He gives me a wry smile. “It takes a lot of calories to keep this body working.” His words suggest vanity, but there’s a resigned tone.

His open shirt displays the meaty muscles he’s referring to, his upright posture puffing out his obscenely developed pecs. I let my gaze wander down the lean contours of his torso, lingering on the bulge in his trousers—a hint of the beast I saw on the bed. Fire swells in my groin. I yank my attention back to his face, catch the heat in his eyes, then quickly fix my gaze on my food. My reaction to Flanagan is so fucking confusing.

As usual, he seems at ease with the weird sexual vibes between us, but his posture displays the deeper tension I’ve noticed—the barely leashed power beneath his calm exterior.

When I finish my sandwich, I ask the question I’ve had on my mind since the steelworks. “What are you?”

He stabs a sausage with his fork. “We can talk about that later.”

“You said you’d answer my questions. Are you a wolf? Like Adams? Can you change like that?”

He makes me wait while he demolishes his pile of grilled meat and eggs. I stare at him.

Eventually, he dabs his mouth with a napkin and sits back. “Adams is a Shifter. A large percentage of the Guardian ranks are Shifters. They’re all natural Channelers. Wolves, cats, birds.” He swallows and licks his lower lip, his attention wandering up to the early sunlight breaking through the canopy. If he wasn’t built of immovable stone, I’d say this conversation was making him uneasy.

“And you?” I prompt.

His eyes flit toward me, then away. “I am a Lycanthrope.”

“How is that different?”

He picks up the carafe and fills both our mugs with steaming dark coffee. Its velvety rich smell smothers the scents of damp soil and cut grass. On sight of his giant fist, the memory of what that hand can do thumps arousal through my middle. I avoid Flanagan’s eyes.

“Shifters are born. Werewolves are made. I was born human, but at the age of thirty-six, I was bitten.”

“By a werewolf?” Obvious question, but what do I know?

“Yes. The venom of a werewolf carries a supernatural virus. It rearranges human DNA.”

I rest back in my chair. This conversation has a surreal quality, but I’ve seen enough evidence to know he speaks the truth. “Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

The gravity of his one-word answer draws a shiver from me. “So, before that, you were a normal human being living a normal life?”

“Not so normal. I’m a True Grounder, a very rare type of Channeler. Considered a prize by the Anlu’kyr. And I’m from a bloodline of Grounders. My family lived in constant fear of abduction. But I was happy. A hunter, a husband, a father.”

“A father?” I say with surprise.