Someone once told me a kiss could hold a thousand meanings. A forbidden I love you where every promise could turn into a curse. A slow twirl beneath a canopy of stars, the only place a human girl and the son of the pack Alpha could truly be free. Seventeen-year-old Dallas had touched me like I was the oxygen he couldn’t survive another second without, like every time his fingers grazed my skin, it destroyed a part of his soul.
Now he kissed me like every time might be the last.
Dallas released me and raked both hands through his hair, eyes wild. Excusing himself with a growl, he went into the house.
Everyone else had gathered with Ethan and Hayden beneath the circle of hundred-year old live oaks behind the house where pack ceremonies were held. I’d decided to hang back and watch from the patio. It felt right to give them their space today. Besides, someone needed to finish setting out all the food.
I slipped Major one of the bone-shaped peanut butter cookies I’d brought from Blair’s. All-natural, of course. I could respect the diet. He inhaled it from my palm, making happy crunching noises.
“Look out, big guy.” Luring Major away so that his tail cleared the potato salad, Dallas peered over my shoulder. “Any updates from Naomi on our cat?”
I passed my phone over. “Mind explaining the cat tree?”
“Which part, the cat or the tree—"
“The part where it’s taking up half my living room.”
“Your apartment is the size of a postage stamp. The new whisk I got you for Christmas won’t even fit in your kitchen.” He squinted at the screen. “Check out those green eyes. Obviously she gets her looks from my side.”
“Yes, the arctic wolf gene is strong in that one.”
Across the field, cheering broke out.
Dallas looked down. “Good for them.”
“To happy endings.”
The Spoke had catered smoked turkey and beef ribs, garlic mashed potatoes and gravy, and jalapeno cornbread stuffing. I loaded up my plate, then added on green bean casserole, cranberry jelly and two fresh yeast rolls. “You make these yourself, Caldwell? Little heavy on the butter.”
Dallas smirked. “Nothing better than a woman telling you how to cook in your own kitchen.”
August hooted. “Did I call it or what? They’re together now and it’s official. Ten bucks.”
Hayden raised an eyebrow. “And define official.”
Dallas snapped the serving tongs closed. “Like I’m falling for that. Who still needs food?”
“They got a cat. E and Hayden don’t even have a goldfish.”
“Violet still gets hangry every night after sunset,” Ethan said dryly. “And Cal doesn’t do that kind of therapy.”
Hayden pinched his side. They exchanged a glare that quickly dissolved into Ethan cupping her face with a smile so private I had to look away.
We were just sitting down when Brody’s cell went off, blaring Bad to the Bone.
West narrowed his eyes. “And I’m the one who’s been taking shit all week about my status updates?"
Quickly passing his plate off to August, Brody pointed to Topher. “In the house. Now.”
Which shut everyone up real quick. As Brody paced across the patio, all but snarling at the person on the other end of the call, the rest of us bent over our plates, making no secret of the fact we were all listening in because, 1) shifter hearing, 2) no one could do nosy like the Caldwells, and 3) it wasn’t like Brody was trying that hard to hide his half of the conversation.
“—when… how many… you’re sure?” He propped a hand at his hip. Growled. “You’ll want to try that again without the side of smart ass, because I’m really not in the mood. Yeah. Okay.”
Punching off, he stalked towards us.
Dallas jerked his chin. “You gonna tell us who that was?”
Brody glanced around. “Topher inside?”
“Yeah. West is with him.”
“That was a source. The bombing two nights ago was traced to one of the vamp covens in Houston.”
“That where they sent Cal?” August asked.
Brody shook his head. “Usual deal with Cal. Need to know only. The Council called before dawn, told him to pack a single bag, that someone would be there within the hour to take him to an undisclosed location.”
The patio fell silent.
It wasn’t the first time Cal had been suddenly called away to head up a trauma response team. But given the events of the last forty-eight hours, the checkpoints set up along all the major highways, and the newfound knowledge there was a mole on the werewolf council, no one liked the looks of this.
“Why are we being targeted?”
“No lead on that yet. But my source heard the entire coven’s gone.”
“That can’t be right.” Dallas shoved back his chair. “The entire coven? To do that, they would need—”
“I know.”
“Who’s this source?” I cut in. “Because if they’re right, someone may have just restarted the Blood Wars.”
Brody stared at his phone. “Yeah. So about that.”
We all turned in unison at the sound of an engine. Two black SUVs outfitted with armored plating and bulletproof glass pulled around the circle. I hadn’t seen River Caldwell in close to a year. Back then, he’d worn a perpetual scowl to go with his black fatigues. That part hadn’t changed. If anything, his face had grown harder, any trace of the boy who’d once hacked into the town traffic cams at age twelve just so I could see my mother stop at Blair’s for her morning coffee, gone. As the others climbed from their vehicles, he immediately began making a sweep of the yard, gun drawn.
Guillermo Montemayor, leader of the Southern Territorial Council and possibly the most feared werewolf in North America, handed Brody what I was pretty sure was a two-thousand dollar bottle of scotch, then narrowed his eyes as if he wasn’t quite sure what the protocol was at gatherings where people ate off paper plates.
Brody cleared his throat. “You make it down without any trouble?”
Guillermo raised an eyebrow. “Thank you for the concern, but we’re quite capable of evading human law enforcement.”
Brody’s lips flattened into a thin line. An uneasy silence fell. He’d ordered the rest of the pack to stay home, not wanting a large gathering to draw unnecessary attention or put lives at risk—human or shapeshifter—when tensions were running high and Blood Moon was crawling with FBI agents.
“Uncle Rafe couldn’t make it?” August approached. “He promised us a rematch.”
“Rafael was needed back at the compound. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me this year.”
A third figure emerged from the caravan.
Sofia Montemayor-Caldwell wore a thousand masks. Mother. Wife. Assassin. Friend. Her dark hair was stylishly cut and blown out, falling to just below her collarbone. The white pantsuit and heels she had on looked new—and were probably concealing enough weapons to take down an entire SWAT team. Not that she’d need them.
There wasn’t a word for what Sofia and Guillermo Montemayor were, for the rare, powerful magic that swirled in their blood. Their parents’ mating had been arranged, the oldest son of the Montemayor house to a daughter of gifted Danish werewolves. Neural manipulators like River plucked at single threads of memory one at a time—a delicate, precise art with semi-permanent results. Sofia had once brought an entire field of vampires to their knees, holding them prisoner in the walls of their skulls while Tracers cut them down. While she held someone, she controlled their thoughts, everything they tasted, smelled, saw. Her manipulations weren’t permanent. They held as long as she actively willed the projection into your mind. But when you couldn’t separate a dream world from reality, seconds felt like an eternity. And the trauma that occurred there in her dream world, real or imagined was just as devastating.