It also drove me into a hierarchy I’d never subscribed to.
The Mark tied me to Callum and the rest of the pack, and it served as an ever-present reminder that they were bound to protect me as one of their own. My right hip twinged just above the band of my low-rise jeans, and my fingers played along the edges of the scar that lived there. Growing up the way I did, you learn a few things, so I knew the dangers involved in standing my ground and the ones that came with letting it go. On a human, the same motion would have conveyed sharp irritation, but on Callum’s face, the expression was mild, until and unless you looked for the power behind the gaze and caught a glint of the wolf staring back. “Callum,” I said, feigning surprise at his sudden appearance in my workshop. The math in this particular equation never came out in my favor. Four names, five words, one pissed-off werewolf.
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