Page 40 of Wolf Reborn

Four—five if one counted baby Paige—of their number were from California, though. Even the middle of California where Ash’s family compound was, was never remotely as cold or snowy as Kismet. So the Californian contingent were suffering.

It was a little cold and very snowy even for Gavin, but he’d been born in New England, and he was used to a little cold. He wrapped up in his wool coat and a heavy scarf, and he was fine.

Poor Sawyer, from Southern California, was up to two sweaters, a coat, fur-lined boots, and as many scarves as he could wrap around himself while still able to see around them.

Gavin didn’t ask Sawyer to search with him.

He didn’t ask anyone; it was his responsibility, not theirs, but he especially didn’t ask Sawyer.

That was the second problem. Always looming in the back of his mind was all that promised wolf stuff. Gavin, some sort of messianic figure. It wasn’t just too much—it was downright laughable.

He had made himself a werewolf, sure. But had he really? He still hadn’t made himself into an actual wolf, so maybe what he’d actually done was made himself into a pseudo-werewolf.

How the hell was he supposed to do something special and impressive? He was just Gavin Lloyd, coffee shop co-owner. He didn’t even pull shots of espresso as well as Dez, and he was downright bad at foaming milk.

Okay, maybe not bad, just okay.

It was the story of Gavin’s life: “just okay” at everything he did. He would never understand why people thought he was anything else.

He was reaching the end of useful searching hours for the day. He’d made his way all along the highway from the resort almost back up to the road where Miles had had his accident. It wasn’t incredibly far, but while searching, it took a long time.

He turned and headed back for the Range Rover. He’d come back and do the next stretch tomorrow if the snow wasn’t too bad overnight. The next two days were his days off at the shop, so he didn’t have anything better to do with his time. Maybe he’d see if the local place had cross-country skiing equipment. He’d always enjoyed that as a kid, and it could help him cover more ground looking for Lyndon.

Meanwhile, it was time to head home and start his usual full moon ritual. They all got together for a huge pack dinner, usually involving a nauseating amount of meat that he spent half the evening telling himself was not the throat of the werewolf who was trying to kill his men. At least no one in the pack curled up their nose at him when he asked for any and all meat to be well done. He was well aware it wasn’t the best way to eat it. It was, however, the only way that didn’t make him gag nowadays.

Then his pack would strip down, shift, and run free through the woods.

And he would cower on the deck with a beer, alone.

This month, they would take Miles with them into the woods, and he would have to pretend that was fine.

It was fine.

They deserved Miles, and he deserved them.

Gavin just wished...

Wishes are for people who can’t make things happen, his mother’s voice cut into the thought.

Disappointing as it would be for her, Gavin thought that maybe he was one of those people. Still, for some reason he was smiling when he pulled into the pack-house driveway, into his space next to everyone else.

Maybe hewasa wisher. Maybe he didn’t make things happen, but if that were true, he still did pretty damn well for himself. He had his own family; not the family given him, but one he’d built, piece by piece. Together, he, Ash, and Dez had made something greater than any family he’d ever dreamed of as a child whose father worked constantly and whose mother constantly hovered, watched, and judged.

He walked into the house to the scent of lasagne, and almost sighed in happiness. Graham made Italian food as an excuse to make Ash’s favorite garlic rolls, but that didn’t matter. Even if they were awful—they were ambrosial—lasagne meantnotsteak or ribs or pork chops.

It had taken a lot of effort to hide his reaction to the pork chops, but he’d managed. He hadn’t asked Graham not to make them again, exactly, but whenever the man brought up the idea of making chops, Gavin unsubtly suggested something else.

Like lasagne.

He’d barely gotten in the door when Sawyer appeared with two glasses of wine. “We’re pretending we’re classy tonight, so Miles won’t hate us,” he said as he handed Gavin one.

“Miles likes beer fine,” the man himself called from his place at the kitchen counter. Still, it was a glass of red wine he lifted off the counter to sip at. “Or even water. It’s not like I can even tell if this is good wine.”

“Miles would prefer a glass of milk.”

At the suggestion, Graham made a face. “With tomato sauce?”

“With anything.” Gavin wandered over and sat next to Miles at the counter. No one was taking his place next to Miles if he had anything to say about it. Not that they generally tried, unless Paige was fussy. Apparently, she was a big fan of Miles, and Gavin could hardly blame Hannah for taking advantage of that fact to calm the baby when she was teething.

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