Swiftcurrent Creek And do our talking with a laser beam

Her throat burned with some kind of ugly feeling — pity, she thought, bitter like bile. More than that, though, Mae was irritated; disappointed to share blood with so weak-hearted a wolf. There was no bite to him. For a moment she wondered if he was truly a Mayfair at all.

Then, impulsively, she called after him: If you don't want to be a stranger, you could start by not running away.

Then, if he didn't turn back or otherwise respond, Mae would turn away herself. She wasn't about to chase after him. You could lead a dipshit to a cache, but you couldn't make him dig. Or something.