“Fucking werewolves, Danny!”
“I know.” He drops his chin to look at her again. “I do. I would have told you if you’d seen even half of what you saw tonight. If you saw Jackson with sideburns, or Scott with his eyes all lit up—I’d have told you.”
“Bullshit. You’re telling me now, and I thank you for that, I do, but—that was Erica tonight, right? The one who pulled Aiden off of me? That was Erica and she threatened me and you sided with her. You stayed, Danny. You sent me away, but you stayed.”
“Of course I stayed. You didn’t know what was going on. You needed to get out of there.” He looks at the dried blood spattered on his dark t-shirt, his jeans. “I needed to stay.” He can’t explain that compulsion, the fact that he didn’t even consider a different possibility, didn’t consider leaving to make absolutely sure she made it home all right. He feels a raw surge of guilt at that, but even so he can’t imagine having handled the night any differently.
“But once I was gone, what’d you do?” She fixes her gaze on a smear of brownish blood across his forearm. “You look like you killed somebody. You look like a psychopath. You’re a mess. How do you know Erica and the rest are the good guys, how do you know you want to side with them?” She takes in a shaky breath. “How can you want to risk everything for them?”
“What we’re doing—it’s right, Julia. I’m on the right side.”
“Say there’s not a right side,” she argues, “or say both groups of werewolves are wrong and the right side is the people who’re out of it.”
Danny pushes to his feet. “Staying out of it isn’t an option for me. People are getting hurt, and we need to stop the wolves who’re hurting them. That’s what there is. That’s all this is.”