I shed my clothes and stand before Thom, goosebumps prickling my skin in the cool night air as his gaze slides over me like a violation.

There's a strange, almost hungry look in his eyes—one I'd never seen when I would have offered myself willingly, had he asked—and I wonder if Thom is only attracted to what he knows he can't have.

The envelope of photos rests on my pile of clothes, and he keeps the gun casually trained on me. He holds it with a self-assurance that speaks of long acquaintance with such weapons, though in the time I'd known him he'd never even spoken of firearms except to express his opinion that they ought to be more strictly controlled.

I suppose that this, along with everything else I'd thought I'd known about him, was also a lie.

"Come now," Thom says, motioning at me with the pistol's short barrel. "It doesn't take all night, does it?"

I glare at him, although it's hard to feel very fierce with no clothes on at the wrong end of a gun.

"Why couldn't you just leave me alone, Thom?" I ask, shivering. "You'd won. I'd given up. What more do you want?"

He nods. "You'd given up, yes, but not completely—not the way you were supposed to, and I couldn't risk it. You're too brilliant. Eventually, you'd get over what happened, and start telling people about it, and some of them would believe you. I've been careful, but I know if someone like your brother knew where to look, they'd find enough proof to at least raise some very inconvenient questions. I decided it was safer to take matters into my own hands."

"You tried to kill me that day. With your car," I state, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I saw an opportunity and took it," he confirms. "Fortunately, I failed."

"Fortunately?"

"The book's expected to do quite well, you know," he says, seemingly at random.

"What?"

"The publisher has asked me to submit a proposal for another. That's a problem because, while the words are mine, all the ideas—as you well know—are yours. So, I need you, Noah. I need you to help me, and cooperate, or I need you dead. The choice is yours."

I shake my head. "You've seen my brother and sister. You know what we are. If anything happens to me—"

"That's why we're here," he interrupts, nodding again. "Finding that little 'field guide' was a godsend—exactly what I needed. Something to hold over you: an unshakeable advantage. Now, you either do as I say, or I spill your little family secret."

I laugh, taking myself by surprise. "Tell whoever you like. Everyone will think you're insane, and your precious reputation will be ruined."

He smiles. "I don't need to tell everyone. Just the right person. Someone like the author of that superbly useful little book, for example. Apparently, he was something called a 'Huntsman.' I suppose you've heard of them?"

He nods at it where the book lies near my piled clothes, and I go still.

"Werewolf hunters, sure," I shrug. "They don't exist anymore."

"I thought so too, at first," Thom smiles, "but it turns out you just have to know where to look."

I frown at him as an uncomfortable certainty comes to settle in my chest.

Thom may have only recently learned that things like werewolves are real, but he's a quick study, and he's right: there are still Huntsmen, though very few.

Once they were considered virtuous crusaders, protecting the innocent against the 'ravaging Wolf,' but these days they're not welcome in polite society. They're zealots and fanatics, convinced that things like werewolves and other Shifters are against the 'divine order,' or something, and therefore need to be eliminated.

They're criminals—thugs and murderers—and as such they're almost as adept at staying hidden as Wolves. So few are left that they're little more than a shadowy threat—more than half legend and only half feared.

Still, those that remain are a real danger, and one reason that Wolves guard our secrets as well as we do. If Thom thinks that it's something he can hold over me, though, he's wrong.

Threatening me is one thing. Threatening my family is something else.

Because my family is one of the few things I'd gladly die for, and that I'd kill to protect.

"So," he goes on, leaning back against the hood of his car once more, keeping the gun trained on me with lazy confidence, "Shift. And don't try anything. I've got a timed message all set and ready to send, and if I'm not alive to cancel it, a certain Mr. Kurt is going to receive some very specific intel on a certain Pack of Wolves—or two, from what I understand. That hulk of a brother of yours is trying to start his own right here in little old Spring Lakes, isn't that right?"

"Yeah, that's right," I say. "He's what we call an 'alpha.' Did you read about that, too?"

He nods. "The heads of the Pack. Take out the alphas, and the Pack is toast."

"Close enough. And I'm his 'first,' besides his Mate, which makes me..." I pause, realizing it myself for the first time. "Which makes me his Beta."

Not that Dane would adhere to the strict Pack hierarchy. Our parents never did—but they're the exception, not the rule—and if Thom learned everything he knows about Wolves from one outdated book, I won't be surprised if he thinks all Wolves are like that.

"Beta? So, you're what...his bodyguard?" Thom laughs derisively.

I suppose it is comical. Betas are warriors—the guardians of the pack—willing and ready to give everything for the sake of their alphas.

And then there's me—bookish, gentle and slight—guarding Dane, who looks like he could lift the back end of a loaded eighteen-wheeler with one hand.

Still, Pack ranks aren't about size, or strength. They're about nature, and ability. And maybe I'm not a typical Beta, but Thom doesn't know that, and I'm going to enjoy wiping the smug expression off his face, even if—as cliché as it sounds—it's the last thing I do.

"Appearances can be deceiving," I say. "You want proof that I'm a Wolf? Alright. I'll prove it. Just remember, Thomas Flynn, that the Huntsman comes for the Bitten before the Wolf; for they see the Bitten as the true enemy of men—the most unpredictable, the most unnatural, and the least deserving of sympathy. Do you know why?"

My voice has become a growl by this point, as I begin to Shift, and I'm gratified to see that Thom finally looks a little alarmed.

"Do tell," he says, straightening and adjusting his grip on the gun.

"Because," I say, "one way or another—whether out of love or loyalty, hate or fear—the Bitten ask for what they get, and get what they deserve."

I Shift, and over the crack and pop of bone as my body reshapes itself, I hear Thom's quick intake of breath and a string of curses.

Then I stand before him as a wolf, throw back my head, and howl, letting the sound resonate in my chest.

As the high note drops low and the sound fades, I let a growl rumble in my throat and draw my lips back from my teeth in a snarl, lowering my head as I fix my eyes on Thom.

"Holy mother of shit," he laughs, high-pitched and shrill. "You really are a monster."

I snarl and stalk towards him, and he finally registers his peril. He steadies himself and takes more careful aim.

"Well," he says, shrugging, "I suppose if you're not even human, then this isn't really murder."

He fires and I leap aside, then charge. He fires twice more, and then my teeth close on his arm above the wrist, and I hear the crunch of bone as I bite down.

He shrieks in pain and fear, and drops the gun in the dirt, and I release him, panting hard.

He backs away, falling against the side of his car and holding his mangled arm to his chest.

"You... You bit me," he rasps between clenched teeth. "You bit me, you son of a bitch..."

His eyes widen and his face drains of color as he absorbs the full importance of this.

I bark and advance again, but then I stumble as a sharp pain strikes me in the chest and my bark becomes a whine.

Thom laughs.

"I got you too, though, didn't I? I got you good, and now I'll finish you, you little shit."

He darts to the side, wrenches open the door of his car with his good arm and leaps in, slamming it shut after him. The engine roars to life and I'm blinded by the wash of bright headlights.

I turn to run, but stumble again and fall as my left front leg gives.

I guess I'm not cut out to be a Beta after all, but at least I've taken care of Thom.

He's Bitten now, and that makes him a Wolf problem. He won't dare send a message to any Huntsman—if he even did manage to find one—and then he'll have Pack justice to deal with.

He'll be hunted the rest of his life, however long it lasts.

As he shifts into gear and steps on the gas, intending to run me down, I lift myself and make another effort at a sprint, but fall again after a few steps, unable to catch my breath around the pain in my chest. Behind me, I hear the roar of an engine and the spray of gravel beneath churning wheels, and then the sound of a terrible crash.

Startled, I turn and see another vehicle—huge, shiny, and imported, has collided with Thom's and sent it spinning. The passenger side of his car is crushed and one headlight is out, but his engine is still running, and after a few moments in which nothing moves, he peels out onto the road and disappears, fleeing into the night.

The other vehicle's front is a crumpled ruin, and smoke issues from beneath the hood.

Then the door opens and the driver climbs out, looking much the worse for wear—though not, it seems, as a result of the crash.

As Ambrose stumbles over and falls at my side, I see his lips are chapped, his hair is tangled and unkempt, dark circles ring his eyes, and he looks like he hasn't eaten since the last time I saw him.

His hands shake and feel cold even through my fur; but his touch is still like sunlight, and as I rest my head on the hard ground, my heart aches with an unbearable mix of pain and happiness at the sight of him.

"Ah, little wolf," he whispers hoarsely, stroking my head. "My lovely little wolf. Why? Why couldn't you just forget me, and be happy and safe, and free? Why'd you have to break my heart like this?"

My wolf's mind can't fully process how he's here, or the meaning of his words, or my feelings at hearing them, and my only reply is to close my eyes.

I'm tired, and even though I'm injured I feel whole again for the first time in days, and I'd like to rest.

He leans closer, running his fingers through my fur until he finds the spot where one of Thom's shots had hit me right in front of my left shoulder.

"Darling, you have to Shift for me," he says, shaking me lightly. "I can't heal you as a wolf—remember? I need you a man. Noah!"

I whine softly. The bullet was small caliber, which was fortunate, because it didn't penetrate very far. On the other hand, it's still inside me, and Shifting like that is dangerous. Human and Wolf physiology don't quite match up, and a minor injury in one form might be fatal in another. Given where I've been hit, I have a feeling if I Shift now, even Ambrose's dragon-healing won't help me.

Ambrose doesn't understand though, and continues to plead with me to Shift.

"Noah, please. I know you're angry. I know I've hurt you. But I—"

He cuts off, having spotted the gun lying in the dirt where Thom dropped it.

"Ah, fuck," he murmurs. "I see."

He presses the fingers of one hand to his dry lips while still stroking my face with the other, and when he speaks again his roughened voice is quiet and a little sad.

"I see. It can't be helped, then. I'll need my equipment and supplies, and it's all at the house, and... Well, never mind that now. It can't be helped."

He leans and kisses the side of my face.

"I hope you can forgive me, little wolf," he says, "but you're my treasure, after all, and as hard as I've tried, it seems I just can't let you go."

Then he lifts me, and carries me to my car, and takes me home.