He was mine. I nodded my head once. Yes, he was definitely mine. My mate. My pack. Dexter had said something about mating humans, and I’d have to find out the details. I’d ask Quinton if he wanted that, of course, because humans liked to be asked that sort of thing, but I figured I had a few decades to convince him if he said no. I was his sexy stalker. I’d wear him down until he agreed. My hellhound grumbled in satisfaction. We were going on a hunt, and Quinton was ours—life was a beautiful thing.
