“Bold is actually a very old and respected Mongolian name,” the doctor interjected. “It means steel, and as you know the early Mongolians were all about the power of steel.”

“Steel Novikov,” Blayne said, ignoring Bo’s head dropping forward in defeat. “How cool is that?”

“Do not run around telling people my name is Steel or Bold or anything else.”

“But—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“Just let me—”

“No.”

“Someone’s Mr. No Fun!”

Laughing, the doctor headed toward the door. “I’ll come back for you when Grigori shows up to take you to town. I can’t miss the chance of meeting an actual Van Holtz,” she said, a teasing smile on her face.

Before walking out, she stopped in the doorway and said, “Oh. One other thing.” She walked back to Blayne, pulling something out of her hospital coat and putting it in Blayne’s palm.

Staring down at the tiny electronic item, Blayne asked, “What’s this?”

“A microchip. It was in your back, right beneath your shoulder blade. Your body was trying to expel it. Probably why you had such a harsh reaction from that last badger attack Bold told me about.”

“I don’t understand. Microchip?”

“You know,” the sow said as she walked to the door. “The kind you’d use to microchip your pet dog or cat. I had the lab check it out, and this one actually has a homing beacon. The lab technician said someone could track you for up to three hundred miles. I’ll be back in a few,” she promised before walking out the door, leaving Blayne to stare at the chip in her hand.

No way. No. Way.

They wouldn’t, would they? They wouldn’t actually . . . microchip Blayne, would they?

But the way she went to sit on the bed, missed it completely, and ended up with her butt on the floor, Bo knew that, at the very least, that’s what Blayne thought.

He went down on one knee in front of her, his hand on her shoulder. “Blayne?”

“Ric . . . microchipped me? Like a house pet?”

The jealous, devious side of him—he liked to call that the lion side—wanted to scream, “Yes! That bastard microchipped you, and you should never see him again! Or I can kill him for you! Let me kill him for you!” But the expression on her face tore into Bo more than her fangs had torn into Fabi’s face. So the nicer bear side replied, “I doubt that. And, if he did, I’m sure he did it for a good reason.” That last part made Bo want to retch, but he said it anyway. Although he did adore the look on Blayne’s face when she raised her head: her brows pulled in, one corner of her top lip lifted, and shegawked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Grigori’s here,” Dr. Luntz said, walking back in the room. She’d taken off her lab coat and wore a Boston Bruins sweatshirt and a Boston Bruins knit cap. “We better get moving. Storm’s coming.”

Bo nodded and focused back on Blayne. “You ready?”

She let out a breath and stood. “I’m ready.”

And he had to say, the coldness coming off her rivaled any storm coming off the Atlantic that this town had experienced in the last hundred years or so.

Ric paced restlessly in front of Niles Van Holtz until Van finally grabbed his cousin by the arm and held him in place. The nervous pacing didn’t bother him, of course, but it sure did bother the twenty bears standing around waiting for nothing more than for them to leave. They’d even brought Ric’s friend Lock to accompany them, but the bears seemed to care less about the Van Holtz’s grizzly escort. These bears didn’t like wolves and they really didn’t like Van Holtzes, so they wanted nothing more than to see the back of them.

They waited outside the police chief’s office, the bears unwilling to allow them to even sit and wait for Blayne’s appearance in a warm room. Whatever. Van could do nothing but smirk at all the bullshit from the uptight bears. His wife used to ask him why he rolled his eyes anytime someone mentioned bears, and as he always said, “Because they don’t matter nearly as much as they think they do.”

“Ric,” Lock said, and both Van and Ric turned, watching the big SUV turning the corner and pulling to a stop a few feet away. A polar boar and a black sow stepped out from the vehicle, followed by the Marauder, a player who had always impressed Van with his unparalleled ruthlessness on the ice and his unwavering lack of approachability off it. And, apparently nothing had changed, his always-there scowl locking on Ric with something akin to a homicidal intent Van found a little unsettling, considering.

Then after all of them came the small wolfdog. She had her eyes down and didn’t look at all like the Blayne he’d met in late October of the previous year. That wolfdog had been full of life and laughter, but this Blayne, beyond the bruises and healing wounds littering her face and neck, seemed miserable. Devastated. Christ, what had those full-humans done to her? Or was it these bears who’d hurt her?

He knew his cousin was thinking the same thing as he seemed to grow taller, his back snapping ramrod straight, his head dipping down, and a low growl easing out of him. Lock stepped up beside him, showing whose side he was on should things get ugly and protecting his friend all at the same time.

The small group walked up to them and, after taking a calming breath, Ric asked, “Blayne? Are you all right?”