He crouches and touches the metal grate. Frost forms beneath his fingers.
“It fed recently,” he whispers.
My skin crawls.
“I should go first,” he says.
“No argument here.”
He draws the spear.
I draw the coffee thermos and wish it were holy water.
We don’t go in yet. Not tonight. Not without better prep. He inspects the scene, cataloging it with a hunter’s eye. He finds a scrap of bloodied cloth—too clean, too intact. He growls.
“It’s mocking us.”
“Like bait?”
“Like insult. The beast is proud. It wants to be seen.”
I shiver. Not from the cold.
We get back to the truck in silence.
Drive home in it, too.
But inside, when the door shuts and the warmth returns, I finally speak.
“We’re getting close.”
“Yes,” he says, not looking at me. “And it will get more dangerous now.”
I nod.
“I don’t expect you to come,” he says. “You have done much already. It is not your duty.”
“Screw duty,” I say, shrugging off my coat. “Itkilledsomeone. That makes it my problem.”
He turns to me slowly. “You have more courage than many warriors I have known.”
“And you have more scars than I have ex-boyfriends. Which is saying something.”
He smirks. “Still not a mate?”
“Still not a mate.”
But I don’t step away when he takes a step forward.
I don’t blink when he reaches out to brush a strand of hair from my cheek.
And I definitely don’t stop him when his hand lingers, warm and rough against my skin.
“Sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow, we hunt.”
I nod.
But neither of us moves.
