Page 3 of Gunnar

He shuts the door with care, like this is a meeting. His gaze flicks to the bodies. Something tightens, then he reins it in.

His attention locks onto me.

“Good,” he says quietly.

I go still. My beast pushes forward, nostrils flaring. Human—but he holds himself like one of us. He fears me—and after what he’s just seen, he’s got every reason to—but he stands his ground.

“What are you?” I demand.

He takes his time, looking me over—the blood on my chest, the weapons at my feet, the bodies scattered across the clearing.

“A man who knows what you are,” he replies.

He folds his hands behind his back, holding himself still.

“I’ve got shifters in my bloodline.”

My brothers move in behind me. I don’t look at them, but I feel them there.

Some kind of skinny-ass scavenger, Orson says, the thought cutting in sharp.

Torin snorts. One with massive balls.

I shake my head at them.

“You walked onto my land armed,” I tell the man. “You aimed rifles at my brothers.” I take a step closer. “So you’re going to explain yourself. Now.”

Something shifts in his expression. Something like approval.

“We needed to know,” he says.

“Know what?”

“If the stories were true.”

“What stories?”

He glances at his men sprawled in the dirt, then back at me.

“It seems,” he says quietly, “the stories were understated.”

I step into him. Close enough that he has to tip his chin to hold my gaze.

“What do you want?”

“A temporary arrangement.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Hear me out,” he says, holding my gaze.

He gestures toward the SUV. “There’s someone in there who can’t stay in the city. Someone who needs a place no one can reach.”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not running a goddamn safe house.”

“You’re not,” he agrees. “We’ll compensate you.”

“I don’t need your money.”