Page 11 of Howling Mad
She scans me, lingering on the suit.“Punctual.I appreciate that.I reserved the private garden area.Shall we?”
I follow her past the main dining room to a glass-enclosed rooftop garden.Fairy lights twinkle under the roof, and thick foliage creates a cozy vibe.The city’s hum is faint, making it feel intimate.We sit by a small pond, the soft lighting borderline romantic.I exhale, vowing not to let nerves derail me.“This place is gorgeous,” I say, scanning for an opener.
Veronica nods.“I come here often.They’re discreet about shifters, which is crucial.I had a nightmare at another spot when they lost it over my ears shifting.”
I wince.“Humans get jumpy about partial shifts.”
“Exactly.I’m tired of tiptoeing around them like we’re freaks.”Her tone sharpens on “freaks.”
Studying the menu, I say, “The chef’s tasting looks solid.Any favorites?”
She traces the menu with a manicured nail.“The salmon’s divine, but I’m trying the stuffed mushrooms tonight.I prefer less meaty when I’m human.”
I raise a brow.Most wolves are meat fanatics.“That’s a bold choice.”
She smirks, teasing.“I’m full of bold choices.”
We order, and she gets mushrooms while I pick lamb.She chooses wine, but I stick to water to stay sharp.Small talk kicks off, feeling as tedious as ever.She’s an art curator specializing in shifter artists, which I find genuinely cool.I share my finance gig and stargazing hobby.Her eyes light up.“A wolf into stars?Most of us are moon-obsessed.I like that you see the bigger picture.”
“Yeah, it’s the patterns and the science,” I say, warming to her.“The moon’s fine, but there’s so much more out there.”
She nods.“I get that with art.My favorite exhibits rework wolf myths about constellations.We might have more in common than I thought.”
Hope sparks that Finley nailed this match.We chat about city life, navigating wolf instincts in a human world.She drops hints about “true wolves” needing traditions, which I sidestep, focusing on her open-minded vibe.The waiter brings bread and infused oil, and we pause to dig in.
But when we touch on childhood, her face tightens as I mention my father’s beta role.“The old guard clings to pack nonsense,” she says, swirling her wine.“We’ve evolved.”
I sense judgment but keep it neutral.“Some are progressive, like my aunt.She’s a pack historian but supports my choices.”
Her lips twitch.“You seem…forward-thinking.”
Is that a dig?I pivot.“What drew you to art curation?It’s not exactly a wolf’s go-to.”
Her enthusiasm returns.“It’s about blending primal instincts with creativity.Our dual nature—shifting and hunting—pairs with high art.You should see the Timberlake Gallery’s new wolf-coyote hybrid sculptures.Haunting stuff.”
“I’ll check it out,” I say, meaning it.Her confidence is magnetic, though she seems used to owning the room.I meet her gaze, earning a flicker of approval.
Our appetizers arrive.Her mushrooms are drizzled with sauce, and my salad has goat cheese.I eat a few bites before I feel a tingle in my nose, and a dry itch in my throat.I frown, sipping water.Maybe it’s a garnish.Ragweed’s my nemesis, and it sneaks into weird places.I know it’s not the goat cheese, because I eat that frequently.
Veronica notices.“You okay?”
“Just a tickle,” I say, brushing it off.“Maybe pepper.”
She hums.“Allergies aren’t pretty for us.Are they?”
I force a laugh.“Nope.”I focus on my salad, willing the itch away.A sneeze in front of another wolf isn’t a crisis.Right?
But by the entrées, the itch intensifies.My eyes water.I dab them with my napkin, but Veronica looks concerned.“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I rub my nose, fighting a sneeze.“Not sure.”My voice shakes.“Hhk-SHH!”
The sneeze is muffled but jarring.My wolf stirs, half-shifting my nose in a humiliating twitch.I blush, hiding it with my napkin.Veronica frowns.“Allergies?”
“Maybe,” I mutter, my eyes streaming.“Could be herbs or…something.”Another sneeze hits, elongating my nose briefly.I cover my face, mortified, as my wolf threatens to push through.I clamp it down, my cheeks burning.
Veronica stands, grabbing her purse.“I can’t do this.Are you allergic to me?”
“No—I don’t know,” I stammer between sneezes.“I’m so sorry—”
