“I’M NOT GOING TO SWING at you,” I said to the werewolf who currently glared at me from the other side of the clearing.
An hour ago, Hunter had dragged me away from my pack and into the air-conditioned comfort of his SUV. He’d deftly wound up curvy, gravel roads into the national forest until we reached a secluded pull-off spot not much different from the one where we’d begun our ill-fated hunt the day before. Then, wordlessly, he led me to the location where I now stood contemplating the idea of hacking into someone who I was tentatively beginning to call a friend, cutting him apart with a katana so sharp it could slice smooth lines through thick paper. The training exercise seemed like a very bad idea.
“I’ve been watching you,” the uber-alpha said quietly, circling around me with such
