Page 30 of Predator

That, of course, was Kirk. But because she came, then stayed, when the curse was casted back in 1954, freezing the town in time, she never got to leave again.

Holy shit. She’s so bubbly and sweet, sometimes I forget what that must’ve done to someone who didn’t know anything about the supernatural world until she mated into it. Homesick doesn’t begin to cover it.

“But Lucas… the Alpha told us what happened when you finally tested the bridge. Our plans to leave have been put on hold until that part of the curse is broken, too.”

I swallow roughly. It feels like there’s a pile of rocks in my gut at her off-handed comment. Why? Because I was the one who was supposed to break the curse, and while part of it is gone, the rest of it is still affecting my new friends.

Eleanor shakes her head. “Now, don’t you worry about it, sweetie. It’ll happen. Seventy years, right? Maybe it’ll take more than three weeks for Winter Creek to catch up to the rest of the world.”

I really hope so.

Since I can’t do anything about it now, I jerk my chin at the table. If she calls the pocket for the eight ball and sinks it, she’s won. Again. “Your turn, Ellie.”

“When you’re done, can I get next?”

I turn at the familiar voice just in time to see Tristan walk through the open doorway to the game room.

It’s Tristan—and he’s limping.

The first time I ever met Tristan Crowder, I was impressed by his graceful prowl.

Okay. Impressed, and I was more attracted to him than I probably should’ve been to the man I nicknamed Blondie if only in my own brain.

He looks the same. His pretty face, that slicked-back golden blonde hair, those blue eyes that are deceptively innocent… he looks the same. That limp, though… silver is a bitch for shifters. It’s the one metal that can seriously injure one of us, and with the right stab, it could even kill us. The reason behind that is simple: shifters can’t heal wounds caused from silver without a lot of time and energy.

Remy tried to kill Tristan. I wholeheartedly believe that. It was a fight that only happened because Tristan insisted on accompanying me when I planned on confronting Marie Bordeaux with the picture of her and Jolie. The Beta caught wind of Remy sneaking around and, suddenly, he was a wolf, Remy was lunging at him with a silver knife, and Tristan went down after the witch stabbed him in the hind leg with the silver knife.

Three weeks later and, despite Lucas ordering him to rest so he can heal, Tristan is still limping. In his human form, his hind legs equals his human leg. But it seems like the healing process is an ongoing and imperfect one when that much damage is done with silver, and I’m careful not to pay too much attention to it in case he’s obviously conscious of the limp.

He has to be. To show any kind of weakness as a shifter… that just shows how much he trusts both Eleanor and me. Otherwise, he’d force himself to act like the injury didn’t affect him at all when the whole pack knows it did.

Why else is he hellbent on getting revenge on Remy? Because he is, and his determination to run on a ruined leg to hunt down the witch proves it.

Now, I’m all for it. Wolfy Fallon is a bloodthirsty bitch. When Lucas said that he left the witch breathing, I’d secretly hoped he was wrong. Is that terrible? Probably. I don’t care. For what he did, Remy would’ve deserved dying at the hands of Lucas as the feral beast.

As Tristan approaches the table, Eleanor whistles under her breath. Then, in a too-cheery tone that has a whisper of her native British accent, she says, “It’s my turn, Fallon. Eight ball, side pocket,” and easily sinks her final shot. “Excellent. I win. Good game, hon.”

As if I really had a chance against the impish hustler.

She walks over to Tristan, handing him the cue. “Here you go, Tris. Your turn.”

“Thanks, Ellie. Kirk’s patrolling down by the river if you want to go out and give him a small break.”

“Well, if the Beta insists.” She waves. “I’ll see you two later.”

As soon as she’s gone, Tristan gives me a small chuckle. “I guess I wasn’t as subtle as I thought about wanting to talk to you, Fallon.”

He wasn’t. I knew it, and so did Eleanor. Still, I don’t want him to feel bad, so I say, “Eleanor’s pretty perceptive. Besides, you gave her permission to have a quickie with her mate. I don’t think she minds.”

Tristan winces. “She won’t. I’m not sure I can say the same for Lucas.”

“Why not? It’s just pool.” I nod at the stick in his hand. “You want to play or not?”

Tristan leans against the billiard table. “I’d love to. But only if you rack ‘em.”

His leg must be bothering him even more than that if he doesn’t even want to bend enough to retrieve the balls and arrange them in the triangle-shaped holder.

“No problem. I got it.”

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