Diane's POV
The man—Tony, as he had introduced himself—kept his hand extended, waiting for a handshake that I had no intention of returning. I was not in the mood to have bodily contact with any male species after what had just happened.
When I didn't move, he sighed, lowering his hand.
“I take it you’re not a fan of gratitude,” he muttered, shifting on his feet.
“I take it you don’t do things for free,” I countered.
His lips quirked in amusement, but he didn’t deny it. “Fair enough.”
The moon above us cast eerie shadows through the trees, and the distant sound of rustling leaves kept me on edge. The drunk werewolf on the ground was still moaning, his breaths ragged. The shot hadn't killed him, but it had slowed him down. I couldn't afford to waste time, yet I couldn’t just bolt and
