you can understand why. My fans are forward enough as it is. But I wanted you to know the truth. I hope I can trust you to keep this secret."

I nodded. "I'm good at keeping secrets. I've got a few of my own. How—I mean, if it isn't too brazen of me to ask—how did you find out?"

"He's been a youthful eighteen for twenty years now. I got suspicious. I asked for his secret, and he told me. My stories—they're about him. My son will not have the life I envisioned for him, and these novels are my way of reconciling myself to the life he does have. If one can call it life."

I saw her to the door, where she adjusted the mink stole around her shoulders and walked out, chin up, the epitome of dignity.

Full moon night. Time to run.

T.J. picked me up on his bike, which was behaving itself, rumbling smooth and steady like a grizzly bear. He drove fast and took the turns tight. I didn't wear a helmet so I could taste the air whipping by. I tipped back my head and drank it in, as the city scents of asphalt and exhaust gave way to the countryside, dry grass, earth, and distant pines. The sun was setting, the moon hadn't yet risen, but I could feel it, a silver breath that tugged the tides and my heart. A howl tickled the back of my throat—the pack was near. I clung to T.J., smiling.

The pack gathered at Carl and Meg's house, at the edge of the national forest. It might have been just another party, the dozen or so cars parked on the street, the collection of people congregating in the living room. But tension gripped the room, anticipation and nerves. The veil to that other world we lived in was drawn halfway. We could see through, but had to wait to enter. Carl wasn't here yet.

Twenty-two wolves made up the local pack. They came from an area of a couple-hundred-mile radius, drawing from the urban areas up and down the Front Range, from Colorado Springs to Fort Collins. Most of them I only ever saw on full moon nights. We knew our places. I slunk around the edges of the room, trying to be innocuous.

My skin itched. I hugged myself, trying to stay anchored. So close. She, the Wolf, was waiting, staring out of my eyes. Her claws scraped at the inside of my skin, wanting to push through the tips of my fingers. She wanted fur instead of skin. Her blood flowed hot.

I flinched when the presence of another entered my awareness, like a force pressing through a membrane that surrounded me. I felt Zan before I saw him move to block my path.

He was young, my age, but he'd been a wolf since he was a teenager. He had pale skin, unkempt dark hair, and an animal stared out of his eyes.

I hated him. His scent tinged my nightmares. He was the one who'd attacked me and made me this thing.

He followed me around sometimes, like he was waiting for a chance to finish what he'd started. Like he could still smell blood on me. Or like he thought I owed him something. I stayed away from him as much as I could. T.J., Carl, and Meg backed him off the rest of the time. He wasn't that tough.

T.J. was in the kitchen. I'd have to cross the entire room to get to him. Zan cornered me.

"What do you want?"

"You." He leaned close. I was already backed against the wall and couldn't move away when he brought his lips close to my ear. "Run with me tonight."

That was a euphemism among werewolves. Zan went through this whenever Carl wasn't around. I usually cowered and slunk away to hide behind T.J. Zan could take me, but he couldn't take T.J. That was how the dominance thing worked.

I was so not in the mood for this shit.

"No," I said, not realizing what I was saying until the word was out of my mouth.

"No? What do you mean, no?"

I straightened from the wall, squaring my shoulders and glaring at him. My vision wavered to gray. Wolf wanted a piece of him.

"I mean no. I mean get out of my face."

His shoulders bunched. An annoyed rumble sounded in his throat.

Shit. I'd just challenged him. I'd questioned his dominance, and he couldn't let it pass without severely beating me up. Carl and T.J. wouldn't save me because I'd gotten into it all by myself.

The room went quiet. The others were watching with a little too much interest. This wasn't the usual squabble—people were always duking it out, jockeying for positions in the middle of the pack. But this was me. I didn't fight. At best, as the pack's baby I was subject to good-natured teasing. At worst, I ended up on the wrong end of rough-housing. I always cowered, giving up status in exchange for safety. Not this time.

I couldn't break eye contact with Zan. I'd gotten myself into this. Let's see what I had to do to get out.

Those tricks I'd been learning in the self-defense class depended on the opponent's making the first move. It was supposed to be self-defense, not kick-ass. And here I was thinking a few cute punches made me tough. I'd made the challenge; Zan waited for me to start.

I feinted down, like I was going to tackle him in the middle. He reached to swipe at me, and I sidestepped, shoving into his back to topple him. He rolled, smacking into the back of the sofa. I rushed him again, not sure what I thought I was doing. But the Wolf knew. Before he could find his feet, I jumped on his back, hands around his throat, digging my nails into him.

He roared, grabbing my arms and rolling back and forth to dislodge me. My back bit the corner of the sofa, stinging my spine. But I held on, gripping with arms and legs. I wanted to use my teeth as well. At his next lunge, a floor lamp tipped.

Then Meg was there. Meg was Carl's mate, the alpha female of the pack. She was tall and lean, her straight black hair giving her an indefinable ethnic look. She wore a tank top and sweats, and would have looked at home on an exercise bike at the gym, except she vibrated. That was the only way to describe it. She vibrated with power, strength, and dominance. I could feel it across the room, usually. But I was so angry at Zan I didn't notice her until she grabbed my hair and pulled back. Her other hand held a chunk of Zan's hair.

She regarded me, brow lined with contusion. "Are you sure you want to do this?" She was giving me an out; protecting me from my own stupidity.

My blood was rushing. I wanted to rip out a piece of Zan so bad it hurt. I nodded quickly.

"Then take it outside," she said, pushing us away. Someone opened the kitchen door that led to the backyard.

I backed toward the door, holding his gaze. He followed, pressing me. I could hear his heart pounding. His sweat smelled like fire. He clenched his hands into fists. When his muscles tensed, I knew he was going to rush me the last couple of feet to the door.

I ducked, letting him trip over me. He flew headfirst, ungracefully, out the door to the concrete pad outside. I didn't wait; I jumped, landing on top of him as hard as I could. His head cracked on the concrete. Effortlessly, he spun me over, turning the tables so he pinned me to the ground. He backhanded me—I saw stars, my ears rang. He hit me twice more, wrenching my head back and forth while his other hand held my throat. I couldn't breathe.

He was going to kill me.

I'd wanted to learn to fight to defend myself against enemies, not engage in pack power struggles. What was I doing?

Anger and fear. That was what this whole life was about, anger vying with fear, and whichever won out determined whether you led or followed. I had spent almost three years being afraid, and I was sick of it.

I kneed him in the crotch.

He gasped, and while he didn't release me, his grip slackened. Grabbing his wrist, I squirmed out from under him. I kept hold of his arm as I slid onto his back, wrenching the limb around. Something popped and he cried out. I twisted it harder. With my other hand I grabbed his hair and pulled as hard as I could, tilting his head almost all the way back. It took all my weight pressing down on him to keep him at this angle, which made moving too painful for him. I didn't have the luxury of being able to let go to smack him around. So I bit him. Right at the corner of his jaw, taking in a mouthful of his cheek. I bit until I tasted blood, and he whimpered.

Finally, he went slack. I let go of his face, licking my lips, sucking the blood off my teeth. I'd taken a chunk out of his flesh—a bite-sized flap of it was hanging loose.

I leaned close to his ear. "I don't like you. I still hold a grudge against you and I always will, so stay out of my way or I'll rip you apart."

I meant it, too. He knew it, because as soon as I eased my weight off him, he scrambled away, cowering on all fours—submissive.

I crouched and stared at him. The blood was clouding my mind. I saw him, smelled his fear, and wanted to tear into him again. But I couldn't, because he was pack, and he was apologizing. I walked to where he was crouched, curling in on himself like he might disappear. This fight could have gone so differently—I didn't see fear in his eyes so much as surprise. I'd won this not because I was stronger, but because he hadn't expected me to fight back. I'd never have a fight this easy again.

He rolled onto his back. His breaths came in soft whines. I stood over him. Then I turned my back on him and walked away.

A part of me was nauseated, but no way would the Wolf let me go puke in the corner. She was hungry.

I swayed a little. I had a raging headache. I wiped my face; my hands came away bloody. My nose was bleeding. I tried to soak it up with my sleeve, then gave up. I healed fast, right?

The thing was, Zan hadn't been bottom of the pack. Now, others would challenge me in order to keep their places in the pecking order.

Carl stood at the kitchen door, arms crossed.

"He pissed me off," I said, answering the silent question.

"You don't get pissed off."

My first thought was, how the hell would he know? But the last thing I needed tonight was to challenge Carl. Carl wouldn't waste any time in knocking the snot out of me.

I dropped my gaze and meekly stood before him.

He said, "You may have a big-time radio show, but that doesn't make you anything here."

That reminded me. I groped in my jeans pocket and pulled out the envelope I'd shoved there before leaving home. It was filled with this month's payoff, in cash. I gave it to him. The blood I inadvertently smeared on it glared starkly.

He opened the flap and flipped through the stack of fifties. He glanced at me, glaring. It might not have made everything all better, but it distracted him. He handed the envelope to Meg.

If Carl was the bad cop, Meg was the good cop. The first year, I'd come to cry on her shoulder when this life got to me. She taught me the rules: Obey the alphas; keep your place in the pack.

I didn't want to make her angry. Inside, Wolf was groveling. I couldn't do anything but stand there.

Giving me her own stare, she crossed her arms. "You're getting stronger," she said. "Growing up, maybe."

"I'm just angry at Zan. He wouldn't leave me alone. That's all."

"Next time, try asking for help." She prowled off to stash the money.

T.J., beta male, Carl's lieutenant, had been standing behind her. I forgot sometimes that within pack law he had as much right to beat up on me as Carl did. I preferred having him as a friend.

I leaned into T.J., hugging him. Among the pack, touch meant comfort, and I wanted to feel safe. I—the part of me I thought of as human—was slipping away.

"What was that all about?" T.J. said, his voice wary.

"I don't know," I said, but I—she—knew, really. I felt strong. I wasn't afraid. "I'm tired of getting picked on, I guess."

"You'd better be careful—you might turn alpha on us." He smiled, but I couldn't tell if he was joking.

Because the pack hunts together this night, she feeds on deer. An injured buck, rich with flesh and blood. Because she is no longer lowest among them, she gets to taste some of the meat instead of being left with bones and offal.

Others prick their ears and bare their teeth at her in challenge, but the leaders keep them apart. No more fighting this night.

She runs wild and revels in her strength, chasing with the others, all of them singing for joy. Exhausted, she settles, warm and safe, already dreaming of the next moon, when she may once again break free and taste blood.

I woke up at dawn in a dog-pile with half a dozen of the others. This usually happened. We ran, hunted, ate, found a den and settled in to sleep, curled around one another, faces buried in fur, tails tucked in. We were bigger than regular wolves—conservation of mass, a two-hundred-pound man becomes a two-hundred-pound wolf, when a full-grown Canis lupus doesn't get much bigger than a hundred pounds or so. Nothing messed with us.

We always lost consciousness when we Changed back to human.

We woke up naked, cradled in the shelter of our pack. Becky, a thin woman with a crew cut who was a couple of years older than me, lay curled in the crook of my legs. Dav's back was pressed against mine. I was spooned against T.J.'s back, my face pressed to his shoulder. I lay still, absorbing the warmth, the smell, the contentedness. This was one of the good things.

T.J. must have felt me wake up. Heard the change in my breathing or something. He rolled over so we faced each other. He put his arms around me.

"I'm worried about you," he said softly. "Why did you challenge Zan?"

I squirmed. I didn't want to talk about this now, in front of the others. But the breathing around us was steady; they were still asleep.

"I didn't challenge him. I had to defend myself." After a moment I added, "I was angry."

"That's dangerous."

"I know. But I couldn't get away. I couldn't take it anymore."

"You've been teaching yourself how to fight."

"Yeah."

"Carl won't like that."

"I won't do it again." I cringed at the whine creeping into my voice. I hated being so pathetic.

"Yeah, right. I think it's the show. You're getting cocky."

"What?"

"The show is making you cocky. You think you have an answer for everything."

I didn't know what to say to that. The observation caught me off guard. He might have been right. The show was mine; it gave me purpose, something to care about. Something to fight for.

Then he said, "I think Carl's right. I think you should quit."

Not this, not from T.J.

"Carl put you up to this."

"No. I just don't want to see you get hurt. You've got a following. I can see Carl thinking that you're stepping on his toes. I can see this breaking up the pack."

"I would never hurt the pack—"

"Not on purpose."

I snuggled deeper into his embrace. I didn't want to be cocky. I wanted to be safe.