He didn’t look like a man who was pleased. He looked like a starving wolf who’d caught a glimpse of a wounded deer. “Pleased” was such a bland word for that emotion.

I tried to figure out how to answer him.

Death threats—and he had just issued one, if obliquely—are to be gotten through as lightly as possible. I’d noticed that if I paid too much attention to them, matters tended to proceed from bad to worse.

I was tired, and I’d hesitated too long to deny that Bran had treated me like a daughter, before he’d abandoned me and the pack for political reasons. Our pack was the only pack in North America not affiliated with the Marrok. We stuck out like a big sore thumb, and someday soon, someone was going to give in to curiosity and see what happened when they hit us—as they would not dare do to one of the packs under the Marrok.

I took a breath. Had I misread Bonarata? Had that been what he was doing? Did his kidnapping of me have nothing to do with Marsilia at all?

But Bonarata was in Italy, and I was sitting across the table from a werewolf I needed to pay attention to instead of playing my I-wonder-why-the-big-bad-vampire-took-me game.

I had missed my chance to claim that Bran didn’t care about me. Likely, Libor wouldn’t have believed my disclaimer anyway because I only mostly believed it. Bran hadn’t abandoned us because he didn’t love me anymore; he’d abandoned us because he had a Greater Cause, the survival of the werewolves, that he loved more.

So. Death threat.

It was likely that Libor didn’t intend to kill me unless I pushed him into it. First, Charles had sent me here. Though Charles maintained that he wasn’t good with people—which was true enough—it didn’t keep him from reading people pretty well. Second, and even more telling, I wasn’t already dead. Alpha werewolves don’t tend to be the kind of people who dither.

I realized I was watching my fingers tap on the table. At some time during my thinking process, I’d dropped my eyes to the table. It hadn’t been because I’d been intimidated, or at least I didn’t think so. But if I was going to get into a staring contest with a dominant wolf, I probably should have been paying more attention.

“I had heard that you and Bran weren’t on speaking terms,” I said. “So . . . you’d have killed me already, but you don’t want me to die before I satisfy your curiosity?” I hazarded lightly. Not afraid of the Big Bad Wolf—no, sir, not me. “You want to know what I’m doing, alone, in your territory and why I mentioned the Lord of Night?” I shrugged. “Otherwise, I’d probably be dead instead of fed good food and left to sleep in safety.”

He leaned back comfortably in his chair (it creaked alarmingly) and said nothing.

“I am here because of Bonarata,” I said blandly. “He kidnapped me about a mile from my home in the US. Apparently he was under the impression that I was the most powerful supernatural entity in the territory of his discarded mistress and One True Love. I think he’d forgotten all about her until recent events put the Tri-Cities of Washington—state of—USA into national and international news. Reminded of his love, he chose to go after her by kidnapping me.” That was my current favorite theory. Or maybe it was a hit directed at Bran—or the pack. But I’d go with my first instinct. So I nodded as if he’d said something, and continued, “I know. It struck me as stupid, too. But I’m not an ageless vampire, so I’ll cut him some slack.”