“It wasn’t me,” he said, his tone unwavering. “There are other tattoos like mine. It was someone else.”

“Oh, really? Like you’re part of some cult or something?” The feathered body of one of the chickens pressed against her leg and she started, barely managing to keep the gun level.

“Or something,” he said with a flinching shrug. One foot crunched against the gravel.

“Don’t come any closer!” Scarlet yelled. The chicken clucked and dawdled away. “I will shoot, you know.”

“I know.” A flicker of kindness passed over him and he pointed at his temple. “You’ll want to aim for the head. That usually makes for a fatal shot. Or, if you’re feeling shaky, the torso. It’s a larger target.”

“Your head looks pretty big from here.”

He laughed—the expression changing everything about him. His stance relaxed, his face warmed.

A disgusted growl vibrated in Scarlet’s throat. This man had no right to be laughing, not when her grandmother was still out there.

Wolf dropped his arms and folded them over his chest. Before Scarlet could order them up again, he was speaking. “I’d been hoping to impress you last night, but it seemed to backfire on me.”

“I’m not usually impressed by men with anger management issues who kidnap my grandmother and follow me around and—”

“I didn’t kidnap your grandmother.” For the first time, his words were sharp, stealing the tirade out of Scarlet’s mouth. His attention fell down to the gaggle of chickens as they tramped around the door. “But if it really was someone with a tattoo like mine, I may be able to help figure out who did.”

“Why should I believe you?”

He took the question seriously, contemplating for a long while. “I have no proof other than what I told you last night. I’ve been in Rieux for nearly two weeks—they know me at the tavern, they know me at the fights. If your father were to see me, he wouldn’t recognize me. Nor would your grandmother.” He shifted his weight, like he was growing anxious from too long standing still. “I want to help.”

Frowning, Scarlet squinted down the double barrels. If he was lying, then this was one of the men who had taken her grandmother from her. He was cruel. He was evil. He deserved a bullet between his eyes.

But he was her only lead.

“You’ll tell me everything. Everything.” Pulling her finger off the trigger, she lowered the shotgun so that it pointed instead at his thigh. A nonfatal target. “And you’ll keep your hands where I can see them at all times. Just because I’m letting you into this house doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“Of course.” He nodded, all compliance. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Twelve

Scarlet gestured with the gun for Wolf to come inside, glowering as he crept toward the landing. He seemed to brace himself, taking in the stucco walls and dark-stained staircase, before passing by her into the hallway. He had to duck so his head wouldn’t hit the door frame.

Scarlet kicked the door shut, refusing to take her eyes from Wolf, who stood still and hunched, his body compacting itself as well as it could. His attention shifted to the rotating digital photos on the wall that showed Scarlet as a child munching on raw peas from the garden, golden autumnal fields, her grandmother forty years younger in her first military uniform.

“This way.”

He followed her gesture into the kitchen. Scarlet glanced at the picture just as her grandmother vanished, before marching in after him.

She spotted her portscreen on the counter, still displaying a picture of an alpha male with his mate, and slipped it into her pocket.

Without turning her back on the street fighter, she propped the gun into a corner of cabinets and grabbed her red hoodie from the back of one of the chairs. She felt less vulnerable as she shoved her arms into the sleeves. Even more so when she snatched a carving knife from its block on the counter.

Wolf’s eyes flickered once to the knife, before taking in the rest of the kitchen. They landed on the wire basket beside the sink, his pupils widening with hunger.

Six glossy red tomatoes filled the basket.

Scarlet frowned as Wolf dropped his gaze.

“You must be hungry,” she muttered. “After all that running.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing at the table with the knife.

Wolf hesitated only for a moment before pulling out a chair. He didn’t scoot it back in as he sat, as if he wanted to give himself enough space to jump up and run if he had to.

“Hands where I can see them.”

He looked a breath away from amusement as he leaned forward and splayed his fingers on the edge of the table. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me, after last night.”

She scoffed. “Really, you can’t imagine?” She grabbed the cutting board and slammed it down on the table opposite from Wolf. “Would you like me to clue you in?”

He lowered his gaze, rubbing a finger into an ancient scratch in the wood. “It’s been a long time since I lost control like that. I don’t know what happened.”

“I hope you didn’t come here for sympathy.” Refusing to set down the knife or turn her back on him, she had to make two more trips from counter to table—grabbing first a loaf of bread, then two tomatoes.

“No—I told you why I’m here. It’s just that I spent all night trying to figure out what went wrong.”

“Perhaps you should go back to the moment you decided that street fighting was a valid career choice.”

A long silence went unbroken as Scarlet, still standing, sliced a hunk off the bread and tossed it at Wolf, who caught it easily.

“You’re right,” he said, picking at the crust. “That’s probably where it started.” He sank his teeth into the bread, barely chewing before he swallowed.

Baffled that he had no argument, no excuse, Scarlet grabbed one of the tomatoes and set it on the cutting board, feeling the need to keep her hands busy. She ruthlessly pushed the knife into its flesh, ignoring the seeds that oozed out onto the board.

Skewering the tomato slices, she held them out to him, not bothering with a plate. A mess of bread crumbs on the table were quickly joined with watery red juice.

His gaze was distant as he took the slices from her. “Thank you.”

Scarlet threw the tomato’s vine into the sink and wiped her hands on her jeans. Outside, the sun was rising fast and the chickens were growing restless with their clucking, wondering why Scarlet hadn’t fed them breakfast when she’d been out.

“It’s so peaceful here,” Wolf said.

“I’m not going to hire you.” Grabbing the mug of cold and forgotten coffee, Scarlet finally sat down opposite Wolf. The knife lingered on the cutting board, just beyond her fingers. She waited until he was licking the last of the tomato’s juices from his fingers.

“So. What’s the story with the tattoo?”

Wolf glanced down at his forearm. The kitchen light was making his eyes sparkle like gems, but this time they weren’t making Scarlet flustered. All she cared about now were the answers those eyes were hiding.

He extended his arm across the table so that the tattoo was fully in the light and pulled the skin taut, like he was seeing it for the first time. LSOP962.

“Loyal Soldier to the Order of the Pack,” he said. “Member 962.” He released the skin and curled his shoulders, hunkering down in the chair. “The biggest mistake I have ever made.”

Scarlet’s skin tingled. “And what exactly is the Order of the Pack?”

“A gang, more commonly referred to as the Wolves. They like to call themselves vigilantes and rebels and harbingers of change, but … they’re not much better than criminals, really. If I can ever afford it, I’ll have this awful thing removed.”

A gust of wind rattled the oak tree outside the front door and a flurry of leaves swished against the window.

“So you’re not a part of it anymore?”