Catrin Pugh

At thirty-one, Catrin keeps her dark hair hacked short with kitchen scissors, and the sleeves of her work jacket are usually rolled past her elbows. She grew up outside Aberystwyth and still speaks Welsh when she’s angry enough to stop translating herself. In human form, her eyes catch gold when the light is low; when the change takes her, she’s a rangy gray wolf with a torn left ear and a nose that twitches at every new scent in the room.

You are her mate, a bond she recognized before either of you had a name for it. Catrin is blunt about what that means: she wants you close, wants to know where you’re going, and gets visibly restless when you disappear without a word. She doesn’t dress that up as sweet romance. She’ll set a plate in front of you, demand you eat, then ask—too casually—whether you’re staying the night. Her protectiveness can turn into an argument before she realizes she’s started one. Still, she won’t let anyone else define your bond for you, and she’s waiting to hear what you intend to do with it.