“I don’t mind working for it. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

“Her lack of time management really worries me.”

Sander sat forward, placing his hand on Bo’s shoulder. “Will you give a shit about her lack of time management when she’s got those insanely long legs wrapped around your head?”

Bo thought on that for a moment, then answered honestly, “No.”

“Then why are we still sitting here discussing this?”

The fox had a point.

CHAPTER 9

“We can’t keep her here.”

After less than three hours of sleep, Dee wasn’t in the mood for New York City rudeness. And she heard rudeness.

“Why not?”

“I’ll show you.” The coyote led Dee down to the main offices, away from where she thought he was taking her, which the rest of the Group called “The Pound.” A nickname she didn’t much appreciate, but didn’t bother arguing about.

They reached one of the communication centers, and the coyote gestured through the glass that offered a clear view into the room.

“Good Lord.”

“Exactly.”

For months now Dee had been bringing strays she’d found on the street. Hybrid kids with no pack, pride, or clan of their own. If they were really young, she sent them off to a home where they could go to school and at least live a modicum of a normal life while learning how to take down deer, control their fangs and claws, and not snarl at strangers on the street. But the older kids who had potential, she’d been bringing them here. They got free room and board in exchange for going to school, making decent grades, and getting daily training in combat techniques. Dee was convinced she could not only give these kids a new life, but she could also get herself a fierce little combat unit that would be hers and hers alone.

So far it had all been going great, except for the first hybrid she’d brought in a few months back. Abby. Abby never shifted to her human form, she ate off the floor, and she had a thing about running in circles for hours. But this . . . this was a problem.

“How long did it take her to do this?”

“Patrol walked by around three a.m. this morning. When he swung back around three forty—it looked mostly like this.

Abby had ripped through that command center like a damn hurricane, tearing into equipment and furniture with the force of a pit bull on meth. Abby hadn’t even left the scene of her crime, either. Instead she was in the middle of the room . . . running in circles.

“She can’t stay here,” the coyote said again. “She sets the other kids off and she’s—”

“I know. I know.” Dee just wished she could figure her out. “Has she actually hurt anyone? Or tried?”

“Nope.”

Good. That helped.

Dee walked into the room, keeping the door open with her foot. “Abby,” she called out. “Abby!”

Abby Vega stopped in mid-run and focused on Dee-Ann. Panting, stumbling a little, the kid stared at her. No, Dee wasn’t ready to give up on her yet, but she needed some help.

“Come on, kid. We’re headin’ out.”

With a gleeful bark, Abby charged past, slammed into the wall outside the room, used it to turn her entire body, and charged off down the hallway toward the exit. Sighing, Dee followed after her.

For a week they had been training every morning. And for a week, Blayne was learning that not everyone was as easy to fix as she thought they should be. It seemed that Bo Novikov simply didn’t understand he had a problem.

True, in the last Carnivores home game that past Sunday, it was Bo’s skill that won them not only the game but the Carnivores’ first time in the Cup playoffs in years. Something Bo should be rightfully proud of, and yet he showed nothing but that scowl as he’d skated off the ice while his own team cheered and hugged each other, the loyal New York crowd chanting Bo’s nickname for nearly twenty minutes. If any of that mattered to him, Blayne couldn’t see it.

And when she silently noted that throwing overeager fans into the wall when they came at him to sign something—often a body part—seemed normal to him; that not speaking to girls who were clearly putting out “I’d like to know you better” signals because he was running late on his all-day schedule was considered acceptable behavior; and complaining every time Blayne was one or two minutes late for their training rather than going with the flow of life . . . Well, Blayne kept coming back to the same conclusion. The man didn’t know he had a problem. And he had huge problems!

It was sad really. A relatively decent person who just didn’t get that Blayne could help him. Bo never dismissed her completely when she made subtle suggestions about how he could handle things better. Instead he asked what he liked to call “follow-up questions.”

For instance, “How do you know he didn’t want me to throw him into the wall? He was bragging to his friends about it.” Or, “Why should I talk to someone who’s on the cover of Japanese Vogue when I’ve got you standing here with your Hello Kitty earmuffs on? Who can beat that for hot fashion?”

These types of questions did nothing but confuse Blayne. She couldn’t tell if he was being snarky because he seemed so serious when he asked.

As for time management and enjoying life, they seemed to be at an “agree to disagree” stage. But Blayne was trying really hard to be on time for their sessions. She didn’t want to be one of those girls who took her friends for granted.