Rhapsody

9: it's a wolf's world

Maverick is certainly no expert in werewolves. Back in school, they didn't teach much about their history or their behaviors, and, even if there was a lecture, it is very likely that Maverick was too busy folding paper airplanes to pay much attention to it.

So, when he approaches Emery, and sees his partner's arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed, he isn't sure if there's a certain message to be gleaned from the wolf's body language. Maverick hesitates as Emery glances in his direction. Then he abruptly turns away, shoulders tight.

Frantic and perhaps a bit undignified, Maverick scrambles after the werewolf.

"Hey, where you goin'?"

"If you've come to test a new set of dog jokes," his partner says, tone clipped, "I'm afraid I am not in the mood."

Maverick sneers at his back. "Look at me when I'm talkin' to you, asshole."

The werewolf whips around with enough force to make Maverick take a few steps back. For a split second, he thinks Emery might actually lunge. But the wolf just stands there, hands behind his back, jaw set in that indifferent way of his. Maverick swallows thickly. Maybe it's the intensity in the half-lidded gaze, or the way he carries himself, but the weight of Emery's full attention on him is damn near crippling.

Oddly enough, the ice blue eyes don't hold him captive for long before Emery breaks the eye contact, indifferent and perhaps even a bit anxious.

No, that can't be right. Maverick dismisses the thought almost immediately. This is Emery he's talking about. Half wolf, half block of cold immovable marble. People like him don't get anxious.

He grits his teeth. "You think I'm here because I want to be?"

"You've already shown to have few motivators beyond your own selfish gain and the potential for a crude joke." Emery tilts his head. "What other conclusion was I supposed to draw?"

"I promised Darcy I would try to make this work." Emery rolls his eyes, and Maverick continues sharply, "You said the same thing yesterday. So, congratu-fucking-lations, you both got what you wanted. Here I am, trying to make this work."

"Careful, detective. You could pull a muscle with all that effort."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. I can see you're being as big of a dick as you usually are."

"And I can see that you're as unpleasant of a bastard as the first time I met you."

"Are you done?"

"Are you?"

Emery's eyes glint ravenously, and Maverick steels himself, remembering the first night they met and the near unbearable pressure to crack beneath that gaze. He is certainly no expert in werewolves, but what he does know is that the creatures have a penchant for testing boundaries. Something about hierarchies and social order—and Maverick refuses to be one of the weak ones. In a wolf's world, the weak are as good as dead.

"Whatever," he snorts, forcing all ounce of care from his voice. "I don't like your company. Like, at all. But you, Darcy, and Cassie are the only ones here I can talk to, so better get used to this mug of mine."

"Is it your attitude that alienates you from your peers?" Emery asks, eyebrow raised. "Or is it your perpetual sour mood? I can never tell."

"Neither, actually," Maverick snaps, perhaps a bit too quickly. "People 'round these parts hear 'Carson' and they run."

"Why?" Then, the realization dawns across Emery's face. "Your mother."

Maverick stiffens. His mother's name is not spoken highly of among most detectives. "Whatever you've heard about her isn't what happened," he seethes, hackles raising.