Chapter 8: The Lock-In
Amanda suddenly had the presence of mind to wonder if, perhaps, she should not have returned the gun to its cabinet. This man was essentially a stranger to her, after all, and now she knew that he could turn into a 250-something-pound-of-muscle-and-teeth wolf to boot. It was a little late for that, though, and he looked like he could hardly stand as it was, so she settled on hoping that he hadn’t saved her the other night just so he could eat her himself.
“Not dead,” he repeated, voice hoarse with disuse. He looked around the house, eyes narrowed, and then settled his gaze on his shoulder. “Will I lose the limb?”
“That’s a forelimb,” she informed him.
He stared at her.
“The shoulder,” she clarified. “It’s a forelimb.”
“Which, were it to be removed, would include the rest of the limb,” he said, slowly, as though she were a child he was explaining something very difficult to.