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53
“That one,” she said confidently, raising her hand and
pointing. “That’s the man who attacked me. I would know
his face anywhere.”
Eric looked pleased, but the caged werewolf looked
murderous. “The bitch lies,” he snarled, throwing himself
forward to grab the bars between them, and she thought
she detected some yellow starting to blossom in the green
of his eyes.
She clutched Eric’s arm and pressed the side of her body
against his, staring worshipfully up at him for good measure.
“It’s him,” she whispered, and her apparent fear snapped
him into action.
He led her briskly back outside, then gestured for one
of the guards to approach them. “Bring the one with the
broken arm to my tent,” he ordered, sounding absolutely
triumphant. “I need to question him, and then I will carry
out the execution myself.”
Question him. She could only imagine how confused the
werewolf would be by Eric’s questions. But he wouldn’t say
anything that might incriminate her; of that she was sure.
No lowly pack member would take it upon himself to reveal
the existence of his kind to humans, and in protecting his
clan’s secrets, he would be forced to protect hers as well.
How fortunate that a werewolf would rather die than betray
his kin . . . and die this one would. And it would serve him
right.
As they escorted the struggling werewolf out of the