“Zoey”—Warner speaks in a careful, almost-soft voice as he holds out his hand—“why don’t you come on over here?”

And I realize that even while he talks to me, Warner keeps his eyes on Abram. As if he’s waiting for my brother to make an aggressive move.

Against me.

“Werewolves are territorial. We’ll get violent to protect what’s ours. Especially if it’s someone we care about.”

Nerves course through me at the memory, and I rush to stand in front of Abram.

“This is my brother, Warner. They’re all my brothers.”

Warner gives me a tense nod, but doesn’t lose any of the tension in his face or body. “They’re trying to keep you locked up.” He continues to use that overly calm voice. Someone might believe he wasn’t upset.

But I can see his eyes.

The normal enchanting amber color bleeds into black.

Not good. Angry werewolf is not good.

Problem is, I can’t think of a way to defuse the situation.

If I step toward Warner, I can guarantee Abram will approach too. He might even grab me. Warner wouldn’t like that.

But if I move back toward my brothers, the wolf will think I don’t have a choice. That they’re trying to keep me contained.

And if I decide to say, Screw you, and sprint into the woods, leaving them all behind, who knows what kind of chaos would erupt?

It’s while my mind cycles through all these impossible options that I notice Warner’s eyes flicker to the side slightly, as if he hears something.

A moment later, the crunch of tires disrupts the tension.

A sunshine-yellow pickup truck appears, barreling down the driveway. When it comes to an abrupt stop, I swear I hear a squawk.

The driver’s door flings open, revealing a grinning woman.

Courtney has arrived.

“Looks like I’m crashing a party! Sweet!”

Today, she has on a pair of torn jeans, a simple black sweater, and compared to the bejeweled footwear I’ve seen her sport, a relatively tame pair of purple cowboy boots. For the most part, she looks like a normal, beautiful woman.

That is, if I ignore the chicken she’s cradling.

“What are you doing here?” Warner asks. He doesn’t sound overjoyed at her appearance, but I’m relieved to hear resignation in his voice rather than the barely restrained anger.

“I came to give Zoey a housewarming present.”

She holds up the chicken like we’re in the opening scene of The Lion King. The bird writhes in indignation.

“She doesn’t need a housewarming present.” Abram’s scowl is practically audible. “She’s not staying.”

Whatever distraction Courtney’s sudden appearance provided evaporates. Warner’s eyes seep into black again as he glares over my shoulder.

“Zoey doesn’t need you making decisions for her,” he growls.