Page 63 of Vicious Luna

“So, you said it’s called The Guild, right? You and your dad started it?”

I nod, ignoring my intrusive thoughts about the beast lurking beneath my skin and re-focusing on the task at hand. “After my mom died, yeah. It was my dad’s idea, but I went along with it.”

Her lip curls in distaste. “Why?”

“Guess he needed a new purpose,” I shrug.

“No, I mean why did you go along with it?”

I level her with a stare, arching a brow. “Isn’t it my turn?”

She huffs out a breath, flopping back in her chair. “Fine, ask away,” she mutters, waving a hand.

I roll my lower lip between my teeth, trying to figure out where the hell I should even start. “Are shifters and werewolves the same thing?”

Avery snorts a laugh like I just asked the dumbest question on the planet. “Yeah. Well, basically. The term ‘werewolf’ was perpetuated by fiction, but we prefer to be called shifters, and that term encompasses more than just wolves. Foxes, bears…” she trails off when she realizes I’m looking at her as if she’s speaking a foreign language. “What?”

“Bears?” I repeat, my brain still struggling to absorb the information.

“Mhmm,” she hums, flipping a hand over and absently inspecting her freshly-polished nails. “I met one, once. It’s rare to come across a bear shifter, they pretty much keep to themselves. They aren’t about pack life like we are.” Her eyes flicker up to meet mine. “How many hunters are there?”

“Thirty in the field, including the nine reinforcements that just arrived,” I reply. “Well, twenty-nine without me. How many werewolves in your pack?”

“Nuh uh,” she tsks, shaking her head. “I said I’d answer questions about being a shifter, not about my pack or territory. For all I know, you’re here as a spy.”

My lips twist in a scowl. “You really believe that? I told you what they did to me when they found out what I am.”

“You’ve lied before,” she shrugs, picking a piece of lint off her shirt. Then she glances back up at me, a spark of deviance flaring in her eyes. “Remember when you said youdidn’twanna fuck me?”

“Remember when you tried to act like you didn’t enjoy it?” I fire back, holding her eye contact.

The corner of her mouth ticks up. “Touché.”

Goddamn, I swear we could suffocate with how thick the sexual tension in this room just became. My throat works with a hard swallow as I try to pick my mind up out of the gutter and think of a different question to ask to stay on target here. “Do all werewolves need a pack?”

“Pretty much,” she replies flippantly. “Wolves don’t do well on their own. Without a pack, they can go feral and become rogues. Well, unless they’re an Alpha type, which…” she lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely in my direction.

“Is that what I am?”

“It’s my turn,” she points out, folding her arms over her chest. “A question for a question, remember?”

I jerk a nod.

She tilts her head in consideration as she studies me, her legs still crossed and the toe of her sneaker bouncing. “What’s your body count?”

My brow furrows. “Like how many werewolves I’ve killed?”

She nods, and I suck in a deep breath.

“Honestly, I didn't keep track,” I mutter. “Killing has never been a thrill for me. The hunt, I like. But the kill, not so much.”

“Maybe it was your inner wolf revolting against you taking out your own kind,” she suggests, giving me a pointed look.

“Maybe,” I sigh. “Now that I think about it, I did get headaches a lot after missions. I thought it had something to do with the letdown of adrenaline, but they got worse after you were brought in, so now I’m thinking they might’ve been my…wolf.” I can’t help but cringe as I speak that last word. The truth is, I’m still having trouble coming to terms with the fact that the pounding in my head I’ve been experiencing for weeks isn’t some undiagnosed medical condition, but rather a supernatural beast that can push itself through my skin.

Fuck, part of me almost wishes itwasa brain tumor.

“I used to drink a lot after a successful mission, and the booze seemed to help the headache,” I tack on, thinking aloud.

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