I huff out a breath of irritation, but Rafe, keeping one hand on my lower back, stretches the other out toward The Dane. This could go south very quickly. After staring coldly at Rafe for a few seconds, The Dane’s giant paw envelopes Rafe’s hand. I swear, I hear bones crunching. “Anders,” Rafe says. He knows The Dane’s real name? The Dane—Anders—only grunts, but he does loosen his grip and step back, giving Rafe the tiniest nod of something that might be approval. Or might just be a silent agreement that he’s not going to kill him. Right now, anyway.
