Page 46 of Wolfgang

For the second time that night, the front door opened with a loud slam. The entire room seemed to hold their breath until the living room doorway was filled by a tall, lanky man dressed all in black, his green hair in a half ponytail. He was joined an instant later by a stockier, intimidating companion, glowering over his shoulder.

Soren sighed deeply when the second man appeared. “Christ. That’s what I thought.”

The green-haired man grinned at them all, easy and bright despite Soren’s less-than-enthusiastic greeting. “What’s up, bitches? Whose head are we ripping off today?”

fifteen

Wolfe

Wolfeslippedaroundtothe back of the tiny yellow house (thank the heavens he’d found more acceptable real estate thanthisin this drab town), careful to keep his steps quiet enough even enhanced vampire senses wouldn’t pick them up.

Protect our mate.

Wolfe didn’t bother responding to his beast. He’d seen the couple—a punk-looking kid and his seemingly older companion, a casually elegant man with silver at his temples and a leather jacket Wolfe would like to see on Eric’s broad shoulders—making their way up to the front door. The slight metallic scent on the wind had given them up as vampires.

They weren’t from the den; that was sure enough. Wolfe would have recognized them. But that didn’t stop him cursing himself for leaving Eric unattended. Here he’d been trying to bethoughtful.

Eric would need companionship, when his lack of aging forced them to move along. He would also, most likely—as the wounds left from his parents slowly healed—need a softer touch than Wolfe’s current method of blunt logic in the face of insecurities, if Wolfe wanted to keep him content in the long run.

And that was exactly what Wolfe wanted. Eric content. Always and forever.

It had been barely a day, and Wolfe was already addicted to the new, soft sweetness pulsing down their bond. He thought he might do anything to keep that feeling coming, including the indignity of allowing Eric the space to bond with new friends at dinner.

But it was this exact sentimentality that got people into trouble. Eric was currently in a strange home, undefended. Johann and his ilk may have been more moral than most of their kind, but Wolfe had no doubt the others in the house would protect their mates first and foremost.

Which left Wolfe skulking along to the house’s back door, intent on having the upper hand in surprise if not in numbers. As far as he was concerned, it was two against one. Eric had no business fighting, and Wolfe wasn’t yet sure if he could count on any of the others.

And if a single hair on Eric’s head was harmed, Wolfe would kill everyone in that room.

He vowed it to himself just as he opened the back door in time to catch the boisterous, “What’s up bitches? Whose head are we ripping off today?”

Wolfe went for the leather-clad man behind the green-haired instigator. He had the look of a killer about him; best to incapacitate him first.

Wolfe had him in a headlock in an instant, mindful to keep his arm around his throat, where the stranger’s fangs couldn’t catch him.

The man growled fiercely, clawing at Wolfe’s arm with both hands. “Poutain de—!”

Wolfe used the wall as leverage to keep the man still, but his eyes were already on Eric. He was there, on the couch between Johann and the mobster, spine straight with alarm but otherwise in no sign of distress. “Wolfe!” he cried out, relief and what might be concern pulsing through the bond.

Notably, however, no one else was reacting. At least, not in a way that implied they’d be joining any sort of fight. The green-haired vampire had—rather than come to his companion’s aid—pulled out his phone with a wide grin, as if to photograph the moment.

Wolfe stood there, facing the living room, snarling head under one arm, his muscles tensing with the effort of keeping him still. “Would someone please tell me whether I’m holding friend or foe?” he asked mildly.

“Friend,” said Danny and Johann, while at the same time—

“Foe,” from Soren and Gabe.

Roman was chuckling into his glass of wine, slouched comfortably in his armchair. “Why, Lucien, I do believe you’ve lost your touch, letting someone creep up on you from behind like that.”

Lucien snarled anew. “Roman, I swear to God.”

“Jamie, is it?” Soren drawled to the green-haired punk. “I’ll need you to send me that photo. I’m going to have it framed.”

Danny stood up from his seat on the arm of Roman’s chair. “Okay, so let’s all chill out, maybe?” he soothed. “You’re getting Ferdy worked up.” He pointed to the corner of the room, where his heeler mutt was—despite his owner’s words—curled up on a dog bed, his ears not even twitching at the commotion. “Jamie and Luc are friends, I promise. Wolfe, you can release Lucien now.”

Wolfe looked down at the seething vampire, whose fangs were out. “I’m a bit concerned he’s going to bite.”

The green-haired one—Jamie, presumably—laughed, bright and easy. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s relatively tame these days. Aren’t you, monster?”

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