I had to get rid of the mutt.

Killing him would be easiest but, unfortunately, it was out of the question. If Elena found out, I’d still be hearing about it ten years from now: “Clay couldn’t even get through our honeymoon without killing someone.”

She’d laugh when she said it… in ten years. Right now, she’d be furious.

She’d argue that there were better ways to handle the situation. I disagreed. The mutt knew we were in St. Louis and that by sticking around he was taking his life into his hands. If he’d skittered into the shadows and stayed out of our way, I’d have said, “Fuck it” and pretended not to notice. After all, it was our honeymoon.

Even if he’d just stood his ground and refused to hide, I wouldn’t have made a big deal out of it. Beaten the crap out of him, yes. Had to. The Law was the Law, even if a mutt’s instinct to protect his territory was as strong as any Pack wolf’s. Let one mutt break the rules and next thing you knew, they’d be camping out back at Stonehaven, knocking on the door, asking if they could use the facilities.

But this mutt wasn’t hiding or defending his territory. He was stalking Elena. He’d been following us all morning and was now sitting across the restaurant, gaze glued to Elena’s ass as she bent over the buffet table.