He frowned, staring straight ahead at the two-lane highway. “I don’t know. Rogue lycan, perhaps. Or maybe the kid got away before they could finish him off.”

Fighting back the brutal image that evoked, she swallowed down the tightness in her throat and asked, “So what else can I expect?” Besides turning into a monster and feeding on human flesh?

He was silent a long moment. “Heightened senses—taste, touch, smell, sight. You’re stronger. Faster. Quick to anger. Quick to react.”

She nodded. Her temper had certainly been hair-trigger lately. And her senses had been sensitive. To a distracting degree. She had tried to dismiss it. Rationalized it away, pretended not to notice.

“You’re the one living through it. You can probably better describe it.”

Moistening her lips, she volunteered, “I eat a lot.”

“You’re burning more calories now.”

Her head swiveled to look at him. “What?”

“Your metabolic intake has increased because lycans burn energy faster.”

“You mean I can eat like this and not gain weight?” She glanced at the discarded bags on the floorboard, her lips twisting. “Guess that’s one perk.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“Am I laughing?” she snapped. “Trust me, I’m hanging on by a thread here.” Hearing the wobble in her voice, she blinked burning eyes and stared out at the pastureland flying past, knowing soon she would be back in a concrete jungle full of flesh-hungry beasts.

And she was one of them.

CHAPTER NINE

Dogs come in all shapes and sizes; know your type.

—Man’s Best Friend: An Essential Guide to Dogs

Nibbling on her straw, Claire surveyed the house beneath the muted glow of streetlights. “This is your house?”

“Yeah.” He pulled her suitcase from the backseat before she had a chance to grab it herself.

The narrow, redbrick two-story with a deep front porch was an older home, circa 1940s. An inviting swing swayed in the night breeze on one end of the porch, and a pile of firewood sat on the other end. A large magnolia tree shaded the house, its thick leaves rustling. Inhaling, she caught its sweet, almost lemony aroma.

A family house. For a family man. Definitely not the house she had imagined him residing in.

Come to think of it, she really couldn’t imagine him having a home at all. He had taken on such mythical proportions in her mind that she couldn’t imagine him putting down roots anywhere. She visualized him living out of his Jeep, never sleeping, simply passing his time cruising the city streets, frequenting seedy bars as he hunted and destroyed werewolves. Silly. Despite his extraordinary vocation, he was just a man. No more. No knight in shining armor sacrificing his life in pursuit of a grand quest.

She followed him into the house and up the stairs, their footfalls deadened by the faded runner covering the wooden steps.