Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

D ark of the moon, Rainier Territory

From behind the coffee counter, Fell spotted his brother strolling around the town square. He'd wanted to walk around Ailill Ridge to see if he could spot the Scythe operative.

Fell shook his head. Having snowed yesterday, it was a cold time to be wandering around.

It was good Patrin was almost done. Ailill Ridge had a Daonain curfew of sunset for the dark of the moon—and according to Moya, the scent of a hellhound had been caught in the area. The Cosantir had sent out warnings to the clan.

Fell glanced outside once again, noting the decrease in light. Sunset was in a little over an hour. He needed to get the coffee shop closed down, and they'd both get their tails up to the apartment before dark. Or to the Shamrock, which was where Moya said she'd hole up for the night.

Yeah, they'd probably go wherever she was. Face it, she brought out every protective instinct in his body. Over the last five days, she'd continued to meet with him—just to talk. It was a relief Patrin now had the job of desensitizing her to being frightened.

He'd been surprised when she followed through on her offer to teach them to cook. For three evenings, she'd given them lessons—and had supper with them.

Except for last night when she had a book club meeting in her store. Such an interesting idea, a group getting together to simply discuss a book. Moya had invited them to join the discussions. Apparently, every Thursday a different club met. And she'd left a book called Dune that she said would be discussed at the science fiction-fantasy group.

Patrin had turned her down. His reading tended to be nonfiction and only when he needed to know something.

Fell, though, was enjoying Dune . And it sucked that he was interested in the discussion but would undoubtedly fail at trying to speak. Even so, he was working on it. If the little wolf could put up with being terrified over and over, he could damn well get past a simple inability to talk.

This near to closing, the coffee shop was almost empty, except for the table in the center of the room. Looked like a meeting of the heads of the Daonain. The Cosantir sat between his two brothers, Niall, the cahir, and Madoc who owned the Shamrock. Across from André was the cahir Chief of Police shoulder-to-shoulder with one of her officers named Duffy.

Fell had been in town long enough to be able to recognize the four Elders—Schumacher, Ina Donnelly, and the mated grocers, Murtagh and Maeve.

They all looked fucking serious. Probably because of the hellhound.

Come to think of it, this town had only two cahirs. Didn't taking down a hellhound need more than just the two? From what he'd heard, demon dogs were nearly impossible to kill.

Female voices came from the bookstore area where Heather was keeping Moya company as the little wolf went through her closing checklist. Then Moya's laughter rang out so infectiously Fell's mouth tipped up.

Did she laugh when mating? Or maybe she fell into her cute throaty giggles? He wondered. And hoped, maybe, to find out one day.

The door opened, the bell jingling, as Patrin came in, crossed the room, and leaned on the coffee shop counter. "You nearly done?"

Fell worked on cleaning the espresso machine grates. "About. Got a floor to mop." The cash drawer had been counted out, fridge and rest of the equipment wiped down. "When they're gone."

The group still had a few minutes before the three o'clock closing. Tilting his head, Fell listened to see if they were winding down their meeting.

Eventually, he'd have Patrin inform André about the quirk in the room's acoustics that let any keen-eared shifter behind the counter hear what was discussed at the center table.

Meantime, he got to hear useful gossip.

Resting his forearms on the counter, Fell listened.

"No, my nephew, you can't be bait," Bron said in her rough voice. "You're still limping from spraining your ankle yesterday, Niall. Being bait means outrunning a hellhound, not feeding it. I'll be bait and lead it to our trap."

The big blond cahir scowled. "And what am I supposed to do? Hibernate while our clan gets slaughtered?"

"Protect the square." Madoc slapped his brother's shoulder. "Like the last one, this hellhound has been sniffing the downtown area. If it attacks here, you're the only one who has a chance of intervening if it goes after someone. I can provide a diversion if needed."

By the Gods. A hellhound loose downtown? Fell's mouth went dry.

Patrin walked around the counter to join him.

"Maybe get help to ensure the demon dog finds Bron," Ina added. "We don't want it catching a scent elsewhere and leaving downtown."

"I'm sure we can find volunteers. Especially since we don't want them to fight the hellhound." Murtagh wrinkled up his bulldog face. "I'm concerned about it possibly getting out of the trap—or not falling in."

"Someone could wait on the far side with something heavy to bash the hellhound into the pit if it overjumps or tries to climb out." Madoc frowned. "Maybe I should do that instead."

"As wide as the hole is, it will require two people, one on each of the far corners." André straightened. "I will be one of them."

"No, you will not." Ina's objection was echoed by the other Elders.

André's eyes darkened. "I?—"

"Cosantir. There's a reason the God gave us cahirs for enforcers and Cosantirs to lead." Schumacher, the banker, spoke in a diplomatic tone. "The territory is still recovering from Pete Wendell's bad leadership. We cannot afford to lose you."

André looked as pissed off as a winter-starved wolverine.

But the Elders were right. Cosantirs were guarded, not risked.

"I'll take the other side," the other cop at the table said. Duffy was an older male, probably in his eighties. Short and lean.

By the Gods, what a bad idea. Fell rubbed his mouth, wanting to speak out. The officer might have the heart, but he lacked the mass to be effective. A hellhound was supposedly heavy as a tank and armored to boot.

Fell turned his head slightly. Yeah, Patrin was already looking at him, one eyebrow raised.

Maybe volunteering was for idiots, but how the fuck could they let this kind of disaster happen? Protecting the clan was in their blood. He nodded.

"Excuse us, please, Cosantir." Patrin smiled as everyone at the table turned. "First, I feel you should know that the acoustics in this room make conversation from that table audible to any shifter behind the counter."

Fell had to smother a laugh as the Elder, especially, realized what Patrin meant.

After a slight narrowing of his eyes, André tilted his head. "Thank you for the information. We will be more discreet in the future." He paused and said, "Did you have a second point?"

"I did." Patrin nudged Fell's shoulder in the way they had from when they were cubs. The bump said they were going to do something risky and stupid, and such was life. "Show us what you have in mind. Fell and I will guard the far corners of the trap. We have the training and the build for it."

There were shocked expressions at the table and then…by the Gods, the relief on their faces sent a wave of warmth through Fell's heart.

They need us.

How long had it been since he'd looked past vengeance to…being part of something.

To belonging?

Sitting in the middle of a pile of blankets from her apartment, Moya tried not to shiver like a new cubling. Around her in the Shamrock Restaurant, others were forming their own blanket piles or sitting at tables and talking.

Her? She couldn't keep from staring out at the town square and worrying.

Not too much about herself. The iron bars over the windows of the Shamrock Restaurant appeared decorative, but Moya had briefly wrapped her hands around them and knew how sturdy they were. No hellhound would get through them.

The last time there'd been a hellhound in town, soon after André became Cosantir, she and Talitha had huddled together in this restaurant. Neither of them wanted to hole up at the pack house. But having a view of the square had been terrifying. Seeing the cahirs—and the Cosantir and Madoc—fighting the hellhound… The yells, the blood, then the cubs fleeing.

By the Hunter and the Mother, it had been ghastly to watch and not be able to do anything to help.

This time was worse, because Patrin and Fell, along with Ramón and Zorion, were out there. Her gnome-brain brothers had volunteered to ensure the hellhound headed directly to the square where Bron would be waiting. Dammit, they weren't super-strong cahirs or anything. Just normal shifters.

She was so proud of them—and terrified for them.

It was hard to be sitting here alone. Since no one wanted the cubs anywhere close to downtown, Talitha and Eileen were staying in their securely reinforced home with Mateo, Alvaro, and Heather's cubs, Sky and Talam.

"Moya. I was hoping you were here." Looking unsettled, Heather walked over.

"Are you all right?" Where was her lifemate, the Cosantir? Moya glanced around. André was moving through the room, reassuring those who'd taken refuge in the secured restaurant. "Want to join me?"

"Yes, please." Heather joined her on the blanket pile. "I was helping, but…"

But she got tired? That wouldn't stop Heather. " Aaand André ordered you to get off your feet?"

Heather huffed. "Yes, that."

"Good for him." Sympathy welling up in her heart, Moya slung an arm around her best friend and pulled her close. Two of Heather's three lifemates were out there with the hellhound. This would be a horribly long night. "Is the trap stuff all set up?"

"Yes." Heather grimaced and added, "At least this time, there shouldn't be any pixie-brained shifters wandering around."

"If nothing else, Portia learned a lesson." The female had ignored the warnings, walked to the grocery store with her two baby cubs, and frozen in fear at the sight of a hellhound. Heather almost died trying to get her to safety.

André had been furious. Now, a few months later, the shifters carefully observed the curfew, and nearly all the shifter-owned houses and businesses were reinforced and barricaded. Those taking refuge in the restaurant and pack house went more for company or, like Moya, to support someone.

As if hearing her thoughts, Heather looked down at her hands. "I'm glad you're here. Thank you."

Moya bumped their shoulders together. "Sure. I'd planned to be here for you. Then I didn't end up with a choice."

"What do you mean?"

"Before they joined the fighters, Patrin and Fell came to my place." Moya rolled her eyes. "And Patrin ordered me to spend the night at the restaurant."

"Ordered?" Heather—perhaps she wasn't such a great friend, after all—had her hand over her mouth. And the snickering came through loud and clear.

"Girl, I almost punched him."

At that, Heather laughed right out loud. "Instead, here you are."

"Yes, here I am." When she tried to close her door on pushy Patrin, Fell had grabbed her collar to drag her here. A second later, he stopped and explained how much they would worry if she was alone.

The effort the harsh hunter made to use his words had wiped out her anger. Then authoritative, dangerous Patrin had carried her stack of blankets to the restaurant just to be sure she was comfortable.

The two males who'd worried about her safety were outside now in the dark and cold. Her eyes burned. They'd barely gotten free from the Scythe, and their whole future lay before them.

And instead, they were risking their lives for a clan they barely knew.

She wanted to run out there, drag them inside for safety, stand in front of them. Protect them like they seemed to think they should protect everyone else.

And she couldn't .

"This'd be more enjoyable in the summer." Patrin kept his grumble to a bare murmur. To avoid leaving any tracks, he and Fell had circled around the tree groves on each side to reach the pit trap. Now in place, they couldn't move. Icy crust covered the few inches of snow on the ground and crunched audibly with any movement.

The noisy snow did have one benefit—they'd hear anything moving around. Like a hellhound.

The pit trap was cunningly set up in the riverside park that abutted the town square. If the hellhound showed up, Bron would let it see her and then run, inciting its instinct to chase fleeing prey. She'd lead the hellhound to the park and jump the trap.

Hinged covers over the deep pit were just strong enough to hold a light covering of leaves and snow. Under a hellhound's weight, they'd give way.

It'd be good if the plan worked.

Most tactical plans for battle didn't.

The downtown lights cast just enough illumination that Patrin could see his brother's dark shape on the other side of the trap, huddled in a mass of evergreen huckleberries. His head lifted, showing the glint of his eyes. His response barely reached Patrin's ears. "Good thing Bron had the warmers."

They were properly bundled up, and Bron had given them hand and foot warmers. Apparently, Canadians were experienced in cold weather.

Overall, Patrin preferred cold to hot, and snow to rain. Wet fur was quite uncomfortable. But long periods of immobility in the cold required more patience than his animal nature enjoyed.

Then again, he could end up stuck patrolling the square with a bum ankle like Niall was.

Moya was probably perched on her pile of blankets. It would've been a treat for him and Fell to join her. Just the thought of being with her warmed him. Aye, she was a far-too-tempting female. And more.

The cooking lessons had been lessons in self-control. Seeing the way her lips would tilt up when she was amused at something they did... Gods, just brushing against her in the kitchen, against those full hips and breasts gave him a half-chubby.

Tonight, she'd noticed him looking at her ass. And simply laughed. Her coconut-scented fragrance had held tantalizing hints of her interest. She wanted him, even if he did scare her. Her fears were disappearing as she got to know him, and damn, that felt good.

He wanted to cup that gorgeous ass in his hands, to pull her against him, to kiss her—and lick her and…

Yeah, one step too far, slug-wit. Now he'd be freezing out here with a hard-on.

With a sigh, he settled in.

"Gods help us, it's a hellhound!" Moya's brother, Zorion, had a distinctive voice—and was obviously trying to sound like terrified prey.

Perched on top of a house just south of the square, Ramón scowled down at the monster beast below. The streetlights glinted off the pointed armor plates covering the thing. It was huge—and gods, the stench, like week-old carrion, was nauseating.

It was supposed to be moving toward the town square—and Bron—not sniffing around a house. Especially a place where the door didn't appear nearly sturdy enough. Across the alley, Zorion waited on another roof, a black shadow against the snow-covered shingles. His shout hadn't been enough to capture the hellhound's interest, not with it almost pressed against the front door of the house, focused on the homeowner's scent.

He and Zorion were too high up for the monster to catch their scent.

When the door creaked, his keen ears caught the squeak of fear from inside.

Ramón's protective instincts surged. If it needed a shifter's scent, he'd give it one. He dropped over the side, gloved hands sliding on the downspout to slow his fall. He landed noisily—and not nearly as gracefully as any feline. Wolves weren't meant to be jumping around on roofs, he thought in disgust.

The hellhound turned at the sound.

"Nooo!" Ramón let out a yell of fear— c'mon, you stupid monster —and took off running. Look, easy prey.

He glanced over his shoulder.

The hellhound's nose was up in the air, and without warning, it charged after Ramón. Gods, it was faster than he'd expected.

Heart pounding, he put his head down and ran, full out—and it was catching up to him. He could almost feel those sharp teeth tearing at him.

Faster, wolf .

"Yo, demon dog. Bite this !" Zorion's taunting yell came from above, and something crashed from behind. He must have found something to throw at the hellhound to slow it down.

There was the opening to the square. He could see Bron ahead.

With a flash, Zorion appeared, hanging from a balcony railing like a monkey, holding his hand down.

Ramón leaped. Their hands caught, and Zorion swung him up.

Before the hellhound could stop, Bron started to shout.

Panting, drenched in sweat, Ramón leaned against Zorion in their precarious perch. "Thanks, brawd." Fuck, for a few seconds there, he'd been pretty sure he was dead meat.

Down in the alley, the hellhound stopped right below them—and then an axe bounced off its armor.

Crouched in the bushes, Patrin listened to the shouts of Moya's brothers, then heard Bron's higher yell.

There was a snarl and a yelp.

He grinned. The Chief had said if the hellhound focused on someone else, she would get its attention—and she'd patted her holstered axe.

A moment later, she screamed, long and loud. More snarling sounded.

Listening hard, Patrin heard the thumps of boots on the brick-lined square. Someone was running. Coming this way.

Here we go.

He yanked off his stocking cap, then his gloves. He got a good grip on the lead-cored baseball bat. It was heavy enough to carry a hell of a punch.

Eyes on the path, he performed a few quick squats to ensure his blood was moving and his joints were loose. Across from him, shadows moved as his brother did the same.

Bron let out another scream. Her footsteps were coming closer—and now Patrin could hear the heavy thudding of the hellhound's paws.

Don't move.

He watched through the underbrush as the female cahir sprinted faster than he'd have believed possible. And there was the… demon dog was the right term.

Fuck, the thing was the size of a grizzly. Light glinted off its skin—no, off something akin to armor plating. Gods, he hadn't really believed Niall's descriptions of the beast.

If it didn't land in the trap, they were screwed. No, not screwed— dead.

His hands tightened on the bat; his muscles tensed.

Bron reached the edge of the snow-covered trap, the edge delineated by a branch sticking up through the snow. She leaped and came down halfway across the concealed pit. Her foot landed on the mark indicating where the horizontal bar held the hinged coverings in place, and she sprang to the other side of the trap. She made it—and kept fleeing like prey.

Only a few feet behind, the hellhound bounded after her. Its next leap carried it to the center of the trap, and dammit, one paw landed on the bar . As planned, the trap gave way, and the hellhound fell?—

Fuck! It had gained enough impetus for its front paws to catch the far edge of the pit. Long vicious foreclaws dug into the ground, and it started pulling itself up.

Move. Now. Lunging forward, Patrin swung.

Red eyes fixed on him, and the shark-like muzzle opened wide, fangs exposed. So fucking many teeth. The demon dog hoisted itself partway out of the pit and snapped at Patrin's leg.

His heavy pants tore like tissue. Shouting, he swung the heavy bat around to hit the hellhound's chest with a solid thunk.

Almost dislodged, hind feet scrambling against the trap wall, it dug its foreclaws into the ground for purchase.

The edge of the pit where Patrin stood crumbled. Unbalanced, he teetered.

"No!" Grabbing Patrin's collar, Fell yanked him back, then slammed his bat at the demon dog's head.

With a snarl, the hellhound fell back into the trap, and then a gut-wrenching shriek split the air as it was impaled on the long iron spikes lining the bottom of the deep pit. The only place the hellhounds lacked armor was a strip on the belly.

By the Gods . With a shudder, Patrin took another step back before glancing at his brother. "Thanks." Without him, Patrin might well have been skewered right along with the hellhound.

Fell slapped his shoulder in answer.

"Well done, lads." Bron joined them and drew her pistol. But the hellhound had gone silent.

She shined a flashlight down to illuminate the huge creature and the blood pooling beneath it. The eyes were lifeless, and a few seconds later, it turned human.

"Very well done." She toed the claw marks at the edge of the trap. "Thank Herne, you were here. That was too close."

Patrin pulled in a breath, feeling his heart start to slow . "Glad to help." He smiled as the first glimmer of sunrise showed along the top of the mountain. "Looks like the night is over."

The hellhound was dead. The shifters in the territory were safe.

A little wolf named Moya was safe. Satisfaction filled his soul.

He slapped Fell's shoulder. "Let's go find something to eat."

It'd been an unnervingly long night. Moya had spent part of it talking with Heather and other shifters who'd holed up in the Shamrock.

A few of the pack were there. Quintrell and Quenbie. Katherine. Jens. Most of the wolves stayed in their own homes or were at the pack house with the alpha and beta.

Another wolf, Glenys, was here with her two newborns. Holding tiny Gruffudd and Cadfan had been the best part of Moya's night. Baby cublings were so precious.

The rest of the time, she'd curled up on the blanket pile and stared out into the darkness.

Until just a few minutes ago when she'd heard her brothers yelling. At the hellhound. Gods, sure, she knew that was the plan, that they were to lure the demon dog to the square. She still wanted to smack them and ask, What were you thinking?

And then the monster had appeared as moving shadows, stalking Niall. In an alley nearby, Madoc watched, prepared to step in.

At the window, André had hissed—and everyone in the Shamrock had gone completely silent.

A minute ago, Moya had barely managed to smother a whimper at the sight of Bron stepping out from between two buildings. Facing the hellhound, the Chief shouted and threw her axe. The monster had yelped and turned away from Niall. Screaming, Bron had run straight toward the riverside park.

The hellhound had chased after her. Heading for where the shifter-soldiers were stationed at the trap.

Oh Gods, Patrin, Fell, be safe.

Just then, something gave a hair-raising shriek—and then there was silence.

Her hands clenched so hard her knuckles hurt.

At the front of the Shamrock, André started to open the door.

Beside Moya, Heather gave a squeak but couldn't rise fast enough. Moya scrambled to her feet, sprinted over, and slammed her shoulder against the door before André could get through.

"No, Cosantir," she managed to say and held firm as his eyes darkened.

"I'm sorry, André." Heather joined them and took his arm. "I know. Waiting makes me more irritable than a mother moose. But this is our job tonight."

He murmured a long string of words in French, and Moya had a feeling none of them were suitable for cub ears. Finally, he muttered, "I do not like this job." With a sigh, he put his arms around Heather.

"My poor cat." Heather raised on tiptoes to kiss his jaw, then snuggled into his arms.

As envy sent sharp fangs deep into her chest, Moya turned and went back to her blanket pile. Alone.

The memory of the gruesome shriek sent another shiver up her spine.

Because out there with a hellhound were two shifter-soldiers whom she was coming to care for.

Mother of All, watch over them.

Fell was ready for a fucking nap. And something warm.

Instead, with help from Zorion and Ramón, he climbed down into the pit to rope the dead hellhound and help lift the carcass off the iron spikes. What a gory mess that was.

To his relief, Officer Duffy was ready at the top with a tarp, and he hauled the bloody body away.

Thank fuck, the police here were shifter and not human.

"Go on back to the Shamrock and warm up," Ramón said to him and Patrin. "We've been moving around and aren't all that cold. You look frozen."

Zorion nodded. "We're going to cover the pit before anyone manages to fall in by accident."

"We can help," Patrin said.

"Nah, we got this." Ramón grinned. "We built the damn thing, after all."

Right, construction contractors.

Zorion returned their bats. "Nice job. In summer, our crew has scrub baseball games with whatever players are around. You'll have to join us."

Fell had to laugh at that. The Moreno brothers were much like their sister, dealing as needed with the dark but moving on to the light.

"Sure," Patrin said with a half-smirk at Fell. Because the last time they'd played had been in Dogwood when they were twelve.

He hoped they would be here long enough to play a game.

Doubtful.

Silently, he walked with Patrin and Bron through the park and across the town square. His body was exhausted, yet his nerves still twittered like a pixie in cherry season.

At the door of the Shamrock, Niall waved them in. "Sorry. I know you probably want sleep, but the Cosantir needs a report."

A corner of Patrin's lip tipped up, and he muttered to Fell, "Don't they always?"

Leaning his bat against the wall, Fell nodded cynically. The Scythe higher-ups assigning missions had expected face-to-face reports from their "creatures".

Then he remembered the coffee shop and what they'd heard. Keeping his voice low, he told Patrin, "André would've been out there if they'd let him."

Patrin's step faltered, and the bitter twist to his mouth disappeared. "Yeah, he would've."

"They're not the Scythe." The tightness eased from around Fell's ribs. Killing never felt good, but this time…this time, it'd been to protect their people.

To protect?—

"Fell!" He was attacked by a small whirlwind named Moya.

She hugged him hard, arms strong, breasts soft, filling the air with her energy and fragrance. "I was so worried."

"I…" His words dried up, and he glanced over at his brother in hope of help.

Only to see the sadness in Patrin's face. Maybe even envy for a hug freely given.

It hadn't happened often. Gathering matings were pure sex, no affection involved. And Darcy always hugged them whenever they made it to Cold Creek, but she was their sister.

Had he ever had a hug simply because someone worried about him?

Slowly, gently, Fell wrapped his arms around Moya and hugged back, tilting his head so he could press his cheek to the top of her head. Mmm, he could stay like this forever.

Before he managed to force himself to let go, André walked over. "Since many of us were awake all night with watching and worrying, we plan to spend the morning sleeping in a pile, taking comfort from being with the others." He motioned toward large blanket and cushion piles scattered around the room. "After you give your report, we'd like you to join us."

"Ah…" Fell checked Patrin who appeared just as dumbstruck.

Pulling back, Moya studied Fell's expression. Her gaze was soft as she patted his chest and smiled at Patrin. "Come and join a puppy pile. You'll like it."

Fell didn't have the willpower to say no to her. Not after that hug.

To his surprise, Patrin said, his voice almost rusty, "All right."

The confused expressions on the shifter-soldiers' faces almost broke Moya's heart.

Sitting by the other wolves, she watched as André took them away to talk to Niall and Bron for a few minutes.

After the discussion, Patrin and Fell studied the room, the growing heap of furry bodies, glanced at each other—and moved toward the door.

With a sigh of understanding, she rose. It'd been years since she'd come here, a stranger to the town, but she sure remembered the awkward feeling of not belonging.

No, my darling males, you don't get to escape.

She cut them off and took Fell's hand. They'd touched enough in the past days that it didn't even seem strange. Although it was best if she didn't think about the zing when his strong fingers closed around hers.

Or the glint in his eyes when he looked at her.

When she looked up at Patrin, his expression was unreadable. But his eyes… How those dark eyes held something approaching hurt made her ache inside.

Without letting herself panic, she took his hand too.

A second of shock showed in his gaze before he carefully gripped her hand. "Lead on, little wolf. We're at your command."

As if. Not with all that dominance still streaming off him. But it was nice he was willing to play along. She smirked at the two. "This is as it should be."

And had to ignore his low chuckle.

She took them to her wide blanket pile where Niall and Madoc had curled around Heather, leaving a space for André and their aunt, Bron.

Moya's brothers had shown up a minute ago and settled in with a few of their construction crew, including Orla, one of their two werecats, and Finnbarr, their bear. Undoubtedly hearing Moya, Zorion lifted his head, ears perking forward. He eyed her, Patrin, and Fell—and simply went back to sleep, using Ramón's flank as a pillow.

Letting go of the shifter-soldiers, she stripped briskly…and flushed at the masculine appreciation in their gazes.

Trawsfurring to wolf, she took a moment to savor the sweep of the Mother's love through her paws, and then picked a spot with room for the three of them.

When the two males didn't move, she whined and pawed the spot beside her.

"Bossy little wolf," Patrin muttered and started stripping.

"She is." Fell's lips tilted up. And he stripped and shifted.

Wow, she'd forgotten what big wolves they were—and how striking. Patrin so dark with lighter fur on his chest. In contrast, Fell's coat was a silvery gray, his facial markings pure white. So pretty.

They stepped onto the blankets as cautiously as traveling over a nest of snakes. Too funny. They thought nothing of fighting a hellhound but were anxious about a puppy pile.

She used her nose to nudge Fell over next to her brothers, then tapped her paw beside him for Patrin.

Mr.-Alpha-Without-Being-Alpha padded over and curled into a ball by his brother.

There, all arranged. With a happy sigh…and a shiver of anxiety at being so close to Patrin…she circled her spot and lay down beside the two of them, her muzzle on Fell's foreleg, her rump nestled against Patrin's shoulder.

Fell's breathing had slowed. He was already falling asleep.

Slowly, Patrin was following as he relaxed under the spell of a puppy pile.

Because a puppy pile meant safety and belonging.

Oddly enough, Patrin wasn't wakened by a nightmare as usual, but by something heavy pressing on his flank. He blinked and lifted heavy eyelids to see sunlight glinting around the edges of huge black shades. Where…?

He was in Madoc's restaurant. Right.

A breath brought him a myriad of scents—all close by. None with any anger or aggression. He lifted his head slightly.

A cougar lay against his feet—André. Another furry body warmed his back.

Facing him, the little wolf was curled in a small space between him and Fell, her head on one of Patrin's paws.

Moya was here; Fell was here. All was right in his world.

The contented fragrance of the animals around him filled the air, sending him back to sleep.