“You can shift,” I say. “You can squeeze loose.” Why didn’t he already? He tenses. When he glances up at me from under his thick lashes, that strange not-quite-fear feeling swirls in my belly again. “I can’t,” he says, his expression suddenly guarded. “Why not?” I ask, but the second I do, I realize why. His wolf hates me. He’d kill me. I’d be a sitting duck. “He doesn’t hate you. He—he’s just not right in the head.”
