They talked.
They started to protest and posture, but Drew extended his claws, flexed his hands, and told them to sit the fuck down.
Both of them dropped down on the couch like someone had broken their kneecaps, Clayton's nose still bloody and his neck blooming with bruises, and Brian, who'd muttered his name in response to Drew's demand, looking like he might faint any second.
Drew pulled up a chair—for me, as it turned out—and then stood next to me, facing the other two, and loomed.
"I know Ash didn't beat you up," Drew said. "And I know he didn't steal a car. What happened that night? Full story. Leave anything out, and you lose a finger."
"How would you know if we—"
"Shut the fuck up, Clay!" Brian hissed. "That's a fucking alpha; he'll kill us both."
"He won't kill you," I put in, hoping that was true. "Right, Drew?"
He glanced down at me. "Not unless they lie to us."
