“Are you implying that I enjoy seeing a female of my pack reduced to this?” He gestured toward Becca’s shaking form. “I don’t.” He stood with fluid grace. “Her blood is on your hands, not mine.”

A touch from Graeson anchored me enough to notice our tiff had attracted an audience. Most were female, sizing up the competition, I guessed. My gaze collided with his, and I wondered how I would survive the selection if new challengers tapped my shoulder at every turn. Were there rules? One fight each night? Two? Three?

I might have asked if the pack bond were more solid, but it was faltering. I sensed him, but I didn’t hear him, and I didn’t want to risk pushing out thoughts Bessemer might overhear.

The rough pad of his thumb stroked over my pulse, calming me. “Come on.” He didn’t shy away from taking my hand in his, despite the fur and the blood. “I’ll walk you home.”

Nodding, I held on tight and hardened my gaze to a killing edge before raking it across the crowd.

Respect brightened several faces. Calculation sharpened others.

I had to wonder what weaknesses I had exposed and who would be the first to exploit them.

* * *

Graeson opened the door of my trailer and led me inside like a gentleman, but I think he was more concerned about my claws shredding the metal than politeness. Adrenaline kept me furry to the elbows, and I couldn’t shake off my nerves enough to trigger a change.

He eased me into the booth, and his gaze swung wide. “The wards will help drain the magic so you can shift back, right?”

“It will.” I hissed out a sharp breath. “I’ll give it another minute to fade, but if it doesn’t…”

I would have to reset, and we both knew my reset was broken. No, that wasn’t right. I could shift into Lori. Maybe it wasn’t busted so much as it broke me a little every time I used it.

The soothing energies of the dampening wards embedded in the walls of the trailer began nibbling on the residual magic floating in my system, and I relaxed as best I could. I pressed a hand to my side, and it came away smeared with blood from where Becca had sucker-punched me. With her claws.

“We need to get you patched up.” He went to the sink, grabbed a cloth and dampened it. “Do you want me to get Aunt Dot or Isaac?”

“No.” Gingerly, I pulled the fabric away from the clotting wound. “It hurts too much for me to think of a good excuse as to why dinner with my ‘boyfriend’ ended with his family taking chunks out of my hide.”

“Okay. Then we handle it ourselves.” He strode toward the bathroom, which he must have scouted in wolf form, and called back to me, “Take off your shirt.”