Page 8 of Moon Tamed

“Tea or coffee?”

“Neither.” I allowed myself a sly smile.

“I am being tricked. You’ll take your stimulants in any format?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Did anyone show you the break room?”

Temps got breaks? “No, sir.”

Jumping to his feet, Allasandro Stephans headed for the door. “This must be rectified immediately.”

As his request led me to something to drink, I followed him. I emerged from my temporary office to discover a shirtless Calden walking our way while toweling off his damp hair.

“Wolf slobber doesn’t wash out. You’re tainted for life, son.”

The look of pure disgust on Calden’s face would become a favored memory, providing a lifetime of amusement. The faction’s heir stopped, and his disgust evolved. Into what, I wasn’t certain, but the play of emotions fascinated me.

Anger? Despair? Something darker? It took several snorts and a sound suspiciously like a giggle to realize Calden found his father funny.

“Where are you going, Dad?”

“She has not revealed her beverage secrets. I am trying to learn her ways through observation.”

“Maybe she prefers soda over coffee or tea.”

Interesting. Calden’s statement implied his father questioned all newcomers. “I just don’t have a preference between the two. I’ll drink either, but I don’t mind when I have neither.”

Calden chuckled. “You’ve finally met your match, Dad.”

“Nonsense. She’s agreed to join our next practice hunt—on both sides. Schedule her, and give her a good target for her hunt and a good team. Most unaffiliated flee when invited.”

“I’ll handle it. Anything else?”

“What happened to your shirt?”

“It was ruined from wolf slobber. I burned it.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s being washed. I threw up on it. The stench of your breath did me in. I almost perished.” Calden adopted a neutral expression. “I almost died. All because of you.”

“Would you like to go home to recover from your near death experience?”

“No, but I would appreciate if you stopped slobbering on me.”

“If you dodged better, I wouldn’t be able to slobber on you.”

Calden sighed. “Come on, Dad. We’re not even on a hunt floor.”

“Excuses, excuses. Put some clothes on before you traumatize the women and annoy the men.”

Muttering curses, the kind kids used to dodge parental wrath, the faction’s heir stormed down the hall.

“Fudge cookies?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

“He was five when he tried fudge nuggets; I made him clean a horse paddock and taught him about the vast varieties of fudge nuggets available for his enjoyment. He switched to fudge cookies, as I provided him with baked compensation when I failed as a parent.” Allasandro turned and yelled, “Fine! I’ll feed you, just stop your whining.”

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