Page 21 of Wrestling With Werewolves

When I let out an appreciative noise, she sets it on top of the soft case and strokes her fingers along the strings, smiling at the instrument. Her eyes flick to mine. “Papá bought this for me when I came of age. There’s a warlock who makes them in the haven connected to ours. He imbues his guitars with magic so you don’t need an amp. It’s amazing.”

I lean over and brush my fingers along the guitar’s variegated surface. It’s beautiful. A hint of magic zings my fingertips, and I hiss, pulling them back.

The fuck is that? Big Daddy growls into my mind. Dislike. Not right for pretty omega to shock us.

She winks at me. “It’s magically coded to me though, as I’m sure you just felt.”

I ignore Big Daddy and smile at her. “I can’t wait to hear it.” I’m about to reach across the bar to help her onto it when she scrunches down and leaps, landing gracefully on the surface in a crouched position. Her movement draws attention from the monsters close to us, who give her space as she rises to a stand.

I cross my arms and lean back as she strums the guitar strings softly, listening and adjusting its tuning pegs.

“Any song requests, Richard?”

Gods, the way our name sounds coming from her, Big Daddy whines.

I’m getting pretty good at ignoring him.

“How do you feel about human oldies?” I question, considering a few options.

She beams and slips the strap over her head, settling the guitar against her chest. “I fucking love human oldies.”

“Alright. Start with ‘Red House’ by Jimi Hendrix, then move into AC/DC’s ‘Thunderstruck.’ Or…start with ‘Thunderstruck.’” I give her a teasing look. “How hard do you wanna start?”

Harddddd.

Godsdamnit. I keep the smile plastered on my face as Lola grins wickedly at me.

“Let’s start hard, shall we?”

I give her a clipped nod, fighting to keep up the easy smile. Big Daddy sits at the forefront of my consciousness, staring at the voluptuous woman on the bar who vibrates with excitement.

She maintains that mischievous smile as she coaxes the first few notes out of the guitar.

“Thunderstruck.” Excellent choice.

The guitar’s built-in amplifier sends the notes booming into the bar, hitting me in the chest and bouncing off all the glass behind me. The hair on my nape rises as the whole room stops and turns, staring at Lola.

She strums louder, spinning to face the room. Whispers fill the space, then the sounds of chairs screeching as they turn on the plank floor. Lola steps her legs wider and strums harder, but when she starts singing, I lose track of space, of time, of fucking everything. The first notes out of her throat are pure, delicious gravel, like her voice was made for this song.

She gets the entire restaurant clapping and stomping and howling and neighing to the beat until the rustic chandelier in the middle swings with the vibrations. Bad Axe is having fun, the floorboards slapping to the rhythm of Lola’s music.

And Big Daddy watches, his focus so intense, my head feels like he’s splitting firewood inside it.

When Lola’s wolf growls into the final notes of the climax, every one of my hackles rises as Big Daddy shoves as far forward as he’ll fit, nearly forcing a shift as I scramble to get control of my body and mind.

And then he whispers one word into our shared consciousness.

Luna.

“You alright, Richard?” Connall’s deep voice is full of concern as we make our way through the forest on our rounds the following morning.

I hesitate to tell him about last night, about what Big Daddy said. Connall’s my Second; his role is to be my confidant, my guide, my partner in everything. To provide another perspective. But I don’t think I can tell him about this.

The Luna bond comes from so far back in shifter lore, very little is known about it anymore. It’s been over two thousand years since a shifter had that sort of bond. In fact, it’s so rare, there’s no one alive blessed by it. The only mentions of it are veiled, shadowy texts, most of which sit in Marco’s library in Santa Alaya. It doesn’t just…happen.

My wolf is wrong.

Not wrong. You’ll see.

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