Lyre shifts in her seat, her slitted eyes observing our exchange with quiet interest. She doesn't interrupt, doesn't try to persuade either of us. Her neutrality is refreshing after years of wolves who thought they knew what was best for me. Though I wonder what she's thinking about behind her impassive face. We must sound crazy.
Andrew rubs his hand across his face, losing some of his aggressive denial. Instead, he's pleading. "You have no idea how dangerous this is. You're human, Grace."
I look to Lyre. "How far is Yellowstone from here?"
"About eight hundred miles," she says calmly, like we're discussing the weather or something.
Eight hundred miles. Eight hundred miles between me and the Blue Mountain Pack. Between me and Rafe and Ellie. Between me and the murderous Lycan King.
"You can't outrun them," Andrew insists. "Especially not the Lycan King. If he wants you—"
