As I was returning from the bathroom, he stepped into the lobby to ask the maître d’ for directions. Our eyes met. He smiled, turned and sauntered out.

I knew I should walk away. Take care of him later. But there was no way I could enjoy my dinner knowing he was prowling outside. And if I didn’t enjoy it, Elena wouldn’t enjoy it, and we’d get into a fight about why I’d take her someplace I’d hate only to sulk through the meal. I was determined to make it through this trip without any knockdown, drag-out fights… or at least not to cause any myself.

I waited until the maître d’ escorted a couple into the dining room, then I took off after the mutt.

I found him waiting for me in the lane behind the restaurant. He was leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, eyes closed.

This was one problem with mutts. Not all mutts-I’ll give them that. Some teach their sons basic survival, and a few do as good a job as any Pack wolf, but there are far too many who just don’t give a damn.

Here stood a perfect example of poor mutt parenting skills-a kid not only stupid enough to challenge me but stupid enough to feign confidence to the point of boredom, lowering his guard in the hopes of looking “cool.” Now I had to teach him a lesson, all because his father couldn’t be bothered telling him that I wasn’t someone to fuck with.

Werewolves earn their reputations through endless challenges. Twenty-seven years ago, when I’d wanted to protect Jeremy on his rise to Alphahood, I didn’t have time for that. So I’d sealed my reputation with a single decisive act, one guaranteed to convince every mutt on the continent that the infamous child werewolf had grown into a raging lunatic. To get to Jeremy, they had to go through me, and after what I did, few dared try.

I could only hope this mutt just didn’t realize who he’d challenged and, once he did, a few abject apologies and a brief trouncing would set the matter straight and I could get back to my honeymoon.