No fear.
He could smell her shock, her inner demand for fight or flight, but there was no fear.
She was staring at Graeme. First his face, then the claw-tipped hands at his side. Her gaze went over the black shirt and dark pants he wore to the muted black boots, then back to his face as wariness filled her expression.
“I try really hard not to shoot my brother, no matter the mood he’s in,” he informed her, holding her more firmly against him as she pushed at his arm in an obvious bid for freedom.
“That’s Graeme?” She kept her voice at a whisper as suspicion filled it. “You’re lying. I’ve met Graeme. He doesn’t look like that.”
The Primal smiled with savage, bloodthirsty satisfaction, a growl rumbling in his throat. Shooting him a glare, Cullen wondered if investing in a whip and chair would do any good.
“Why is it smiling?” she asked him, ignoring the snap of teeth and warning snarl Graeme displayed. “Give me my gun back. I think we’re going to need it.”
He glanced down at her with an irritable frown. “No.”
“Really?” she hissed, incredulity filling the low tone of her voice. “Look at it. It’s insane. Give me my gun before it decides to bite you. Or me.”
Graeme’s expression darkened at her statement, the stripes turning a deep, furious black.
“Dammit, Chelsea,” Cullen cursed, holding to her as she wiggled against him. “He’s not going to bite anyone, and you’re not shooting him.”
Graeme’s lip lifted in a dangerous curl of impending violence, his incisor glinting ominously in the low light.
“Is it sane, do you think?” she whispered, stilling against him as her hands gripped his forearm, her obvious fascination grating at his patience.
Grunting at the question, he shot Graeme a testy look, noticing the offended pride in his brother’s expression. “Not even on a good day. And stop calling him ‘it.’”
“So what is it?” She ignored the order as Graeme’s nostrils flared and the displeasure in his warning growls increased.
“You know I can hear you, right?” he grated, the animalistic tone not quite as grating as moments before.
She shot Cullen a surprised look before staring at Graeme in supposed amazement. “It can talk?”
“Chelsea,” he muttered warningly, wondering at what point the Primal would grow tired of the “it” title.
If Graeme’s louder, harsher snarl was any indication, he was reaching the end of his patience. The sound was low, deep, a grumble meant to intimidate. It was all Cullen could do not to groan in resignation. Chelsea didn’t do intimidated very well.
She stiffened against him and feminine outrage poured from her.
“Maybe it’s hungry,” she suggested, her voice low but definitely goading now. “Do you keep kitty kibble around?”
Silence snapped in the room.
Graeme’s eyes narrowed, the jade green color glittering brighter and flaring with rage as he took a step closer and let loose another of those lethal roars.
She didn’t even have the good sense to flinch.
Not that Cullen flinched, but he was used to them by now.
Instead, Chelsea waited until Graeme almost seemed to relax marginally at her supposedly submissive silence.
“I’m calling Cat and reporting its bad behavior,” she whispered then, as though it were some secret and Graeme couldn’t overhear her. “Maybe she’ll come collect it. Do you think?”
Cullen tried to push her behind him as Graeme stepped closer, nostrils flaring, the Primal’s eyes flickering with impending retaliation.
“Cat will not be pleased with it,” she said then, and surprisingly Graeme paused, frowning again.
“Do not threaten me,” the grating voice ordered her in a harsh, guttural command.