Page 19 of The SnowFang Storm

“And I’m not after anything except your smile.”

“Oh stop.” I flung a napkin at him.

“So tell me about Canada and Ronald.”

I groaned to myself. He was really good at spinning situations. Now here I was, unwilling to keep being angry at him. It was so much goddamn effort to be mad at him. “The part he wants to mine is NorthBend territory.”

“Should I know that name?”

“They’re a reasonably influential pack in Canada. The tip that Ronald wants to mine overlaps some of their territory.”

“Well, that’s aggravating.” He cracked open his laptop and brushed his fingertips along the trackpad. “Now to figure out how to extract myself as neatly as possible.”

I gave it a few minutes, but he’d already moved on to the next to-do list item, and whatever it was, it had his full attention.

I pulled out my tablet to review my trig lecture again, but couldn’t think. Patrick brought me some fresh tea when he noticed I hadn’t touched mine.

The plane winged south, the deepening twilight on the plane’s left side at odds with the red glory on the right.

He finally closed his laptop, attention somewhere else.

I worried one of my acrylics. “So how do I make a good impression on your parents?”

“Just be yourself.”

“And which version of myself should I be? The society bride that goes to art galas? The tin-crown Luna? Or the battered bad-luck feral who felt like she’d been fished out of a river?”

He reached across the space and grasped my hand. “They’re going to be angry. Ugly words are going to be said. Just remember, whatever happens, it is not your fault.”

I tried to pull free. “But it is, sort of.”

He gripped me tighter. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

The Mortcombe compound was a modest (by the standards of the area) single house sprawled over a base of manicured lawn and sandy-white cobblestones. By the time we arrived, darkness had fallen. The house and grounds were illuminated with the softness of lanterns.

“This is where my parents live most of the time,” Sterling said as he drove the car through the front gates. “Mom loves the ocean, and she likes Florida.”

We went in through the garage door and through a relatively normal mudroom, stepped out of our shoes, then into a massive kitchen at least the size of our bedroom.

Cye would have wet himself to see the kitchen. Hanging racks of pots and bundles of fresh, drying herbs suspended from the ceiling. I could have slept in the refrigerator. Both of us could have slept in it. Side by side. Comfortably.

“Mom loves to cook. Cooking, books, languages and travel. Those are her vices,” Sterling said as he yanked open the fridge.

“Those don’t sound like vices.” The kitchen opened up onto a breakfast nook with floor-to-ceiling windows, which extended to a patio. In the dusklight, I saw the slightly darker silhouettes of two humans, and the brightness of device screens. Cerys and Garrett. My heartrate increased, and I glanced to see what Sterling was bothering with. It was rude to take food or drink before greeting hosts. “What are you doing?”

“Winter. They’re my family.” He fetched two bright tropical-green plastic glasses shaped like palm trees out of a cabinet.

“But—”

“They’re human.”

“Your mother isn’t human.”

He paused a moment, then said, “She’s gone human, and would prefer if you kept that in mind.”

“Fine. Even humans like you to say hello first!” I wouldn’t have my in-laws thinking I was an entitled, ill-reared brat who fished around in their fridge because she had a few rings on her finger. Taking another pack’s food without invitation! The suggestion!

He sighed. “You’re practically clutching your werewolf princess pearls.”

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