Page 28 of Teeth To Rip & Tear

“How many wolves are in your pack?” I asked as we ascended the steps but did not go back toward the bar.

“There are less than twenty wolves in Locket.” He answered honestly. “I count four of those in my inner circle. My beta, Mitchell. Kaleb, the lone Sigma. Wyatt, my lead enforcer, is the only Gamma.”

“I know what an Alpha and Sigma are, but what are betas and gammas?” I asked.

“Betas are not as dominant as Alphas but have a similar command of pack magic. They often work as buffers or mediators for pack demands.” Dean pushed through another door, in the endless corridor of doors—like a scene out of scooby doo. “Mitchell is my beta. My second in command.”

I licked my lips. “And you don’t care that he’s…” I paused, wincing at the glibness of my question.

“Scarred?” Dean quirked a brow. “He lost his eye in service of the pack and the Huntsman. Protecting one of his brothers. He wears his scar with pride.”

“Oh.” I looked down.

“It’s okay to ask questions,” Dean assured me. “Mitchell would tell you the same himself. He isn’t ashamed of his scars. They were too deep, and we did not reach a healer in time. Along with infertility, the Huntsman’s curse has many other effects. We do not have our accelerated healing.”

“Does that mean shifting is painful?” The words were said in a horrified whisper.

Dean glanced away, though he stared at nothing in particular, I got the feeling he was seeing something I couldn’t. “Many things are now painful for wolves.” He cleared his throat, his eyes settling on mine; until that moment, I hadn’t realized he had been avoiding my gaze.

Looking into Dean Hart’s eyes was like being punched in the chest.

“We have many rooms. So, you’ll have your pick. It’s unlikely that your ex-husband or any member of HAOB would be able to find you here.” Dean continued, the spell between us broken. “There is a tunnel to the barracks, deep in the woods. The barracks are hidden underground, and we own the surrounding land.”

“Stops your wolves being shot by overzealous hunters?” I guessed.

“Exactly.” He flashed his teeth. “The Fae that come through the Gate also hunt in that area. We don’t want humans accidentally stumbling across a beast they can’t handle or see. It’s marked as government land, with tall fences and razor wire. The only way in or out in the tunnel.”

“How far away are the barracks?” I asked, in awe.

“Several miles. Much too far to walk.” He assured me. “We have golf buggies.”

“Golf buggies,” I replied dryly.

“Something funny?”

“No.” I couldn’t imagine Dean Hart, who looked like he competed in Strong Man competitions for a living, lifting tires and pulling cars, riding in a golf buggy.

Dean rode with me to the barracks, making small talk. He liked Italian food, like I did, but expressed that he wasn’t very good at cooking it. We discussed my recent project, the pumpkin granny-square crochet cardigan I was working on, and how the store was handling the approaching holiday season. Our conversation was pleasant but superficial, which I needed after such a hectic day.

Dean deposited me into a room that looked like it belonged to a college dorm. The evening hit me when Dean closed the door behind him, leaving me alone with blood under my fingernails.

Though the room had an en-suite, I was too tired to do much more than wash the blood from my hands. I soaked my shirt in cold water and scrubbed it with hand soap, removing some of the blood from the fabric, before hanging it to dry on the shower rod.

There was no window, and though I should have felt suffocated by the painted concrete walls and sparse furnishings, being surrounded by earth was somewhat comforting.

I fell asleep shortly after, face first on the pillow. Exhausted.

My mind kept playing the evening over and over, infecting my dreams. Dave, the intruder, played a role as he climbed through the window, but instead of his eyes glazing over me—in my nightmares, he found me.

I woke, unrefreshed and just as tired as before I had fallen asleep.

I debated putting my damp shirt back on when a gentle knock sounded at my door. I pulled my blanket over my chest and cleared my throat.

“Yeah?” I called out.

Mitchell poked his head around the door; he gave me a lopsided smile, brushing his shaggy hair away from his eyes by flicking his chin. His arms were full of fabric.

“Good morning.” He nodded, “Can I come in?”

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