The she-wolf started. Larkspur took this, and her frantic retreat, as a sign of guilt. After all, why would she run if she had done nothing wrong? He glared at her exposed palms. There was no hostility in her, but the white wolf had seen acts like this before. He was not capable of performing them himself—Larkspur lacked tact—but he did not doubt that any wolf here would sink to such a thing. The Dahlian’s had been like that. Pretending that things were okay, pretending they were strong, it was all one big lie and it had not settled with the D’Angelo.
He growled, the sound a low, menacing thing. “Yeah, and y’ain’t tryin’ to steal it neither, ah?” This was the same ploy he had used to steal the unicorn in the first place. Misery had taught him that trick. Lure the stupid thing in, put a rope around its face, and that was it. Riding her had been more difficult, but that was no fault of the unicorn’s. Though unarmed, the weight of Larkspur’s frame (and the thickening fur) was enough to speak for his capacity for violence.
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