We order Chinese food for dinner. Cherrie wastes no time teasing Reed.
“You screamed like a little girl when I stitched your thigh.”
“It hurt!” Reed protests. “These kits should come with anesthetic, don’t you think?”
“That’s why it’s called first aid,” Cherrie snaps. “Anesthetic comes later. And you drank half a liter of vodka before I even started.”
“Reed has a low pain tolerance,” Killian mutters, dropping broccoli from his box into mine. I, too, pluck it out and set it aside, werewolves can’t stand vegetables.
“Correction,” Cherrie says. “Reed has zero pain tolerance.”
We laugh, the tension easing for a moment, then shifts to tomorrow’s plans.
“June and I are seeing a stylist,” Killian explains. “She needs clothes for the Council.”
“Can I come?” Cherrie asks.
“Not possible. I
