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The sun was setting low on the horizon, washing the buildings in golden light as the faint buzz of streetlamps warmed to life. The traffic was already starting to thicken, impatient drivers honking or inching forward in stop-and-go frustration. The din of the city buzzed in Peter’s ears, but he wasn’t focused on the cars or the noise.
He was focused on Isabelle.
“Come on,” he said, lacing his fingers with hers. “We’ll make it if we run.”
Isabelle groaned under her breath. “I swear, if this place doesn’t have fries, someone’s gonna die.”
He chuckled darkly. “Noted. No fries equals carnage.”
She yanked off her heels without warning and clutched them in one hand, grabbing tighter to Peter’s hand with the other. “My feet hate me. My soul hates this day. Let’s move.”
And they ran—Peter slightly ahead, tugging her with him, her bare feet slapping against the pavement. The wide crosswalk ahead was still blinking WALK, but just barely. They dashed across the multi-lane street, the light threatening to shift as a silver BMW turned the corner far too fast.
The tires screeched, and the car missed them by inches as they reached the curb.
Peter instinctively shoved Isabelle slightly behind him, ready to snap. But before he could say a word—
“FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!” Isabelle bellowed, baring her teeth as her eyes sparked red and gold for half a second.
The driver flipped them off through the window and sped off. Peter stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring at his wife in stunned amusement.
Isabelle was panting, cheeks flushed from the run, heels still dangling from her hand like a weapon. She looked every bit like a wolf on the edge, hair wild, chest heaving, fury radiating off her in heatwaves.
And Peter?
He smirked. Slowly. Wickedly. The kind of proud smirk that made people nervous.
“My God,” he murmured, voice low and smooth. “You’re perfect.”
Isabelle blinked at him, still fired up. “What?”
“I expected you to apologize to the car for existing in its path.”
“Well,” she snapped, brushing her hair back with her free hand, “I’m hungry, I’m pissed, and some jackass nearly made me a hood ornament. If anyone’s going to flatten me, it better be you—in bed.”
Peter made a low, appreciative sound. “And now you’re making threats laced with promises. You are truly ravenous tonight.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you don’t get food in me in the next ten minutes, I’ll start biting people. Randomly. Publicly. And I won’t even pretend I’m not a werewolf.”
“Then let’s feed the beast, little beta.” He tugged her hand again, directing her toward the corner bistro they’d been aiming for. “You’ve earned fries. And if you growl at the waiter, I’ll double your dessert.”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “You’re mocking me.”
Peter kissed the back of her hand. “I’m admiring you.”
She snorted. “Same thing.”
He didn’t correct her. Just smiled wider and led her forward, the two of them disappearing into the warmth of the diner as the crosswalk light flicked red behind them.