OUR SUITCASES WERE still in the car from our failed vacation attempt. So I guessed it made sense that Luke dragged me in that direction without bothering to find clothes for either of us. Still, the lack of discussion chaffed approximately as badly as the handfasting band that had slid off its silk to prickle against the skin of my wrist.
Did I say prickle? I meant itch. Like a scorpion crawling across my skin, trying to decide where to sink in its venomous tail. The only saving grace was the gradual loss of electric-fire stench, which turned out to be no match for the car’s air-conditioning.
We were five miles away from the pack compound with me behind the wheel when Luke finally broke the silence. “We can stop and get dressed in a few more miles,” he offered, adjusting my half of the e
