Page 103 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

I should never have given them the guys’ address.

Sure enough, when I pull into the driveway, my parents’ minivan heralds certain doom.

They don’t spill out of the vehicle like I expect. In fact, the thing is empty. And spotless because of course it is. My mother is the perfect omega.

The garage door is rolled ominously open. Trick’s SUV waits, which raises my suspicions even more.

“Hello?” I call out when I make it into the house.

“In here, sweetheart!” Bennett replies.

Fuck shit damn.

My feet weigh a thousand pounds. I’ve already jettisoned my shoes automatically, but every step to the dining room makes me regret the decision.

My parents, all four of them, are seated around Trick’s dining table with coffee cups in front of them and little plates with the remains of last week’s biscuit batch. I froze the leftovers for chili last weekend, which obviously never happened.

“Um, hi,” is all I can get out.

“Izzy, there you are,” my mother says. Her voice is normally higher pitched, but right now she’s practically a soprano songbird.

“What are you doing here?”

“That’s no way to greet your mother,” King grumps. “We drove two hours to make sure you’re okay.”

Shit. Do they know about the heat?

No, they can’t possibly. Jolie, that absolute traitor, doesn’t know. We haven’t told a soul.

“You see me. I’m fine. Thanks for coming.”

I step to the side to suggest that they can leave.

Trick braids his fingers together on top of the table. His eyes narrow on me, then Leon and my mom before returning to me. He’s apparently clocked their lead alpha and is already deferring to him.

Fabulous. The day started so nicely and now is a raging dumpster fire.

“Sorry, it’s just a shock to see you. Thank you for checking on me, but as you can see, I’m fine.”

“Stay,” Trick says suddenly. “Vin and Mason are picking up dinner. They should be home in half an hour.”

“I can make dinner,” I inform him.

“I know you can, but it’s not easy to make a dinner for eight from nothing.”

I can’t help bristling at his words.

“I can provide for as many people who need it.”

“It’s not a criticism, Isabelle. Come sit with us.”

That sounds like absolute torture. I’d rather stick my hand on the ceiling of an oven set to broil.

Trick seems to sense my resistance. He stands and offers his seat at the head of the table to me.

“Come sit. I’ll get you a coffee.”

“I can—”

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