Axel runs a hand through his hair, frustration and fear colliding in his expression, and the bond between the three of us tightens as if it is bracing for impact rather than relaxing.
“We can run our own tests,” he says, his voice controlled but strained, “we don’t need him dictating how this plays out.”
Lucian exhales slowly, and even weakened by poison and blood loss he looks infuriatingly patient.
“You can,” he agrees, “but your tests will look for wolf anomalies, and you will not look for what you refuse to believe exists.”
Atticus’s hand curls into a fist at his side, and I can feel the edge of his temper pressing hard against restraint.
“You are not conducting anything,” Atticus says coldly, “and you are not touching her.”
Lucian’s eyes flick to him briefly, and then back to me
