The alpha of their den is a rough-looking late thirties who appears closer to fifty and, while age gap romances are fun to read about…he’s not main character material. He’s got a wide face, a pug nose, and what appears to be an anger issue.
The rest of his den doesn’t appear to be much better. One guy has a net of unruly black curls that could be cute if he knew what curl cream was. As it is, I’m not sure the guy has ever touched a comb. Another one of them looks as though he’s fighting a losing battle with allergies. His golden-brown eyes are watery, his nose is red, and he keeps wiping it on the sleeve of his shirt. The final member looks like the type who lives in his mother’s basement. He just seems…soft and has trouble making eye contact with anyone. It’s hard for me to reconcile the fact that he’s a wolf shifter, because the ones I’ve met so far have been big and strong.
If the Arcan Pack were a body, this den would be the armpit.
“We shouldn’t even be here. If you weren’t the alpha’s son, you’d be the one getting called to the carpet. She should be wearing our bite.” Joe Bianchi speaks for his den as he glares at Ellery.
The urge to step forward and knock this fucker down a peg is hard to resist even though I don’t know where it’s coming from. Definitely not from the human side of me. I don’t like the way he looks at the sheriff, or me, or anyone else for that matter. The look aggravates me as much as a thorn in my shoe, and I want to pluck it right off his face. But I keep my hands to myself and my feet planted where they are.
The room we’re in is on the smaller side. In a human interrogation, we’d be set up on the other side of two-way glass. But I guess it doesn’t work here the same way it does on humans. It works out since Ellery wants me to use all my senses to see if I pick up on anything. But damn, we’re crammed in here. There’s barely enough space for the long table in the middle of it and the sets of chairs on either side. Plus, I’m not sure what those glowing red crystals on the table are—but instinct tells me I don’t want to touch them.
“How did you know she’d be there to bite?” Ellery asks calmly, ignoring the other man’s ire.
“Smelled her, same as you,” Joe retorts.
“Caught her scent pretty quick.” Ellery keeps his eyes on Joe, though his fingers mess with a pen and notepad in front of him. I think it’s just for show. He hasn’t written anything down yet.
“You want to accuse me of something, Sheriff, then you need to man up and say it. Otherwise, me and the guys are needed down at the sewage plant.”
“Yeah,” pipes in the curly-haired one. “We deal with enough shit all day as it is. Don’t need this.” He snickers at his own bad joke and looks resentful when nobody else in the room joins in.
“We’re not here to accuse, just to gather information. I simply want to know if you saw or scented Noah before the actual Hunt.” Ellery’s tone is calm and steady in a way I don’t know I could ever manage.
When Joe’s cobalt-blue eyes land on me and skim down my body, I immediately feel as if I’ve been coated in the nasty slime that was clinging to the celestial the other night. Gag.
I try to take a subtle sniff of the air, to see if anything about these guys seems familiar. Their faces certainly don’t ring any bells. But my nose is immediately overwhelmed by the variety of scents muddying the room. Nothing specific seems to stand out from the three men across the table.
Instead of smelling for clues, I try judging the guys rationally. Do they creep me out? Absolutely. Does the fact that they might have bitten me terrify me? Yup. But are they the ones who attacked me in a parking lot, stripped me down, and then served me up like a ritual sacrifice? Not sure they’ve got the brainpower for it.
My gaze drags over them again, and the final guy, basement dweller, looks up and catches me staring. His light brown eyes hook and hold mine, and his expression tightens the tiniest bit. Just enough to make me feel uneasy.
He glances away but I’m left staring, uncertain and unsure. Dammit. Why’d he have to look at me like that? Now, I don’t fucking know. I’m not an investigator. I’m just a vet tech. I’m good at giving vaccines, not the third degree—I have no clue how to judge innocence or guilt. I stew in my misgivings for the rest of the interview.
By the time Ellery’s done questioning the Bianchi den, Joe is practically vibrating with anger, and I’m surprised he doesn’t wolf out. I’m relieved when Ellery escorts them away.
“Thank fuck that’s over,” I say.
“Over? That was just the first den, Poodle,” Karen retorts. “We’ve got more coming in.”
I sigh and sag back against the wall.
She gives a dry grin. “Yup. Buckle up for some balls-to-the-wall snarling with the last den. They’re assholes with a chip on their shoulder, although that could be said about a lot of wolf shifters. They like to get all growly and puff up like Pomeranians in the face of authority. Others tuck tail and flash a little belly. It’s always one or the other.”
Next to Karen, Bucky chuckles and clears his throat. “This calls for a little Would You Rather.”
Karen groans, but the sound only serves to make Bucky’s mischievous smile grow even wider.
“Would you rather sit through all these interviews or have your fingernails pulled out?” he asks with a fiendish glint in his eyes.
“Fingernails. That would be quicker and, at this point, less painful,” Karen instantly replies.
“Um, I dunno,” Fife hedges as though each option requires thorough contemplation. He rubs at his bald head as he considers. “Probably sit through the interviews. Fingernails take forever to grow back, and it would hurt to type up reports.”
Both of the other deputies stare at him and shake their heads. Karen makes the incorrect-buzzer sound.
“Would you rather sit through these interviews or sit in a vat of melted wax?” Bucky shoots off another set of options.
Karen sucks in a breath through her teeth and grimaces. “That’s a good one. Gonna have to protect the lady bits. Stay here and suffer through interviews.”
I chuckle at what’s clearly a common game around the station.
But then Bucky checks his watch. “The Sullivan den should be next,” he declares, and just then the door swings open.
In walks a familiar, tall, muscular man, wearing a smirk I recognize and a deputy uniform that has my heart slipping from my chest and plunging into my stomach.
It’s one of the guys from the diner. The one who had a smirk that leaned closer to naughty than nice. He’d been one of the men from the table of three who’d first set off my alarms. His hair is shorter than the last time I saw him. It’s buzzed now and looks darker than it did that night. His brown-eyed gaze is friendly instead of intense, and today his grin is easygoing and relaxed.