Chapter Twenty Four

  JT

  was by no means a small dude. He was a full head taller than me, with a

  dense, efficient build that likely had me beat by 60 to 80 lbs. Not the

  puffed-up bulk of a gym rat or linebacker—more the kind of strength

  that came from habit, repetition, and necessity. The first time we met,

  his tight fitting t-shirt had made that clear—leaving nothing for the

  imagination. He looked like he could carry me like a sack of flour—or a

  large bag of dog food, if we were being more appropriate—without slowing

  down.

  He

  was a vet that—judging by the assortment of creatures in Sandy’s little

  menagerie—probably worked with all sorts of animals. Not just cats and

  chihuahuas, but big animals; goats, horses, and animals that didn’t

  listen unless you had patience, strength, and grit. The kind of

  creatures that kicked, bit, and didn’t care what your degree said. You'd

  naturally develop some strength if your job required muscling any

  creature—even a dog—that was your size, twice as strong, and three times

  as ferocious.

  Needless

  to say if he were to go face to face with a lone wolf—a normal wolf all

  by itself—he could likely wrestle it into a crate and pretend it was

  just another Tuesday.

  JT

  was still in scrubs. Light blue, a little rumpled. Name tag clipped to

  his chest: Caene. A splatter of something dark stained one of his pant

  legs. Could’ve been ink. Could’ve been blood. He looked like someone

  who’d had a long day. The kind of tiredness that settled in your

  shoulders. Soften the eyes. The face of someone waiting for the moment

  he could kick off his shoes, sit back, and breathe.

  But, before he could do that, he needed to talk. To me.

  He’d

  mentioned something on the phone earlier—that he needed to go over some

  things with me. Something about the pet-sitting job? Maybe it was just

  clerical. Maybe he needed to adjust the dates, or go over our payment.

  Maybe, worst-case, he was going to lay me off. I didn’t know. Had no way

  of knowing. He could have had a bad day and just wanted some tea and

  sympathy—I would have been down for that: an opportunity to get to know

  JT better, be able to ask him some burning questions I’d had about

  Sandy, and Nevermore, and, hell, even about Childs.

  But the timing couldn't have been worse, because instead of getting regular me, JT was getting wolf-me.

  Not the meet-cute I was hoping for.

  I

  could’ve just warned him. Should have. Opened my big, human mouth and

  told him what was coming. That the full moon would flip the switch and

  turn me into a walking hairball of bad decisions. I had the perfect

  opportunity, too. This morning, when he brought me coffee and donuts.

  When I found out Sandy was a witch. When I learned JT thought I was a

  witch, too. And learned all my sorority sisters apparently ran coven

  through group chat. That would've been a great time to be like, "Oh,

  hey, by the way, I'm actually a werewolf."

  In hindsight, I didn't have a good reason as to why I didn’t tell him right then and there.

  But I did have a reason. Just not a good one.

  Part

  of it was that I didn’t trust him yet. Not fully. Not really. He was

  still mostly a stranger, even if he was a very nice, very good-looking

  stranger who brought me donuts.

  But,

  by and large it was because I had bit of a knee-jerk response to fawn

  over any guy who was remotely cute and nice to me. To impress them. To

  keep my weird tucked away and my options open. Didn't want to ruin the

  chance of something more, even if that “something” was more of a fantasy

  than witches or werewolves. My brain was like that sometimes—just blame

  it on the hormones or something.

  But now I'd dropped the ball—a moon-sized wrecking ball—and allowed things to escalate.

  So

  instead of ending this night with a conversation—instead of giving JT

  the answers he clearly needed, the ones he should’ve gotten over coffee

  and donuts—what he got was a collision.

  Some blunt force trauma to compound whatever stress he was still carrying.

  And that was on me.

  Me, a 130-pound assault-and-battering-ram, headbutting him directly in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer.

  One

  moment he was in the doorway of the barn, his attention drawn to my

  handbag and the ringing phone within. The next? He was Calvin being

  freight-trained by Hobbes after a long day at school.

  He

  yelped—kind of. It was more the sound you'd make when all the air in

  your lungs was forcefully expelled. He flew backward, clipped the barn

  doorframe with his shoulder (whoops), and hit the ground hard enough to

  bounce, landing flat on his back. For just a heartbeat, he lay stunned,

  staring up at the night sky, alight with the moon and spinning stars,

  his brain trying to parse what had just happened.

  Then he began to move, senses coming back online. But I didn’t give him time to recalibrate.

  I pounced.

  My

  front paws drove into his chest, driving the air from him a second

  time. A textbook double-tap. Stun, suppress, subdue. A clean takedown.

  Had to make sure he couldn’t speak—couldn’t let him shout a command that

  might shut down the wolf—that was the deal. The solar plexus was a

  classic target: disabling, non-lethal, unlikely to bruise in a way that

  would raise questions at work.

  I might be a monster, but I wasn’t a .

  JT

  curled into a ball, rolling onto his left side, one arm coming up to

  shield his head and neck, and favoring his left arm—the one I'd

  injured—which he held against his bruised chest. He clearly knew now

  that he was under attack. There was no more confusion, no illusion of

  accident. Just survival instinct. Self defense.

  I winced. Okay, maybe I a jerk.

  Still,

  it could have been worse. The wolf would have gone for the throat. Or,

  in lieu of that, aimed for a lower target and raised him several

  octaves.

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  That was her definition of "neutralizing."

  Slay and neuter.

  Nothing in between.

  So really, this was me being kind. I’d done him a favor.

  Tough love, lycanthrope edition.

  The

  dogs sprang to their feet the moment my paws slammed into JT's chest,

  the mental grip of his command faltering. The pack, already amped from

  sensing the wolf’s presence, went from tense to explosive. Their

  confusion turning kinetic. They didn’t know what had just happened, only

  that something had. It was fast, it was big, and it was here.

  The wolf, sensing their energy, seized the opportunity.

  she commanded.

  And, oh boy, did they.

  Emma,

  Anna, and Rosie were the first wave—the lickers, the caregivers. They

  descended on JT’s face with unrelenting, overzealous affection, each

  determined to render aid the best way they knew how: tongue-first. Just

  as they had with me, they targeted his ears and mouth, ensuring that

  trying to speak was a deeply risky endeavor.

  Puddy,

  the jumper, followed, launching like a spring-loaded cannonball onto

  JT’s ribs. There was a pained “oof” from JT, which was quickly muffled

  as he got French'd by Rosie.

  Again, I winced on his behalf.

  Sweet

  old Murray, eager not to be left out, burrowed his head under JT’s arm,

  the injured one, his cold nose snuffling insistently at JT’s side,

  trying to nudge his way into the center of attention.

  And Rudy… well. Rudy helped. The way Rudy always helped.

  With his hips.

  JT

  was swallowed by a writhing mass of fur, thwapping tails, and wet

  noses. From a distance, anyone watching might've assumed he was being

  mauled. And honestly, he kind of was—just not in the tooth-and-claw sort

  of way. More like death by affection, the dogs killing him softly with

  puppy-love.

  All attempts at protest were smothered beneath the loving weight of the pack.

  He tried to speak. He really did. But all that came out was a choked, "Wait—mph!"

  Yet there was one dog notably absent amongst the pile.

  The

  wolf turned to leave—to vanish into the trees as the rightful leader of

  the pack, triumphant in stripping JT of control—but found herself face

  to face with resistance.

  Maggie.

  The German Shepherd had resisted, or perhaps ignored, the wolf's command.

  There was no deference. No wagging tail. Just stillness. Cool, unwavering defiance.

  Maggie

  stood tall, ears forward, her body blocking the path to the fence.

  Which was likely more for show than anything practical. The wolf dwarfed

  Maggie, could easily outmaneuver her, or just plow straight through

  her.

  But insubordination was insubordination.

  The

  wolf bristled. She could smell the challenge on Maggie's breath.

  Despite the wolf’s dominance, her commanding presence, Maggie still

  dared to stand her ground. Still refused to bow. Even knowing she

  couldn’t win. And this seemed to frustrate the wolf.

  The wolf tried to sidestep.

  Maggie moved with her, just enough to block again.

  It

  was irritating. The wolf could outpace her. Outmuscle her. End this in a

  heartbeat. But Maggie’s sheer stubbornness was galling. Did she think

  she could stall long enough for JT to recover? As if.

  I stepped in, cutting across the wolf’s spiraling frustration.

  I said.

  The wolf hesitated, considering.

  Maggie

  had always been loyal. Maybe not to the wolf directly, but by

  proxy—through me. That still counted, didn’t it? Perhaps this situation

  called for something other than brute force. A leader didn’t need to

  bare fangs to command a pack. Not always.

  So the wolf relented. A diplomatic concession.

  I quipped.

  I

  took control of our body—a quiet reclaiming of limbs and posture—and

  stepped toward Maggie. I lowered my head, slowly, in what I hoped read

  as non-aggressive. Not submissive. Not dominant. Just... approachable.

  Diplomatic.

  Even

  as I moved, I could still feel the wolf's grip on the wheel. I might’ve

  been promoted to pilot for now, but she was still the captain, watching

  from just behind my shoulder, fully capable of yanking the controls

  away if she felt the need.

  I said, reaching my mind out to hers.

  Maggie held her ground, still and unblinking. But I could sense her resignation.

  I continued

  Behind

  me, JT was struggling to wrangle the other dogs. He'd gotten his feet

  under him, but still struggled to sit up, his arms too busy hurting, or

  covering his face.

  Still, Maggie didn’t look away.

  A pause. Then a flicker of something across her thoughts. Not agreement, exactly. But trust. Reluctant, weary trust.

  Maggie stepped aside.

  I

  wasn't sure why Maggie was doing this. What exactly she was thinking.

  But she’d listened to me. She’d stood down. Maybe it was her training.

  Maybe it was in her breed—a shepherd trying to herd us in the right

  direction. Trained to maintain order even when lunacy came knocking

  under the moonlight.

  Or maybe she wanted to make sure I was okay.

  But,

  with her out of the way, the wolf once again took control. She bolted,

  crossing the yard in just a few fluid bounds, and leapt over the fence,

  heading for the forest beyond.

  Her

  mind was already on what lay ahead—the hunt, the path forward, the

  instinctual next step. Freedom. From the barn, from the yard, from being

  compelled to yield. She was free to do what she wanted: to find Boden,

  to hunt the man in cologne, and, of course, find something to eat.

  She was getting hungry.

  I told her to wait.

  I wanted to make sure JT was okay.

  One last look.

  JT

  had managed to get himself in an upright, seating position, clutching

  his ribs and his arm. His face was pale, sweat beading on his brow. He

  looked tired. A little hurt. And very, very confused.

  The

  dogs, though no longer piled atop him, crowded around JT, tongues and

  noses in his face, tails wagging like it was all just a fun new game. He

  managed to speak—barely—and issued a half-hearted, "Sit." They obeyed.

  Sort of. They planted their butts on the ground, but their bodies still

  leaned into his space, crowding in. A bulwark of fur.

  Maggie

  approached, calm and purposeful, and JT reached out to pet her with his

  uninjured hand, fingers curling gently through her fur. She leaned into

  his hand for a moment before stepping away to stare out into the dark.

  JT followed her gaze.

  I

  was certain he couldn’t see me. The porch light barely reached the

  fence, and everything beyond it was shadow. But I could see him. I saw

  him turn back to Maggie. Saw the way his hand rested on her back, a

  reassuring pat. Heard him when he said, "Yeah, you tried to warn me.

  Should have listened."

  And I should have told him.

  This

  morning, after he’d seen the mess I made the night before, when Carl

  had stolen my gun, when he'd expressed concern for my own well-being.

  Despite my mistakes, he was still kind. Still supportive. Still willing

  to believe I had things under control. That should have been the moment

  when I'd told him the truth.

  I

  should’ve had a little faith. Given him the benefit of the doubt. He

  was Sandy’s brother after all—Sandy, who clearly knew more about what

  she was doing than I did. Who trusted me with her weird, magical zoo.

  Maybe JT too would’ve known how to help. Maybe he could’ve handled a

  werewolf.

  Hell, if he'd had a proper warning—any at all really—I'd have been the one on the ground, belly up, being commanded to rollover.

  And

  part of me wanted someone to confide in. Someone who could look out for

  me. I’d been shouldering everything alone—no apartment, no car, no

  cash, taking any job offer that kept me from considering myself

  unemployed. Where had that gotten me?

  But

  asking for help meant opening up. Trusting people. And I wasn’t good at

  that. The only person I found myself regularly confiding in, V, being

  the one that roped me into this ill-fated pet-sitting gig.

  And

  then, there was JT himself. I wanted to impress him. It was dumb,

  reflexive. But I wanted him to think I was capable. Reliable. Someone he

  could count on.

  But, now, all he could count on was being sore as shit tomorrow morning.

  The wolf turned. It was time to go.

  We slipped into the woods. No more looking back.

  Only forward.

  Toward town. Toward Boden. Toward whatever came next.

  It was going to be a long night.