Which direction? North? South?"
"Why should I tell you?"
He arches an eyebrow. "Why indeed. I'll make things simple for you, young wolf. Money. I shall pay handsomely for any information leading to her recovery."
You think, if you'd been in wolf form, you might have pricked up your ears. "How much money?"
"Two thousand," he says evenly. "One now, and one upon her recovery."
Of all the ways you'd expected this meeting to go, this isn't one of them.
His smile disappears in the blink of an eye. "Well... that's a shame."
"Sure is," you tell him in a voice that lets him know exactly how much you think it is not, in fact, a shame.
"You won't reconsider? She is a beloved friend. I am very worried—"
"No," you interrupt him. "It's too late to play the worried friend card. You talked about her like she was property. But she isn't. She's a wolf. If she doesn't want to hang out with you anymore, then she doesn't have to."
"I assure you, young wolf, I am not playing anything. I merely—"
"No. She has your number, right? If she wanted to talk to you she could have. You don't care about her." Which, frankly, is not surprising. Vampirism erodes the parts of the brain that make emotions like love and empathy possible. That's what your mother always told you. And, if the suddenly icy look in his eye is anything to go by, Blackwell is no exception.
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