Kandy snarled at Blackwell. We were back at the sedan, and the two of them were currently wrestling each other for the right to open the driver’s door. I glanced at Beau. He shrugged his shoulders. As we’d walked back from the bank, Blackwell and Kandy had argued the entire time. “It’s your blood, werewolf,” Blackwell snarled back. “You want to be an idiot about it, it’s your funeral. But I won’t have the pack place the responsibility for your death on my marker.” “Speaking of the pack,” I said, not even remotely loud enough for Kandy to hear me through her ranting, “Desmond texted —” “I should rip your head off,” Kandy growled at Blackwell. “Call in that ‘marker,’ you evil son of a bitch.” “You currently appear practically too weak to move, wolf,” Blackwell spat back. Then he grimaced regretfully. Kandy let go of the car door. Blackwell stumbled back a step, caught himself, then closed his eyes for a moment as if reining in his emotions. Sirens sounded, not that far away.
