Page 12 of What a Wolf Demands

Dom stubbed out the cigarette in a little tray in the center console. “Good. That’ll make her easier to find.”

A beat passed. Then, his voice quiet, Remy asked, “Are you okay with this?”

Dom bit back a curse. Sophie was listening, which meant swear words were off the table. Not that she couldn’t handle a little profanity. Goodness knew, she’d handled that and more at the hands of her asshole ex-husband. She wasn’t weak—far from it—but she was still recovering from the abuse she suffered after her father forced her into a mating with a psychopath. It hadn’t even been a year since she escaped. The last thing she needed was exposure to violence, even if it was just a few idle threats over the phone.

“I can ask someone from a neighboring territory to take over the case,” Remy said.

“No.”

“But—”

“I said no.”

“Dom, I think this is a bad idea—”

“Enough!” Dom brought his fist down on the center console. The cigarette butt flipped into the air and tumbled to the plastic floor mat on the passenger side.

In the background, Sophie sucked in a breath.

Shit.

Dom closed his eyes. “I apologize.”

“No need,” Remy said, and his tone said he meant it. “Just looking out for you, best buddy.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Dom’s mouth. Leave it to Remy to dredge up that ridiculous nickname. He’d started using it years ago when they trained as Hunters. As Max was the most prominent Alpha in the country, the New York Territory drew a large number of young males who hoped to climb the ranks of power and prestige. To keep them out of trouble, Max paired them off, assigning each trainee a partner. No one was surprised when Dom and Remy ended up together. Telepaths were rare—and often reviled. In a species that prized strength and speed, the capacity to speak mind to mind was little use in a fight. In those early years, they’d both needed a battle buddy.

Remy, being the pack’s resident smart-ass, had quickly changed it to “best buddy.”

Dom opened his eyes. The bus still idled at the curb, the splashy ad on its side encouraging people to take a ghost tour in the city. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you don’t need to look out for me.”

“Understood,” Remy said easily. The chair creaked again. “Just make sure you think this through, okay? According to the intel the Louisiana Hunters sent us, this female is probably feral.”

His meaning was clear. If Lily Agincourt was feral, there was only one option.

“I’ll do what’s necessary,” Dom said. And it didn’t matter what color her hair was. He eyed the crumpled cigarette on the floor. Shouldn’t have tossed it so soon.

Sophie spoke, her voice soft and reassuring. “We know you will, Dom. But it’s okay to step back from a job every once in a while.”

Maybe the cigarette was still good. He could straighten it out and relight it. Who cared about it spending time on the floor? He couldn’t catch anything humans carried around.

“Acknowledging grief doesn’t make you weak,” she added.

Remy cleared his throat. There was a pause, which probably meant he was speaking directly into her mind. It was a neat trick—and, so far, one no other Telepath had managed. According to Remy, his enhanced ability was a one-way street. He could transmit to non-Telepaths, but he couldn’t receive.

Except that wasn’t quite accurate. Sophie had managed it once, when she called out to him under extreme duress. It shouldn’t have been possible, but Remy had heard her—even with a hundred miles separating them. Then again, his Gift had always been unusually strong.

Or maybe he just used it more often. Telepathic voice or plain old speech, he never seemed to shut up.

He spoke aloud now, a thread of sarcasm in his tone. “I wish I could give you a more precise location for your search, but the Trackers in the Louisiana Territory leave much to be desired.”

Dom frowned at the bus, which hadn’t moved. “I thought you said she used Lafont’s bank card this morning. Didn’t they pick up her scent inside the store?”

“Yes.” Remy let out a soft chuckle. “Then promptly lost it again.”

“Trackers lost a scent less than a few hours old?” That was like a shark losing the scent of blood in a butcher shop.

“According to the Alpha’s email, his Trackers have had a hard time getting a read on her. She must be good at covering her trail. I think he’s a little embarrassed about it, actually. Maybe that’s why he waited a month to call us.”

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