The Thing About Weres

interloper.

I’m getting really tired of that dog.

One of the bulkier wolves broke from the group and began to slink toward the outsider, his hackles raised. Trowbridge’s wolf pivoted—his claw raking my thigh—to let loose another fearsome growl.

Everybody froze.

Except for the little brown wolf barreling toward its Alpha, all happy, happy, anxious to play with the big dogs. Theoretically, it should have turned into a meal-on-paws right then and there. I lifted my head to watch the inevitable bloodbath. Creemore Weres don’t like—

The pack parted for it like the Red Sea.

Unchallenged, the little wolf careened forward, ears pricked forward.

Ooof. It barreled into us—an eighty-pound cannonball—and I went sprawling. I pushed my hair off my face in time to watch Trowbridge’s wolf engage in a regrettably brief show of fang and fur. Just when I was hoping it’d set itself up for a well-deserved, ass-whipping. Happiness unquenched by its Alpha’s reproof, it folded, right down to its belly, mouth open in a grin, limbs acquiescent under his heavy paw. Then, sweetly whimpering, it licked the rim of his black lips. It even dared to teeth him slightly, before ducking down, and glancing mischievously at the Alpha with its head turned at an angle.

It did it again. Just in case I didn’t get it.

I’m slow, but not that slow.

Nor was my inner-bitch. Her tail stiffened into a fat broom of aggression as my eyes narrowed to slits. Together, in absolute harmony of thought, we watched Anu’s performance.

Lick, lick. Tail wag. Followed by a sly glance in my direction.

Blame the healing potion; it had made me a little fuzzy headed. Blame my expectations; they’d rendered me reality resistant. Consequently, I’d missed a few important details about that little brown wolf. Vital stuff like, IT was much smaller and lighter than the male beside it. IT had dainty paws and an elegant clever little face.

IT was female.

She darted forward and shoulder-bumped him again.

Trowbridge’s wolf rumbled a light growl at the female’s daring, nothing much to the rebuke, in terms of stuff I’d witnessed among wolves. Really, for a canine, it amounted to nothing more than the equivalent of a lazy “shh.” But for me—the girl who’d waited six long months for her man—it was the hold- the-presses, here-it-comes, all-time shitty “shh” of incoming heartache.

Trowbridge’s wolf barked. He lifted his snout up to the freakin’ moon and irritation welled in me. Was he avoiding the accusation in my eyes? Turning his head to worship that freakin’ silver orb over our heads?

The little bitch made a noise—not quite a bark, but something more … intimate … that stiffened my spine. Her scent—oh crap, I wasn’t getting a scent from her.

Just Trowbridge’s.

Only mates smell like each other. My mate bond to Trowbridge didn’t stick?

My eyes darted back to his, probing for an answer, but he’d gone dog on me. A wave of his personal scent hit my nose. Sharper than I remembered. It used to have a warm earth undertone. But still, woods and Trowbridge and fur, and … something else. Oh Goddess, it wasn’t part of her essence, was it? It was on my skin, at my throat.

I looked past him to the little brown she-wolf.

She found Trowbridge’s scent on Fatso’s cowboy boots, gave a happy woof, and squatted.

“Who’s the bitch?” I said through lips that suddenly felt numb.

I could feel the wolves’ anticipation, hoping perhaps that I’d do something more than sit there on my butt, curiously frozen as what was left of my fragmented heart splintered beyond all recognition. Some of them watched with calculation, some with an obvious impatience to get all this mate business dealt with—after all, there was a moon shining down from the star-dappled sky. But worse (and I was not sure why it felt more horrible) I was aware of another set of eyes studying me from under the brim of a bowler hat. I could feel the Shadow’s gaze— burning and insistent—on my turned head, as heavy as the weight of a hand resting on the nape of my neck.

It felt odd and somehow familiar.

Somehow sympathetic.

I almost turned toward it, but Trowbridge’s gray wolf issued an inarticulate noise from the back of his throat, which apparently meant something to every other living thing in that pasture, but little to me. What was it? Dog shorthand for a command of “sit”?

Oh hell no.

“Stay there!” yelled Bowler-hat as I lurched unsteadily to my feet.

Six months, I’d waited. Thinking he was waiting, too.

My retreat was a blind blunder in the wrong direction, and then … thud. A heavy paw hit me between the shoulder blades, and down I went. I rolled away, once, twice—okay, three times—and the gray wolf followed my rotations with his paw—jab, jab, like I was a delicate salmon treat flopping on the riverbank.

“Stop that!” I shrieked, striking out in fury. I was flailing, legs kicking out, arms thrashing, and when my fist connected with his black nose I felt savage satisfaction. It felt good, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Before I could do it again—his wolf reacted, so feral and fast that my brain didn’t have a chance to form the thought “oh, shit” before I found myself underneath one hundred and ninety pounds of fur and muscle, trapped between the brackets of his legs.

I stared up into a full set of canine teeth. Very sharp, slightly curving teeth. Pink gums. Black lips set in a grimace.

Tears burned my eyes.

I’m not stupid. There was only one reasonable check box on my list of options at that moment. So, I played dead, and it wasn’t too much of a stretch. I was a corpse, except cold rage blinded my eyes, and black, biting hurt gnawed at my insides.

He’d tricked me. He’d asked for my word—promise me you’ll stay—knowing, knowing that I would give it. Knowing the moment I caught the scent of him stamped over that little brown wolf I would yearn for the right to break it.

I don’t share mates.

Trowbridge’s wolf removed his paw from my chest, though he continued to straddle me, head up proudly, like some snout-to-the-breeze statue the pigeons use for target practice. One of his back claws dug into my thigh.

I welcomed the pain of it.

Distance, I wanted—no—I needed distance.

Not the fake and fleeting, fuzzy pink detachment I’d experienced when I swallowed a few mouthfuls of that Fae go-go juice. No, the real type. The permanent kind. Involving miles and screw-you declarations. Even if I could hear his heart. Right over my head. Steady, a little faster than usual. Beating from inside his massive canine chest that was covered with a deep thicket of coarse gray fur.

He dipped his head. Blue eyes—icier and less forgiving than his mortal ones—examined me.

It was six months, I condemned him with my eyes. Six lousy months.

You found my replacement that fast?

At the count of eighteen of the longest seconds of my life, he stepped neatly off me and allowed me to sit up. Stiffly, I rolled up to my knees. From there, I stood, slowly, because my sense of gravity was off—my inner- bitch was careening inside me—and somewhat carefully, because payback pain sent a louder message of retribution to my hands. They felt fatter, hotter. I curled them into claws. They would throb in earnest soon.

“Dissension in the ranks so soon?” Bowler-hat drawled, plucking a piece of dog hair off his pants leg. The gray wolf didn’t bark anything in reply—hell, even the crickets had lost their voice in the sudden oppressive silence. I shifted my glance toward the Fae—today was all about shifts: eye shifts, direction shifts, fortune shifts,