You’re going to burn.
I barely made it to lunch, and I knew before Macbeth said a word that the others had picked up on at least some portion of what had happened to me—not the details, but enough to know that I was on edge, that the part of me that was Pack was calling for blood.
An animal backed into a corner either cowers or snaps. Most werewolves weren’t any different, and human or not, I wasn’t the type to cower.
“Dare I guess we’re eating outside today?” Macbeth asked, the set of his jaw belying the casual tone with which he’d issued the question. His hair might have been gelled; his shirt might have been fitted, but beneath the surface of his skin, the wolf was restless.
He’d sensed the threat—they all had.
“We’re eating outside,” I confirmed, taking a step away from Macbeth an
