“Is it true what they say about wargs?” I peered through the canopy of pine needles overhead. “Can you only change during full moons?”

“That’s personal.” He seemed to consider it a moment. “But I owe you one, so I’ll answer.” We walked in silence for a few minutes. “The more dominant the wolf, the easier the moon’s song is to ignore. New wolves get moonsick and fly into rages. Older wolves have better control. Some wolves—” he cut his eyes toward me, “—don’t need the moon to change at all.”

Trees flashed between us as I kept pace with him, and each flicker revealed a subtle shift in his expression. “What does it feel like when you change?”

A hitch in his stride was the only indication I had struck a nerve. “How does it feel when you change?”

The bite of his words stung, but only a little. I had expected him to lash out, maybe even wanted his irritation to clash with mine. It felt more authentic than his oh-so-helpful facade. “It feels like being turned inside out.” I waited for the lump in my throat to subside. “It’s worse for me because Lori is much smaller than I am now. It’s a lot of Camille to cram into such a tight space.”

Had I glimpsed pity in his gaze, I might have spun around and marched back to the car, Harlow be damned. His eyes held only moonlight, and to my surprise, he answered a second question.

“Every bone breaks. Skin tears. Ligaments are shredded.” He leapt from one sandbar to the next. “You want to know the worst part? It’s the fur. Most folks think it’s the bones, but hell, kids break bones.” Though not on the scale he endured. “Having thousands of thick strands of fur pierce through your skin like needles through cloth? Now that hurts.”

A shudder rippled through my shoulders. “Okay, you win.”

“It’s not a contest.” He shot me a halfhearted smile. “Physical pain can be overcome with enough practice. There are worse ways to ache.”

I let my silence stand for agreement. “Are you picking up on anything yet?”

“There are multiple scent layers. Humans mostly. A few dogs.” He rubbed his nose as though to rid himself of a tickle. “Those smells are old. Nothing fae yet.”

We must have circled almost back to where we started when I shoved through a dense layer of brush, and my next footstep sank into powdery sand, the kind trucked in to create manmade beaches. “It looks like we’re headed into a picnic area.”

Graeson didn’t respond. The warg was nowhere in sight.

I shoved aside a tangle of thorny smilax vine and found him squatting over an indentation in the sand. “Graeson?”