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"The cat."

"No." Too fast.

"You know what he is."

"I have a suspicion. You won't like it, so I'm holding back until I'm certain."

Magic, my wolf says. Low. Wary.

The scorched circle sits a foot from my face. I make myself ask it anyway.

"Is she more than just a witch?"

Evelyn goes quiet a long time. Long enough that the quiet is the answer.

"If I'm right about her," she says, "the Veiled Hand will never stop. Not for a wolf. Not for a coven. Not for anything. So don't give me a reason to send someone who outranks you."

"Then they’ll have to go through me."

I hang up on her. It's becoming a habit.

I'm halfway across the wet grass, already set on telling her tonight, all of it, when the wind shifts and I catch it.

Her blood. Fresh. The cut's open again.

I know this scent now. It nearly took me down this afternoon, my wolf climbing up my throat over a scrape on her hand. I told myself I'd be ready for it the next time.

I'm not.

Mine.

No.

I'm on her porch quickly. The door opens. She's got her hand pressed to a dish towel, blinking up at me.

"What?"

I take her wrist. Turn it over. A thin line has split back open across her palm. Nothing. A scratch. Our touch sparks again and she gasps as she tries to pull her hand back but I hold onto it firmly.

Protect. Claim. Mate.

I breathe through it. Count her pulse instead of mine.

"You look weird," she says, her breathing getting shallow. I release her hand.

"Helpful."

"You're gray."

"I'm fine."

"You're always fine."

Usually.

She leans against the railing. The new boards. The ones I sanded smooth at four in the morning so she wouldn't drive a splinter into that hand. Her palm settles over my work and something in my chest pulls tight.

"You want to know what I think," she says.