Page 17 of Wrestling With Werewolves

She’s a godsdamn knockout. There’s no way to tamp down the natural beauty that radiates from her.

Flesh. Taste. Herrrrr.

Big Daddy’s visceral reaction to the beauty standing at the front of the bar gets me moving. I blink, giving Lola a wave and what I fucking hope is a welcoming smile, and not the smile of a much older alpha whose wolf has turned into a horny teenager with anger issues.

Not anger, he growls into my mind. Need.

You can’t need her, I snap. Too young. Too off-limits. Marco would fucking gut us. He sent her here to keep her safe.

You’re wrong, he retorts. But just as I drum up a response about her being hundreds of haven-years younger than us, he disappears from the front of my consciousness, retreating from me but still there, still watching her. He’s telling me he doesn’t want to talk.

I close my eyes and run my hands through my hair, slicking back the salt-and-pepper strands that refuse to stay put no matter how much gel I throw in them.

Don’t stare at Marco’s daughter, I remind myself, hoping Big Daddy gets it through his thick skull how very off-limits she is. Being so at odds with him is new and weird, and I hate it. We were always in sync when he was my guiding star and more of a sentiment than anything.

But once he found his voice.

Goddess.

He doesn’t deign to respond, so I stalk to the end of the bar and press through the crowd that’s quickly gathered around Lola. I expect her to turn to me with a grateful look, but she dazzles them. She speaks to everyone, touching elbows here and there, admiring tattoos, even tickling a fat baby one of the new mothers brought in.

When the mother offers the baby up, and Lola takes the child and sits him on her hip, I go weak at the knees.

“Go, have a drink,” Lola encourages the mother, squeezing her forearm. “I’ve got him for a while if you want.”

Perfection, Big Daddy grumbles. She takes care like she should. Pack is hers right away. This is right. This is good. Sobre todo, familia.

I can’t find it in me to disagree with him on that. The more senior you are in shifter society, the more time you spend caring for a bigger and bigger pack. Lola likely spends a huge majority of her day doing service work with her father—the entire haven of Santa Alaya is technically their family.

The crowd dissipates as she spins toward me with the burbling baby in her arms. She grins, stroking elegant, long fingers down the baby’s chubby shoulder. “Richard, isn’t he adorable? Look at these darling fat cheeks!”

A hint of accent makes her roll the R slightly.

My mouth goes dry.

Yeah, you want her. You’re practically panting at how our name sounds coming from her.

Be quiet! I practically scream into my mind.

A darkly satisfied laugh is Big Daddy’s only response.

Lola’s smile falls, probably because I haven’t answered her thoughtful compliment. “Alpha, are you alright?”

Damn. Bet that mouth would feel good on?—

“Totally fine,” I grit out, forcing a smile. I reach over and tickle the baby under the neck, which gets me a giggle from him and Lola both.

“Goddess, he’s cute,” she murmurs before looking up and around the bar. “So this is your bar?”

I nod, trying to see it the way she does. Plank wooden walls are covered with ancient artwork of monster lumberjacks. The entire back half is the axe throwing section. Everything in here is dark and moody and smells like beer, so I grin back at her. “No stage, sorry. But if you wanna sing, you’re welcome to hop up onto the bar.”

She blushes, her color deepening over her cheeks and down her neck.

But when she leans in close conspiratorially, I lean to join her. “I will definitely hop on your bar, Richard.”

Big Daddy howls loud as fuck in my mind as all the blood rushes to my head.

And my cock.

---