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Attraction?
No. She pushed the word aside. It couldn’t be.
When the last of the silver clattered into his hand, she groaned in relief, rolling her wrists and shoulders. She was grateful to move them freely again. Silver didn’t sear her kind’s skin in the way human movies showed, but it irritated and aggravated their flesh all the same, weakened their natural healing response.
Casting the cuffs onto the tabletop with a loud clatter, he rounded the table’s other side and pulled out the metal chair as she made quick work of buttoning up his coat she still wore. The chair’s metal screeched an echoing scrape across the concrete floor before he dropped into it, leaning back and watching her. He pawed at the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.
She held his gaze for a long beat. He’d changed from the black shirt he’d worn beneath the trench coat into a fitted white Henley that contoured a little too closely to his muscles for her tastes. The white color contrasted against the golden tan of his skin, and she briefly wondered if it was left over from his time out west. She could imagine him outside in the summer sun, Stetson on his head, working long hours without the shade of Rochester’s few high-rises.
The sun hadn’t shined here in months.
She was the first to speak. “Apparently we’re going with good cop.” She nodded to the cuffs on the table between them.
He leaned forward in his seat, drawing his chair closer as he set his elbows on the table. “I hear you did a number on my car.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Of course, that’s what he’d care about. Not her or her time, or the fact that she didn’t deserve to be here.
To her surprise, her laugh didn’t seem to faze him.
“I thought I told you there was no point in wasting your energy?” He took a sip of the coffee, before muttering, “Shit, that’s too hot,” and setting it back down.
She shrugged. “I had to try. You could’ve been lying.”
“I could’ve been, but I wasn’t.” He blew on the steam from the cup before he drew a careful sip. “Better,” he nodded at the cup contents, then he met her gaze again. “I’m no liar.” His voice was low and graveled enough the words sounded like a growl.
“You want a trophy for that?”
He gave a short huff, like she’d amused him, and leaned back in his chair again. As he did, her eyes darted to where the sleeve of his Henley bunched at the wrist, revealing a wrap of bandages beneath. Right. Where she’d torn into him.
His gaze followed hers. “I’m alright. Thanks for asking.”
“I didn’t ask.”
He nodded. “Of course.” He paused for a long beat. “What was your name again?” He grabbed the manila folder off the table and flipped it open, glancing at the top page as if he actually had a rap sheet on her.
Maybe not a rap sheet, but information all the same. A chill shot down her spine.
He nodded as he scanned the page. “Oh, that’s right. Francesca.” Her mother’s name dripped from his lips with more than a hint of sarcasm.
She didn’t answer.
“Is that what your pack calls you?” He set the manila folder back down.
She didn’t like what he was implying. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll give it to you straight, then. Are you part of a pack?”
She stayed silent. Would he hate her more if she belonged to a pack or if she were a rogue? Considering the recent DOA rogues, she would bet on the latter.
“A rogue, huh?” He raised a brow at her.
Her heart pounded faster as she stared at that manila folder. She cleared her throat. “I’m in a pack.”
Her pack. Even after functioning as packmaster for the last five years, she still struggled to absorb the idea. But through her blood, she had birthright, and since her mother’s and father’s deaths, she had fulfilled her duty. No brothers, no sisters, no cousins. Just her. She was the only one left, and now the first alpha female ever to run Rochester.
“Local, I assume?”
She didn’t confirm or deny it. No way would she throw her pack under the bus.
