My hackles rise. "I ain't a dog."
"Technically, Canis lupus and Canis lupus familiaris share 99.9% of their DNA," she says, slipping into that detached, lecture mode. "So, yes. Dog."
"A dog is a servant," I growl, stepping closer. "A dog begs for scraps. A dog wears a collar and licks the hand that beats it. I am a Wolf. I hunt. I kill. I answer to no one."
"Being a dog isn't an insult," she says, unphased by my posturing. "Dogs are loyal. They’re useful. They’re cute. People love dogs. They let them sleep in the bed."
"Cute?" I stare at her in disbelief. "You think I'm cute?"
"I think you're furry," she says, looking me up and down with a clinical eye. "And you have four legs. So, dog."
"Stupid, four-legged creature," I mutter, shaking my head. "That’s what you see."
"You were four-legged when I saw you," she points out. "And you were standing in the middle of the road in the fog. Which, for the record, is not a sign of high intelligence."
"I was guarding the line!" I roar. "To keep things like you out!"
She flinches, and I rein it in. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of cedar to clear the blood-smell from my nose.
"Look," I say, dropping into the chair opposite her. The wood creaks under my weight. "It’s simple history. Vampires came here three hundred years ago. They drained the land. They treat humans like cattle. My ancestors... we were the immune response. We hunt them. They hunt us. We’ve been killing each other over this mud for centuries."
"And the dinner?" she asks. "Matilde said something about a truce."
"The Truce of the Longest Night," I explain. "Old magic. Strong magic. Twelve days before the Winter Solstice—Christmas, whatever—no blood can be spilled between the factions. If a Wolf kills a Vamp, the magic burns him from the inside out. If a Vamp kills a Wolf, they turn to dust."
"So I'm safe," she says, her shoulders dropping an inch. "You can't kill me. And they can't kill me."
"I can't kill you," I agree. I leave out the part about her being my Mate. That’s a complication she ain't ready for. "But that don't mean you're safe. The Duvals want you back. If I let yougo, they’ll grab you before you hit the parish line. And once they get you insideBelle Rêve... the Truce ends on Christmas. They’ll drain you dry the second the clock strikes twelve."
"So I'm a prisoner," she says. Her voice is quiet.
"Protective custody," I correct. "I can't kill you because of the Truce. And I can't let you go because they’ll kill you. And if they kill you, they get whatever Matilde is after. So you stay here."
"That’s a logic loop," she says, rubbing her temples. "If A, then B. If not A, then C. The outcome is always death or captivity."
"Welcome to the swamp,chérie," I say. "Survival ain't about fair. It’s about who has the bigger teeth."
She opens her mouth to argue, probably to hit me with more of that her logic that makes my brain itch.
Awooooooo.
The sound rips through the night air. It’s mournful, long, and terrified.
I freeze. That’s not a patrol howl. That’s a warning.
I’m on my feet in a second, moving to the window. I peer through the slats of the shutters. The fog is glowing faintly in the distance—UV lights. Hunter tech. Or maybe Duval magic.
"What is it?" Miranda asks. I can hear the hitch in her breath. She’s reaching for the wrench again.
I turn back to her. The playfulness, the banter—it’s gone. The Wolf is at the surface now.
"That was Remy," I say, checking the load on the shotgun by the door. "They found the car."
I look at her, and for the very first time, I let her see the fear I’m trying to hide.
"They know you're here."
7
