Killian’s wolf butts us a third time, harder. My wolf huffs and grazes his side with her teeth. It’s a brief nip. Perfunctory. Irritated and indulgent. And the air changes. The big wolf’s golden eyes fade to dusky blue. There’s a crack of bones, and Killian’s movements are masked by the weird fast-forwarding effect as he flip-shifts. In a split second, he’s looming above my wolf, buck naked, fists balled, every muscle tight and cast in sharp relief. His teeth are bared. He’s furious. He doesn’t waste a second. He scoops my wolf up in his arms like a naughty pup and strides toward the doors.
