not a saying,” the woman said, trying to hide her smile. She faltered when she saw Vivianne.
“A vamp?” Her nose wrinkled with distaste, and her fingers curled. Sparks of lightning arced between her fingertips.
Vivianne’s eyes narrowed as Zane chuckled next to her. “A witch?” Her tone was just as frosty.
“A vamp, a witch and a light warrior walked into a bar,” the man at the desk quipped, then placed his hands over the redhead’s fists. “Easy, Mel. Remember, we’re being more accepting...” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
The red-haired witch curled her fingers into a fist, extinguishing the arcs of power. “Acceptance sucks,” she muttered, then pasted a bright smile on her face as she strode toward the door. “Besides, I have a client to see.” She paused next to Vivianne, her green eyes brittle. “Something about a silver glove,” she said nonchalantly. She looked over her shoulder at the man with the dark hair. “See you tonight.”
Vivianne’s lips pursed as the witch left the room. Silver. She hated silver. Every vamp hated silver. Lycans, silver, witches, were all at the top of her “things to despise” list. Zane shuddered next to her. Silver was just as toxic to werewolves as it was to vampires.
“Feisty,” he muttered.
Ryder sighed as he turned to Vivianne. “I’m not sure if you’ve had the pleasure, yet, but this is my brother, Hunter. Hunter, this is Vivianne Marchetta.”
Hunter strolled forward, his brown gaze touring over her. “So, you’re the vampire prime that gave my father so much trouble.” He frowned. “You’re shorter than I thought you’d be.”
“Don’t be deceived,” Zane muttered. “She might be short, but she can be vicious.”
Vivianne’s gaze slid briefly to glare at the werewolf by her side, then she smiled at Hunter. “I prefer to avoid making assumptions,” she told him sweetly.
Ryder closed the office door, then gestured to a comfortable-looking wingback chair. “Please take a seat. As you can see, we’ve delivered on your special requests.”
“Demands,” interjected Hunter as he leaned against the bookcase lining one wall.
“I’m sure you can appreciate my need for discretion,” she said quietly as she sank into the chair.
“Why are we here?” Zane asked, and leaned an arm along the ridge of the wingback above her head. She glanced up briefly. He was close, leaning his hip against the side of her chair as his brown enquiring gaze found hers.
She turned back to the Galen brothers, both of whom were watching her closely. “You’ve probably heard of my recent...break.”
Ryder’s eyebrow rose. “Break? I was there, Vivianne, when Lucien brought you into Woodland. I saw your injuries with my own eyes.” He shook his head. “The fact that you’re sitting here, talking, it’s nothing short of miraculous.”
Hunter snorted. “I don’t believe in miracles. But, if it was so miraculous, Ms. Marchetta wouldn’t be here visiting us. So, what gives?”
“Anything I say here is treated as confidential, correct?”
“Of course,” Ryder responded. “All our patients’ records are confidential.”
“I want your word,” she insisted. She’d known Ryder long enough to know that he was an honorable man, and this was too important to not get his personal guarantee.
He nodded. “You have it.” She turned her gaze at Hunter.
Hunter sighed, rolling his eyes as he held up his little finger. “Pinkie swear.”
She pursed her lips. She guessed that was about as good as she’d get from this brother.
“I need your help. Since I woke up, I’ve been...seeing things.” She rubbed her forehead. “Not just seeing things, but hearing things, too.”
“You left out the part about the dreams,” Zane pointed out, his lips quirking. She ignored him. Again. But she couldn’t stop the warm bloom of color that swept across her cheeks.
“What kind of things?” Ryder asked. At least he wasn’t looking at her as though she was going mad. Yet.
“Well, one thing, really,” she said, glancing quickly up at Zane, who raised an eyebrow.
“What thing?” Hunter asked, and she was surprised by the patience in his tone.
“Uh, a—” She swallowed. Putting it into actual words was a lot harder than she thought it would be. “A, uh, werewolf.”
Ryder leaned back in his chair. “Well, I guess that’s not surprising,” he commented. “You were attacked by a werewolf.”
“It could be a form of PTSD,” Hunter suggested, and straightened away from the bookcase. “Having visions or memories of the wolf who attacked you...do you have nightmares?”
Her cheeks heated. “Uh, at first, yes, but that seems to be lessening.”
Ryder nodded. “Over time, the nightmares become less frequent as your mind starts to heal from the trauma. It’s PTSD if the nightmares keep recurring after a significant period, along with a few other symptoms.”
“No, it’s not like that,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not talking about Rafe Woodland—although I have had nightmares about him, about the attack. The werewolf I see is—” She hesitated. God, how did she explain this without sounding like an absolute nutter?
“Gorgeous?” Zane suggested. “Sexy? A downright fox?”
“Annoying,” Vivianne stated, frowning.
Hunter’s eyebrows rose. “Annoying?”
“Yes, annoying. At first he was just a shadow out of the corner of my eye, and every now and then I heard him laugh, or mutter—”
“I don’t mutter,” Zane muttered.
“Yes, you do,” she snapped at him. She turned back to the Galens. “But now—” She swallowed again. “Now I can see him. Hear him.”
“And he’s...annoying?” Hunter said, walking slowly toward her, his head tilted as he watched her keenly.
“Yes. Distracting.”
“You left out sexy,” Zane reminded her.
“Shut up,” she hissed, then bit her lip when Hunter halted directly in front of her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean you, I meant...” She trailed off, gesturing toward Zane.
“You can see him now?” Hunter narrowed his eyes as he followed the direction she indicated.
“Yes,” she said, her lips turning
