PATRICK ACRES COULD have been Stormwinder’s mini-me. The easternmost alpha was suave and cordial, his power hidden beneath a genial exterior that would have set even a one-body at ease.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” he asked Hunter now. Unlike Ron Brooks, Acres had escorted us into his home personally. His mate had offered tea and cookies before disappearing back down the hall, and I’d obediently dropped into one of the carved wooden chairs across from my host.
Hunter, on the other hand, remained hovering behind my seat like a bodyguard...or like a barely animated gargoyle. His muscles had tensed into rock-like ridges and the expression on his face when he smiled was more lupine snarl than human grin.
I waited for my mate to speak, but he didn’t bother to reply. Instead, his eye
