I looked across the property. Children ran between adults. Someone started music near the pavilion. Mom stood with two cousins discussing the wildlife corridor issue. Julie had recruited Mason’s girlfriend to arrange snack baskets.
My entire family had assembled around me, and all I could think about was one missing person.
The sound of tires on gravel pulled my attention toward the road. A gray Civic came around the final curve, and every part of me settled before I even saw her face.
The car stopped under the trees, and Sloane stepped out, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and the black shirt Patty had made for her. Her hair was in a messy bun on top of her head, and she carried a folded blanket beneath one arm.
Then the breeze changed. Pine reached me first. Beneath it sat a clean, sterile scent I couldn’t place. I had spent the past week surrounded by tasks, messages, questions, and decisions. Even tonight, every person who approached had brought a need, an opinion, or a correction. But at the sight of Sloane beside her car, the noise inside me went quiet. For one evening, maybe only the length of a movie, it felt possible to stop being the person everyone required.
I could sit beside her. I could listen to her commentary. I could exist without solving anything.
She looked toward the hall and found me almost immediately, a smile lighting up her face.
I went to meet her.
“You made it,” I said when I got close enough.
Sloane’s grin widened, carrying more confidence than it had at the reunion. “I did. Finally.”
There was that same pull between us. Less startling this time, but deeper because I knew it was real.
I took the blanket from her before she could object. “How was the drive?”
“Uneventful, which is my preferred category for travel.”
“No warning lights?”
“Only the usual one.”
I looked toward the Civic. “What usual one?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “It’s been on long enough that I’ve chosen to ignore it.”
“We should discuss that later.” I led her toward the lawn.
A group of teenagers stood near the pavilion with Mason and Trevor. Trevor had removed the armor hood, though the rest of the neon suit remained in place.
One of the teens was talking when we approached. “They only left the signs for ten minutes.”
Mason shook his head. “They put them in front of the Fletchers’ house.”
“What signs?” I asked.
The teenager glanced at me. “Nothing.”
Trevor answered because he had never respected a failed cover story. “The Kipner twins and Aaron Carpenter made bear-crossing signs.”
Sloane slowed beside me. “Bear-crossing?”
“They stuck them along the road near the Fletcher property,” Mason said. “Then they left picnic baskets by the mailbox.”
Another teenager laughed. “The baskets had fake fish in them.”
I knew the Fletchers. They were a bear-shifter family living a few blocks beyond our property. Their oldest daughter had attended school with Mason, and relations between our families had always been civil.
“Did the Fletchers see them?” I asked.
“They took pictures,” one teenager said. “Mr. Fletcher sent them to Hilary.”
That reduced the humor considerably.
Sloane looked between us. “Is that serious?”
“Not really,” I said. “The kids think bear jokes are funny.”
“They are funny,” Trevor said.
Mason shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. They cleaned it up.”
“After Mom found out,” I said.
The teenagers traded smiles. Kids being kids. Annoying, poorly judged, but not a crisis.
“They’ll apologize,” I said. “It’ll be handled.”
One of the teens looked relieved that I hadn’t turned the conversation into a formal lecture. “See?” he said to Mason. “Not a big deal.”
I moved on with Sloane beside me.
She glanced back once. “Bear family?”
“Bear shifters. The kids think it’s funny putting bear-crossing signs and fake fish near Mr. Fletcher’s mailbox,” I explained, “but with the wildlife corridor shrinking, the bears are stressed about land. If the county cuts the buffer zones, we’re going to have real territorial friction with the bear pack, not just teenagers pulling pranks.”
Sloane scowled, but before she could respond, Patty shouted her name. She ran across the lawn and wrapped Sloane in a hug. “You’re wearing it!”
Sloane laughed and set one hand against Patty’s back to keep her balance. “I told you I loved it.”
Patty released her and held the bottom of the shirt away from Sloane’s body to inspect the design. The distorted heroine from
Nocturnal Hearts stretched across the black fabric in bright fragments of color.
Patty pressed both hands to her heart. “I might cry.”
“Please don’t,” Sloane said. “I don’t know the care instructions for your eyeliner.”
“Don’t worry. It’s waterproof.”
Sloane nodded. “Then proceed.”
Patty looked toward me. “Do you see this?”
“I do.”
“She’s wearing my art in public. In front of other people.”
I gestured toward the people milling around the hay bales. “It’s a family movie night.”
“That still counts as public.”
Sloane laughed, a sound I was quickly becoming obsessed with.
Patty linked her arm through Sloane’s. “Come on. You need food before Trevor eats all the brownies he died protecting.”
“I died with honor!” Trevor called from behind us.
A little boy shouted, “You were on fire!”
Patty pulled Sloane toward the back of the hall, already explaining the snack options. I followed at a slower pace, carrying her blanket.
The movie hadn’t started yet. Half the seating remained empty. Someone would probably need help with the projector before the night ended.
But Sloane was here, and all felt right in the world.
SLOANE
LATENT? YUP. SURE AM.
Grandma Ruth had hugged me twice before the movie started. I had also been questioned about my drive three times and warned by Aunt Karen that seating without back support would lead to spinal decline.
Karen delivered her commentary while repositioning a cushion behind her lower back. “I told Hudson the hay bales were impractical.”
I lowered myself into the folding chair beside Hudson and glanced at the rows of hay. Several children had abandoned the intended seating arrangement and were tunneling between the bales. Trevor sat on top of one in his neon crocheted armor, surrounded by littles who continued arguing over whether his death by imaginary dragon fire had been permanent.
“Maybe the hay is more for atmosphere,” I offered.
Karen huffed. “Atmosphere is rarely supportive of the lumbar spine.” She stood and walked away before I could answer.
Hudson smiled, shaking his head, and I tried not to stare at his mouth.
That had become harder ever since I’d met him in person. Text-Hudson had been dangerous enough. Real-Hudson had muscles for days, piercing green eyes, and the habit of looking directly at me while I spoke, which made every sentence feel more important than it should have been.
Tonight, he wore jeans and a dark hoodie. Nothing elaborate. Nothing that should have caught my attention.
My attention, however, disagreed.
“Did you bring bug spray?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you like some water or sweet tea?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Something to eat?”
“Nah. I’m not hungry.”
Grandma Ruth appeared beside us holding a paper bowl of caramel corn. “You need to eat.”
“I’m really not hungry. Thank you, though.”
She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You’re too thin.”
Hudson covered his mouth with one hand.
I looked at him. “Are you laughing?”
More Kickass Werewolf Reads
Dive into our collection of free werewolf romance novels—where fierce Alphas, daring heroines, and heart-stopping twists await. Every story burns with forbidden desire, loyalty, and destiny. Don’t wait—here’s a world where love bites hard and nothing is stronger than the call of the mate.
Leave a Reply