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Again, I really don’t know if he’s fucking with me. Every time I’ve seen Lynx, Bob has been right behind him. Where Lynx goes, Bob follows. “It’s still a name,” I point out.

Lynx bares his teeth, glare on where I’m still rubbing the cat’s head. “If he maims you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Does he look like he’s going to maim me?” I rub behind Bob’s ears with both hands. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good little kitty?”

Bob loves my baby talk, but Lynx looks like he’s about to throw up.

“Enough,” he grits through his teeth, and to my surprise, Bob listens to him. With a withering glare, the cat pulls away from me and then stalks to Lynx’s side. “Get back to the potatoes.”

It’s a fight to hold in my giggle. For an animal that isn’t a pet, Bob sure acts like one. “Whatever.” I tug the gloves on.

Lynx leaves, Bob trailing after him, and I watch the way they move, so creepily in sync, their lean bodies brimming with carefully controlled power. Lynx can say whatever he wants; there’s clearly a bond between them, and I’m dying to know how it began. Did he find Bob as a baby? Did he start feeding the animal and then the thing never left?

I’d bother asking if I thought I’d get an answer on anything.

Lynx’s strangeness doesn’t just extend to his appearance. He’s a closed book, and I got more out of him earlier than I ever thought I would. Even if he did start a morbid ramble about rainbows.

Rainbows. What kind of person has a problem with rainbows?

I dig for another potato, grateful that my hands no longer feel like they’re being shredded. The gloves are a huge help, but I can’t stop the suspicious little voice asking why he brought these to me. He didn’t care when I pointed out I was bleeding, so there has to be some kind of fuckery afoot.

No matter how curious I am about him or Wilde or any of the other messed-up people who live here, I need to keep those thoughts to myself and stay on guard.

All I need to do is survive until my car is fixed. Then I’ll be Portland-bound.

New life.

New Sasha.

No more danger.

No matter how much it makes me feel alive.

CHAPTER

THREE

LYNX

Istand beside the supplies shed, watching his frustration grow as the End’s latest intruder stabs at the soil. He lifts a frail arm to swipe over his forehead before stabbing the spade into the dirt and rocking back on his heels.

He hasn’t looked around once. No scanning the area, no knife at the ready.

The rabbit is just focused on digging like he isn’t completely out in the open for anyone to attack.

I want to shake him. Or show him just how vulnerable he is.

Sneaking up on him once was too easy, and I hate that I know without attempting it that I’d be able to do it again. To stalk right up to his side, to take that shiny hair in my grip and press my knife menacingly to his throat.

Bob lets out a low noise beside me, like the asshole can read my mind.

“I’m not actually going to do it,” I snarl. I’ve had the chance to kill him once and couldn’t do it, and that memory sends discomfort slithering down my spine.

I’ve always said that if someone threatens my pack, I’d do whatever needed to be done to protect them. It’s not murder when we’re talking about survival. Unfortunately, even before Bob interfered, when I’d had the rabbit pinned and at my mercy, I … couldn’t do it.

I’ve had thirty years of telling myself that I’m well defended, that I’d never let another member of my pack be harmed again, and the first opportunity I had to neutralize a real threat?

Failed.