He stepped back with exaggerated courtesy. But when I walked past him, he swatted my rump. Hard enough to sting.“You need to be more careful,” he growled. “Keep interfering in my business and you might get hurt.”I said sweetly as I continued to Jesse's room, “The last man who swatted me like that is rotting in his grave.”“I have no doubt about it.” His voice was more satisfied then contrite.

I don’t know who you think you are” — my mother’s voice was low and dangerous — “but if you don’t get out of my way right this instant, it won’t matter.”Adam was the Alpha werewolf in charge of the local pack. He was tough. He could be mean when he had to — and he wouldn’t stand a chance against my mom.

Pack is for comfort when you hurt, I thought, putting my head back down. And for the first time in a long time, maybe the first time ever, I appreciated being a part of one.

C’est moi, c’est moi,’tis I,' I told him. It seemed appropriately melodramatic, though I didn’t know if he’d catch the reference. I shouldn’t have worried. Unexpectedly, he laughed. “Trust you to quote Lancelot rather than Guinevere.

Mercy," he mumbled. "What the hell did you do to my French Roast?

I was going to fight vampires, and my name wasn't Buffy--I was so screwed.

You are a sick, sick man,” I told him.“Thank you,” Ben replied, looking modest.

Vampire politics make the very complicated dance of manners that is werewolf protocol look like the Hokey Pokey.

Stay out of this,” she (Christy) snapped at me, wiping futilely at her cheeks. “This isn’t your business.”“When you blamed Adam, whose only fault that I can see is that he has poor taste in wives, you made it my business,” I told her.Honey cleared her throat. “You do know you are one of his wives, right?”I raised an eyebrow. “Happily, he doesn’t know how bad off he is with me—and I intend that he never will.