tears are not a woman's only weapon

A man rises from the dead, which everyone but Boyd seems surprised about. His eyes glow golden yellow in the mirror, his hands are lately more claw than finger, he has to fight the urge to howl at a silvery orb in the sky; is he the only one who read the manual on being undead? It’s not that that would shock him, exactly—Boyd’s no stranger to knowing the score when everyone around him is too busy playing the game—but still, it rankles a little. Even Derek, life-long werewolf and fighting for his title (not his life: Boyd can tell the difference, and he’s pretty sure Derek cares more about being alpha than being above ground and breathing in any case) acts like it’s some great shock. Undead means undead. Undead means death’s not much of a stopping point. Undead means you don’t die—for god’s sake, it’s in the name. 

In the rough and tumble weeks that follow, scrambling to kill the latest in what Boyd suspects will be a long line of bad men who hate to die, nothing shines but her. Immunity is a good look on Lydia Martin, but bitchy’s a better one—she snaps and snarls and chafes against the orders Derek barks at her, fights back and gets even, looks up through her lashes and tricks three different guys into telling her what she needs to know. Boyd’s known of her for years, of course, watched her holding court while he sat alone on the other side of the cafeteria; he’d never thought much of her back then.

He’s impressed now, and Boyd doesn’t impress easily. He thinks that probably merits some thought.