Page 59 of Wrestling With Werewolves

Connall gives Dirk the old “told ya so” look, but Dirk shrugs and addresses Connall directly, “Yeh’re gonna help her, whether it’s today or tomorrow or the day after that. I promise yeh that, alpha. Because now I’ve put that thought in yer pretty head, it’ll consume yeh. And every time yeh see her, knowing what’s going on in her mind, you’ll remember that yeh have the power and ability to help her fix this.”

For a long, tense moment, the two males stare at each other—Connall fierce and Dirk resolute. I wipe sweat off my brow as I observe their standoff, Richard doing the same thing I am.

Still not touching.

Goddess, it’s so wrong.

Moisture breaks out on my upper lip, my muscles trembling. All the stress must finally be getting to me. On top of which, I’ve had enough tension for the day. I’m desperate for my guitar and some alone time to play.

I glance up at Richard. “I’m gonna head home for a while. Catch you later?”

He gives me a knowing half smile, and there are secrets in that smile. The secret of what we are to each other, of what we’ve done, of what we will do. Secrets that’ll rip things apart and build something new.

“I’ve got meetings downtown for most of the day, but I’ll be back around dinnertime if you want to come to the bar.”

“It’s a date,” I say without thinking.

Connall and Dirk glance over, their standoff seemingly resolved. Or unresolved, but done.

I lift both hands like I’ve been caught dead to rights. “I mean, not a date date. You know what I mean.”

Richard snorts. “They know what you mean, Princesa.”

Formal title. Phew, good job, Alpha. I make a mock salute with one hand, dipping my head toward the other two. Connall’s eyes narrow, but Dirk turns and stares at him again, like he’s trying to sort something out.

Zipping my lips, I spin on my heel and head up the main street.

I am in desperate, desperate need of a shower.

Hours later, my curls are freshly washed and detangled, and I’ve got a hellsuva leave-in conditioner in, praying it can repair the damage from a night of zero curl care. Guitar at my back, I leave my treehouse with the box of photos Richard gave me tucked under one arm. Sweat drips in rivulets down my spine despite the lovely temperature.

I don’t know if I’m just missing Santa Alaya, or Papá, or Leo, or all of it rolled together. But my mind feels tender and ragged, like I drank one too many tequilas at the bar or completely forgot to sleep.

I took a peek at the Ever Welcome Packet and found a map that indicates where Shifter Hollow’s church is. Now, more than ever, I feel the need to seek out my goddess and ask her advice.

After twenty minutes of trekking on a small trail through the forest, I come to a ring of trees soaring tall. They’ve been trimmed so no branches hang over the circle, giving me a clear view of the sky. Sawed off tree stumps are placed in circular waves around a stone altar in the center. Black smudges cover the top of the stone.

They lost a packmate recently, Leighton, Maren’s son. This would be the pyre they would have burned him on, praying for his soul to run with Alaya.

A chill joins the heat skating down my spine as I walk around the church. Many havens have formal church buildings like we do back home. Just as many prefer to commune with Alaya in a more natural setting.

It’s quiet here, not even a cricket chirping as I close my eyes and breathe in. Pine. Redwood. Moss. Dirt. The barest hint of a recent rain.

Smiling at the peace those scents bring me, I open my eyes and seat myself on one of the giant stumps. I fold my legs underneath me and take my guitar off, laying it carefully by my side. The box of photographs rests on my thighs. Removing the top, I admire the picture from before, the one of Richard and Mamá and Papá. I’m shocked anew at how carefree and youthful my papá looks.

Setting that photo next to me on the stump, I pick up the next one. A gasp leaves me at seeing my mamá holding me. I’m chubby as hells, all black curls and round cheeks. My arms are so fat, it’s hard to imagine my mother ever dressing me in anything but tank tops. But we’re both beaming at whoever took the picture.

Tears fill my eyes as I look through the stack. Picture after picture after picture is filled with joy and love and happiness. By the time I’m nearing the bottom of the box, I wonder if Papá realizes that he lost all of this somewhere along the way in his quest to be king. But this? The love in these photographs? It’s worth everything and it’s just within my reach.

Wind rustles through the trees around me, brushing lightly across my skin as I close my eyes. My goddess is near.

Please, Alaya, I pray, let this work out.

I don’t usually ask for anything for myself, but to deal with Papá I’ll need her by my side.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER - RICHARD

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