She reaches for the canvas bag I dropped. Before I can stop her, she grabs the small paring knife I bought for cutting fruit.
"Don't," I warn.
She doesn't listen. She draws the blade across the pad of her index finger. A quick, sharp slice.
"Dammit, woman!" I grab her wrist, twisting the knife out of her hand and tossing it across the room.
But the damage is done.
Blood wells up.
The scent hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s not the dusty, dead smell of a vampire. It’s rich. It’s hot. It smells like copper and sugar and life. It floods my nose, coating the back of my throat. My pupils blow wide, the world shifting into high-contrast focus.
Mate.
The Wolf howls in triumph.She bleeds. She is ours.
I fight the urge to lick the cut. I fight it with every ounce of discipline I have. I grip her wrist, staring at the wound.
It bleeds. And it keeps bleeding.
If she were a Duval, the skin would already be knitting together. The cells would be regenerating before the blood hit the floor. But the cut stays open. A red drop falls, splashing onto my boot.
"See?" she demands, thrusting her hand closer to my face. "No magic healing. No rapid regeneration. Just pain and a risk of tetanus. Look at my leg, too! Are you satisfied?"
I stare at the blood. My anger drains away, replaced by a cold, hard dread.
She’s human. Or human enough.
"You shouldn't have done that," I say, my voice rough. I release her wrist like it burned me. "Blood draws predators out here. You ring the dinner bell, you don't get to complain when the gators come."
"I didn't have a choice," she says, wrapping her finger in the hem of her shirt. "You weren't listening to the truth. You were operating on prejudice."
"Prejudice keeps me alive," I mutter. I turn away, running a hand through my hair. "It don't change the fact that you're a Duval. Your blood might be red, but your name is poison."
"Then explain it to me," she pleads. She hops back to the bed and sits down, taking the weight off her leg. "Stop treating me like someone you want to erase and treat me like a person. What are you? You talk about them like you're a different species."
I look at her. She’s terrified, but she’s holding it together with duct tape and spite.
"I am a different species," I say.
I walk to the window, looking out at the fog. "I’m a Werewolf, Miranda. A Shifter. A loup-garou. Pick a word."
I wait for the scream. I wait for the hysteria.
A small, thoughtful noise. "Hmm."
I turn around. "Hmm? I tell you I can turn into a monster and eat you, and you say 'hmm'?"
"It tracks," she says. She’s looking at me, analyzing. "The size. The aggression. The smell of wet dog. The excessive body heat. And the glowing eyes."
"I don't smell like wet dog," I snap.
"You absolutely do," she corrects. "And the howling... wait." Her eyes widen behind her glasses. "The thing on the road. The massive shadow I swerved to avoid. That was you."
"Yeah," I say. "That was me on patrol."
"You're the dog," she says. It’s a statement of fact.
