Page 4

“Obviously, you didn’t run screaming into the night,” Chelsea said with a wry smile.

“Nah, apparently I have zero self-preservation instincts,” I said. “Plus I’ve always been interested in the supernatural, and it wasn’t just because of the sexy Winchester brothers. I love that shit. I just never thought it was real, so finding out it was? Awesome. Besides, this was Dylan, the least threatening guy in existence.”

“So what did you do?” Chelsea asked.

“You promise not to laugh?”

“I promise nothing,” she said, grinning. “Tell me anyway.”

Even though it was dark, I could feel the color rising in my cheeks. “I said the first thing that popped into my head.”

“Which was?”

“I said, ‘You’re a podiatrist, and werewolves don’t even have feet!’”

Chelsea didn’t even try to hold back her cackle. “Wow. Just, wow.”

“I told you I was an idiot.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Chelsea said, still laughing.

“Right?” I grinned. “Dylan was so offended. He was all, ‘Werewolves have feet, Hunter! Most of the time, anyway.’ And then he told me I was an idiot, but it was enough to convince him I wasn’t about to freak out and come after him with silver bullets. He swore me to secrecy, I asked him about a million questions, and my dumb ass was introduced to the supernatural world. Ta-da!” I did a quick burst of jazz hands.

Chelsea hummed, her expression turning thoughtful. “How did that turn into you doing this?” She gestured at the deserted agility course.

“A couple months after I found out about shifters, Dylan asked if I thought a PT could help his little brother. Poor kid had come into his shift and couldn’t tell his ass from his elbow—literally. Kept getting confused. When he tried licking his own nuts while he was half-asleep and gave himself a neck strain, Dylan asked me for help. So I gave it a try, and it turns out I was good at it. Like, really good. It probably helped that when I was growing up, I used to help my cousin with her dog walking business—don’t look at me like that, I just mean I knew the mechanics of how canine bodies work, okay? Anyway, between that and my PT experience, I figured out a routine that helped untangle his brain. He was back to his old self in a week.”

“Oh wow,” Chelsea said. “That kid must have thought you were a hero.”

“He wasn’t the only one. The next thing I knew I was getting calls from shifters who wanted me to do the same for their kids. And it wasn’t only teenagers. There are more people who come late into their shift than you’d think. So I decided to focus on that instead. I spent a ton of time commuting to Hyde until Dylan suggested we relocate here. So now I’m a personal trainer who works with shifters who have coordination issues.”

“Well, I’m glad you decided to specialize because you sure helped me,” Chelsea said. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever get control of my shift again after that head injury.”

I flashed her a smile. “What can I say? I’m just that good.”

“So you and Dylan aren’t a couple?”

“Nope,” I said. “He’s straight and I’m single.”

Chelsea raised one dark eyebrow. “How? Because again, have you looked in a mirror?”

It was a fair question. Because yeah, I had looked in a mirror. I worked out. My grandparents were Swedish and I’d inherited my dad’s blond hair and blue eyes, so I knew I was objectively attractive. But if there was a downside to living in Hyde, it was the lack of anyone in town to hook up with.

Correction. Anyone human.

Don’t get me wrong, the guys in Hyde were hot as fuck. Like, firefighter calendar, Magic Mike levels of hot. You could even say supernaturally hot. But I’d tried dating a werewolf when I first moved to town, thinking it would be amazing. Instead, it had been enough to put me off having a relationship with a shifter for life.

Kevin—that was the guy’s name—was built like a Mack truck and had a personality to match. He was big and loud and took up a lot of space. But I was new in town and it had been a while, so even though he’d been bossier than I was used to, I’d enjoyed our first date enough that I’d agreed to a second one. That one had been less fun and he’d been pushier, and we’d hit our first speed bump when we’d gotten round to the subject of sex and he’d stated that werewolves didn’t bottom. I was pretty sure that couldn’t possibly be true, purely from a statistical viewpoint, and I didn’t like him enough to compromise on that point, but he was insistent and I was horny, so we’d ended up exchanging hand jobs instead.

Over the following couple of days, he’d texted me every night asking if I was free and sulking when I said no, despite me telling him I worked weird hours, and in the end I’d agreed to see him again.

The third date was where it had all fallen apart.

Kevin had spent the first ten minutes complaining that I’d “refused to put out last time”—apparently getting to come hadn’t counted—and the next ten minutes telling me I needed to make sure I was available when he called. Then he started spouting about werewolf superiority and how lucky I was he was giving me another chance. The alarm bells had really started going off when he told me that werewolves had certain rules, and if I wanted to keep seeing him, I’d need to learn my place and submit. And they only got louder when, after I smiled at the bartender, Kevin pitched a major fit and accused me of flirting.

When I told him I was just being polite, he got all up in my face, and there had been more than a hint of threat when he’d growled that I’d better not look at another man while I was with him. He’d told me that if I was going to date werewolves, I should understand that they were, without exception, instinctively possessive. The final straw, though, was when he confidently declared he owned me now—which was news to me, and an offer I could most definitely refuse. By then the alarm bells were loud enough that they were drowning out his bullshit, and when he’d said, “I expect you to call me Alpha,” I’d gotten up and walked out, leaving him sitting there.

I’d deleted his number, but that hadn’t stopped him texting me a bunch asking for another chance, and when I’d answered with a firm no, sending me a Venmo request for the three drinks and the burger he’d paid for while we were “dating.”