(LAURIE)
Tristan was in a foul mood when he came home from work. He didn't take it out on me, because he never did. But he was pissed.
"Fucking werewolves," he grunted as he kicked off one of his steel-toed boots. "Fucking werewolves, I'm so fucking sick," he kicked off the other and it hit the wall by the door with a thump, "of fucking werewolves fucking up my coats."
The front of his latest leather coat hung in tatters, and it was wet. Probably blood, knowing Tristan.
Which I did, better than I'd ever imagined I'd know the man who'd stepped out of an alley and offered me three hundred dollars to lick my lip six months before.
I hid a smile. His coats were his one vanity. He didn't seem to get that he was just as terrifying, and just as gorgeous, wearing borrowed sweatpants or nothing at all.
Nothing at all. There was an idea.
