Moonwood Mill

I never thought I’d bother telling my side of things.

There isn’t much to tell about me, as a person, really. I’m… passable. Not particularly handsome, not scary ugly either — at least not in my human form. Yeah. I’m a lycan. That’s the fancy word Damon likes to use for “werewolf.” I’m not fancy. He is. He’s a vampire — elegant, polished, smug — and technically my uncle, even though if you see us next to each other, you’d swear I’ve got a decade on him. Reality check: it’s the other way around.

My mom is his oldest sister. Had me as a teen after making the mistake of falling in love with a werewolf. Obviously unplanned — the love and me. Rough start for them, but they were determined to make it work without help, and they did.

My dad, Nathan, worked every job he could get his hands on to provide for us and to give my mom, Jaymie, the chance to get a college degree. She’s smart. I didn’t inherit that. I’m like my dad — all brawn, not much brain.

Those first years were rough, and eventually we accepted help. Grandpa Michael — the Alpha for decades before Dad took over — and his wife Esmee lived in the largest log cabin in Moonwood Mill, so we ended up moving in with them, they had the room and splitting the costs and the work helped everyone. Esmee never liked kids, but she was alright as long as I didn’t try calling her grandma. My actual grandmother was, and still is, in the picture too. Also a werewolf. We all are.

Mom and Esmee both became werewolves eventually; loving a wolf‑man as a normie is rough, raising a kid with one is even rougher. Esmee took to it naturally, mom maintained most of her human ways and very rarely transformed once dad and grandpa Mike taught her how to control the urges.

Probably why I don’t have siblings — they could barely afford to keep me clothed and fed. And I wasn’t an easy kid. Born with the curse of the lycan, which meant I was… let’s call it “rambunctious.” A polite way of saying destructive as hell and always hungry.

Werewolf kids aren’t easy. Werewolf teens are a curse in themselves. Another reason most lycans stop at one or two kids. Honestly, I’ve never heard of anyone with more. And it’s also why I’m still blissfully single and kid‑less. I’d love to change the single part — not eager to be a dad anytime soon. Considering I’m already thirty‑two, maybe that’s something I should think about before too long.

Because I’m also the next Alpha in line.

In case you don’t know werewolf hierarchy — which, if you do, I’d be shocked — the biggest, strongest, and best fighter usually leads. Bonus points if he’s got a functional brain, because keeping a werewolf pack in line is serious business. Calling us “dangerous” is like calling a rabid grizzly “an inconvenience.”

My grandpa Michael was Alpha for decades. Now it’s my dad, Nathan. And I’ve been getting trained to be next. An Alpha needs a son — or a daughter, if you want to be modern about it. If I don’t, I won’t have an easy old age.

The moment I start going gray and the first wrinkles show, other wolves will start circling — challenging me for the rank. And if it’s not clear, those fights don’t end with handshakes. They end with one of us dead.

Like all lycans, I enjoy a good rumble. But not the kind where only one walks away. That’s not how I want to spend my silver years.

So yeah… I’ll have to figure that out at some point.

Anyway. Basics.

My name is Vincent Shaw. No middle name. Dad always jokes nobody in Moonwood Mill can afford to pay attention, let alone extra names. It’s a joke, but there’s truth in it.

I’m tall — too tall for most doorframes — and broad in a way that makes people step aside without realizing they’re doing it. Built like a wardrobe, as I like to say. Hands that look like they were made to swing axes and break things. In short, I’m the kind of guy who dares people to pick a fight with me, but few ever take me up on it.

People say I look like a werewolf wearing a man’s shape — and honestly, they’re not wrong.

I’m intimidating even when I’m just standing there minding my business. But I’m not a bad guy. I’m the kind of dude you could strike up a conversation with in a dive bar — if you’re brave enough to approach the giant drinking alone in the corner.

Like my father and grandfather before me, I wasn’t a good student. Barely graduated high school. You couldn’t have gotten me to go to college at gunpoint, even if we had the money, which we didn’t. I didn’t have any special talents that would have gotten me a scholarship — unless tearing things to shreds counts, and that’s not exactly a marketable skill.

No real education means no real way to leave here. So I’m a third‑generation lumberjack with some side hustles building or fixing things for extra cash. Day laborer, basically.

I was born and raised here — a scenic milling town deep in the woods. Perfect if you like peace and quiet, hunting, fishing, camping, hiking. That’s what people come here for these days.

Most days look the same: fog in the pines, sawdust in the air, and the same bunch of people pretending this town isn’t held together by stubbornness and duct tape.

Moonwood Mill used to be a real town once — loud, busy, full of work, businesses, life, we had schools, even a hospital, everything a real town would have. Then the contracts dried up, the companies moved, most businesses closed, hospital has been sitting abandoned for decades, and the only folks left were the ones too proud or too strange to leave.

There are more of us than people realize. Almost all of us live here — for obvious reasons. We don’t blend in anywhere else. Temporarily, sure, we can. I do. I like going to San Myshuno every now and then for the nightlife, but I could never hack it living there. Too many people, too many rules, too many eyes. Wolves don’t do well in places where you can hear your neighbor breathing through the wall.
Sure, a few singletons live in other parts of the world and manage to keep control long enough to flee into the wilderness when the curse starts to burn, but most wolves alive today live here. Sometimes smaller rogue packs form, but they rarely last. Either they mess with us and learn that final lesson the hard way.
Or the vamps do the dirty work for us and deal with them quickly — mortal enemies, after all. Sooner or later, those little packs get cocky and cross into vampire territory.

Wolf bites are poison to vampires, but those Fangs? They’re fast, clever, and quiet. Usually, a rogue wolf is dead before he even finishes the thought of biting.

Vampires are elegant and controlled; we’re the opposite.
They glide. We stomp.
They sip. We chug.
They plan. We improvise.
They negotiate problems away; we beat the shit out of them until they stop being problems.

My dad and grandpa say leading a pack is fifty percent dominance and the rest is damage control. There are always accidents — hikers who vanish, half‑eaten deer washing downstream, terrified tourists pounding on ranger station doors, babbling about monsters in the woods.

Some of it is survival. Nobody here has two dimes to rub together, but everyone is always hungry. We hunt. We garden. We trade. And whatever money is left goes to our other favorite pastime: drinking until we drop.

Yeah. We’re the fun crowd.

All the wolves here are former or current lumberjacks, descendants of or otherwise related to them. We act exactly how you’d expect — loud, gruff, crude, barely civilized, always hungry, always looking for a buzz.

These days, what little milling still happens is done by the Wildfangs — the rougher pack, the ones who like their axes sharp and their boots muddy. Loud, loyal, impossible to miss.

The Moonwood Collective is the opposite — quiet, thoughtful, the “live off the land” types who hug trees and touch grass daily. They garden. They compost. They talk to their plants like the plants talk back.

Ironically, they even tried keeping livestock once. Tried.

They learned the hard way that they were still too lycan for that to work. Yeah. Exactly what you’re imagining happened.

A bloody massacre they woke up to after a doomful full moon. Chickens, sheep, goats, dairy cows and even one very unlucky alpaca — gone in a historical bloodbath.
The Collective cried for a week.
The Wildfangs laughed for two.

You can guess which side my family falls on.

The packs get along… mostly. Like cousins who don’t agree on anything but still show up to the same holidays and manage not to kill each other. Most of the time.

Speaking of cousins — I have one, Eirwen o’Galawybr. And an uncle I’m close with, Damon O’Cavanaugh. One’s a mage — basically a witch, though she’ll throw a fit if you call her that. The other is a vampire from a long line of them. Not the types wolves normally run with, but we always got along. Maybe because we balance each other out.

Their lives are exciting. Mine… not so much.

I’m thirty‑two, built like a wardrobe, and apparently intimidating even when I’m just standing there. I’m also single — not by choice. I’d love to have a nice girl to warm my bed, but the dating market here is garbage. Whatever wanders into town for an outdoor adventure is what you get, until their vacation ends and they go back home.

None of us here are the type you leave your whole life behind for — not to start over in some godforsaken town that turns into the stuff of nightmares every full moon.

So I go to the city sometimes — San Myshuno. Not that I have money to burn, but at least there’s civilization. And women. I do all right sometimes. Not with the kind you bring home to Mom, but still. I get my itches scratched often enough.

Mom — and especially Dad — are antsy for me to settle down. So are the grandparents. Truth is, I want that too. But see above: slim pickings. And even if I met someone worth introducing, there’s the tiny issue of what happens during a full moon. How do you explain that? And I do not recommend waiting for them to find out. They will. And when they do, there isn’t much you can do to save that sinking ship.

Does that sound appealing? Didn’t think so.

Grandpa Mike always says the solution will come to you.

Well… the solution to my loneliness problem sure is taking her sweet‑ass time.

Job Opportunity

You know how they always tell you to be careful what you wish for?

Yeah.

She came into town like she’d taken a wrong turn on her way to a board meeting.

Black SUV. Designer coat. Heels that had no business touching Moonwood Mill soil. Blonde hair smooth enough to reflect the damn treetops. A tablet tucked under one arm like a shield.

And behind her, spilling out of the other vehicles, came the rest of the circus — dark suited executives, some architect and his assistant, a handful of surveyors, and a construction crew already arguing about where they could get a beer.

She stepped out, took one look around — the mud, the fog, the sagging Lodge sign — and I swear I saw her soul leave her body for a second.

Then she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and marched forward like she owned the place.

She wasn’t here for small talk. She wasn’t here for the scenery. She wasn’t here for us.

She was here for business.

Corporate business.

The kind that makes both packs nervous.

She walked straight up to the Lodge door, heels sinking into the mud with every determined step, and asked — loudly — for “whoever is in charge of land use and zoning.”

The Wildfangs stared at her like she’d just spoken in tongues.

Dad stepped forward — closest thing we have to authority. This town hasn’t had any official leadership since the last normies left, but he was the unofficial mayor/sheriff/welcome committee.

He introduced himself by name, Nathan Shaw, leaving out any fictional titles. He looked in charge and she didn’t question it. He basically looked like me, but … older. And more experienced and patient.

She introduced herself as Sloane Hartwell, senior field analyst for Evergreen Ridge Development, a high‑profile firm known for building luxury “wilderness experiences” for rich people who want to pretend they’re roughing it.

Professional. Polished. Not impressed by the smell of beer, pine sap, or the fact that half the men in the room looked like they’d been carved out of tree trunks.

She was… pretty. Not cute. Not sweet. Pretty in the way a knife is pretty — sharp, clean, gleaming under the right light.

Perfect skin. Blue eyes that missed nothing. Hair that probably cost more than my truck to maintain.

She didn’t soften her edges. She didn’t shrink herself. She stood there like she belonged anywhere she decided to stand — even if the mud was actively trying to eat her shoes.

Her team — a handful of surveyors and contractors — fit right in with the Wildfangs. Loud, hungry, already asking where they could get a beer.

Sloane didn’t blend in at all.

Which made her stand out even more.

And then she said the words that made every wolf in the room go still:

“We’re looking to hire local labor for the initial clearing and prep work. We pay well above market average for good and reliable workers.”

The room shifted.

Work was rare. Money was rarer. Half the men in town hadn’t had steady jobs since the last mill contract dried up.

This was a blessing. And a curse.

A blessing because people needed the money. A curse because helping her meant helping the company tear up land we’d been protecting for generations.

Dad’s eyes flicked to mine — a silent warning.

Play nice. Don’t spook her. Don’t start a fight. People like that always have friends in high places and they always escalate. We can’t afford attention from the outside. Not cops. Not investigators. Not the FBI.

Whoever bought that big chunk of old government land had every legal right to build whatever they wanted. If we pushed back too hard, it would cause disruption — the kind that brings outsiders sniffing around.

We couldn’t have that.

So Dad smiled — the polite, tight‑lipped kind that meant he was swallowing his pride whole.

“We’ll see what we can do,” he said.

The Wildfangs perked up like someone had just announced free beer.

Sloane nodded, businesslike, already tapping notes into her tablet.

I tried to scare her off — standing too close, crossing my arms, dropping my voice into that low, unimpressed rumble that sends most people running.

She didn’t budge.

She just looked me up and down like she was assessing a structural hazard.

That’s when I knew she was going to be trouble.

The irritating kind.
The interesting kind.

She spent the next few days stomping around town in those ridiculous heels, tablet in hand, acting like she wasn’t freezing, lost, or one wrong step away from snapping an ankle.

Every time we crossed paths, sparks flew — the irritated kind, not the romantic kind.

Or so I told myself.

She had a rare talent for getting under my skin. I had a talent for pretending she didn’t, while pushing every single one of her buttons just to see what would happen.

And something always happened.

She’d glare. I’d smirk. She’d insult my intelligence. I’d insult her shoes. She’d call me impossible. I’d call her high‑maintenance. She’d accuse me of sabotaging her work. I’d accuse her of sabotaging my damn patience or what was left of it.

It was a whole thing.

And Dad — under the noble banner of “one day you will be pack leader” — stuck me with the job of dealing with her as her point of contact.

Lucky me.

Oh, and nothing, absolutely nothing in the world and my entire life had ever tested my patience more than her.

Generated

One night she stormed into the Pack Lodge — our local and only watering hole and everyone’s hangout — like a hurricane in heels.

The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the glass. Every head in the place turned. Even the jukebox seemed to pause.

She stood there in the doorway, dripping rainwater, hair wind‑tangled but still somehow perfect, coat muddy at the hem, heels absolutely ruined. Her eyes were blazing — blue fire cutting through the dim bar light.

She looked like a corporate executive who had just fought an angry racoon. And lost. And was ready to sue the entire forest for it.

The Wildfangs froze for half a second.

Then the howling started.

“Uh oh,” someone muttered. “Town and City Barbie’s pissed.”

“Look out, Vince,” another yelled. “You made her mad again!”

I didn’t even have time to growl before she pointed at me like she was about to smite me with divine judgment.

“You,” she snapped. “You did something to my power. It’s out. It was working this morning! Clearly, everyone else still has power! And right when I was about to take a shower!”

The Wildfangs froze for half a second — then burst into laughter so loud the windows rattled.

“Hey sweetheart,” one of them hollered, “you can shower at my place anytime!”

“Yeah, bring those fancy soaps and lotions! I wanna smell like a citrus orchard!”

Sloane’s glare could’ve peeled bark off a tree.

I leaned back in my chair, beer dangling from my fingers. “Why would I sabotage your power? I don’t care when and if you shower, princess. I don’t have to pay for your electricity or water.”

“You don’t want me here,” she shot back.

“Correct,” I said. “But I don’t need to sabotage your trailer to make that happen. If I wanted you gone, trust me — you’d know. – and you’d be long gone already.”

She made a noise halfway between a scoff and a growl. “Don’t be so sure about that, Neanderthal, I am not easily scared. But I need to take a shower. I have a meeting in the morning. I cannot show up smelling like—” she waved a hand at the room, “—forest.”

The Wildfangs howled.

“Come on, Vince, show your leadership skills and be a gentleman to the lady. Take her home and give her a shower!” someone yelled.

Another chimed in, “Yeah, Big-leader‑in‑training! Go scrub her back!”

Sloane looked like she was about to commit a felony.

I sighed, finished my beer, and set the bottle down with a soft clink. “Fine. Let’s go look at it. I’ll fix ya right up, lil lady. Start thinking about how you’ll show your appreciation.”

“Vincent’s very hairy, sweetcheeks!” someone yelled. “Rub yourself on him, you won’t need your fancy exfoliants!”

“Yeah, he’s basically a walking loofah!”

She shot them a look that could’ve killed a lesser man. I grinned. She could handle herself — and those suggestions didn’t sound bad. At least not to me.

She followed me out into the cold night, heels stabbing into the mud like she was personally offended by the ground.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “This entire place is ridiculous. Why is everything wet? Why is everything muddy? Why is everything broken?”

“Welcome to nature,” I said. “And what’s ridiculous is those shoes. Who the heck wears heels in the wilderness?! Ya need to get yourself some decent footwear. And clothing. Nobody here cares if ya look pretty, but you will care if ya freeze to death.”

“Someone with a reputation to uphold,” she snapped. “I need to look decent, something you will never understand. Look, I’m here to help this town. Do you not realize that? My firm brings in work for everyone, and tourists, more than willing to spend money here. And we both know, you need money and business here – badly.”

“No,” I corrected, “you’re here to help your company make money off this town.”

She scoffed. “You wouldn’t understand corporate strategy if it bit you in the ass.”

“And you wouldn’t understand real life if it bit you in the face,” I shot back.

She gasped like I’d slapped her. “I have two degrees.”

“And not one of them is in common sense. Cos you have none of that. And that is very obvious!”

She sputtered. “You— you— ruffian wildling!”

“Dollar‑sign dreamer.”

“Uneducated brute.”

“Overpriced Barbie.”

She stopped walking, heels sinking deep into the mud. “Excuse me?!”

I gestured at her outfit. “You came into the woods dressed like you’re going to brunch with high society.”

“These are waterproof boots!”

“They’re suede. And have pointy heels!”

She looked down, horrified. “…they’re waterproof suede.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“There should be!”

I kept walking, shaking my head. She stomped after me, muttering insults under her breath like she was reciting a corporate mission statement.

When we reached her trailer, I crouched beside the generator. The metal was icy under my hands, the smell of old fuel sharp in the air.

Sloane hovered behind me, arms crossed, shivering dramatically.

“Is that where my electricity comes from? Well?” she demanded. “Is whatever that is broken?”

I pressed a single button.

The generator roared back to life like it had been waiting for someone to remember it existed.

I stared at it. Then at her.

She blinked. “…oh.”

“You are in a trailer, which is a temporary structure, so it has a generator for temporary power. You probably left it running all day, so the auto-stop activated to preserve fuel. You didn’t even try the power button?” I asked.

“I didn’t see it,” she snapped. “I didn’t know that that machine there was and it’s dark. And ugly. And loud. And—”

“It’s a generator.”

“It should have instructions!”

“It does. The button. Power on and power off. How much clearer can it be?”

She glared. I crossed my arms.

“Waiting,” I said.

“For what?” she snapped. “A miracle that rains manners down upon you?”

“An apology.”

“You will be waiting a very long time.”

We argued. Loudly. About generators. About boundaries. About why she insisted on ‘glamping’ in the woods. About why I insisted on being impossible. About why she always accused me of everything that went wrong in her life.

The cold air steamed between us with every breath. The moonlight caught in her perfect hair. Her blue eyes sparked like flint striking stone.

And for a moment — just a moment — I forgot to breathe.

Not because I liked her. Not because I wanted her. But because she was the first person in a long time who wasn’t scared of me.

And that was… new.

She broke the moment first.

“Are you done staring?” she snapped.

“Are you done talking?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Frickin’ fantastic.”

We glared at each other.

The generator hummed behind us.

The forest was silent.

You know how sometimes you meet people you instantly dislike, even though they have done nothing wrong to you? And then there are those you are instantly drawn to, against better judgement? I wasn’t really sure yet which category she fell into, only that she already dominated my mind in a way that angered me.

And I knew — with a sinking, irritating certainty — that this woman was going to make my life hell.

And man, was I right.

She stomped ahead of me, heels stabbing into the mud like she was trying to murder the earth.

“I cannot believe,” she muttered, “that I am out here in the wilderness, forced to rely on a man who thinks flannel is formalwear.”

“I cannot believe,” I muttered back, “that I’m babysitting a grown woman who thinks suede is waterproof.”

“It is waterproof!”

“I told you there is no such thing as waterproof suede.”

She spun around, to yell at me again, nearly slipping. I caught her elbow without thinking.

She jerked away like my touch burned.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Fine, sweetheart, next time I’ll just watch ya faceplant the mud.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart! And I have perfect balance! I had ballet classes since I was three!”

“Course you did. Can’t wait to watch ya pirouette your way out of a sinkhole. After faceplanting into it.”

“I was adjusting my footing.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She glared. I smirked.

We walked in tense silence for a few steps.

Then her heel sank deep into a patch of mud and she pitched forward with a startled yelp.

I grabbed her waist, hauling her upright before she face‑planted.

Her hands landed on my chest. Her eyes went wide. Her breath hitched.

For one stupid second, we just… stared.

Then she shoved me, stepping back several steps as if I were contagious.

“I said don’t touch me, you caveman!”

“You’re welcome, Barbie.”

“I am not thanking you! I didn’t ask for help. I don’t need help! Least of all yours!”

“Yeah. Be careful where ya step, some areas are pretty boggy around here.”

She opened her mouth — probably to insult me again — taking another step back when her heel made a wet sucking sound.

She froze. Then started wiggling frantically, to the point I could barely keep from bursting into roaring laughter.

“…Vincent.”

“Yeah?”

“My shoe is stuck. Like, really stuck.”

I grinned. “Oh no, that sounds like a problem. I’ll be sure to think of you over a beer.”

I turned, pretending to walk off, grinning with literally every tooth I had.

“Don’t you dare—”

I halted, still trying not to burst into laughter, then turned around.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

She glared at me, still trying to pull free — only sinking deeper. She looked panicked.

“Vincent… please help me.”

She looked like those words physically hurt her. And she sounded tired — and afraid — in a way she clearly hated. I wasn’t enough of a bastard to let her squirm longer. It was late, dark, and cold.

I stepped toward her, stopped just close enough to make her glare, and let a slow grin spread across my face.

“Here’s the problem,” I said. “I can’t help you without touching you.”

She stared at me — wide‑eyed, cornered, exhausted from fighting the mud, the cold, and probably me. Then she let out a long, defeated sigh.

“Please help me,” she said, voice low and resigned. “Touching is allowed in this case. Even welcome.”

Oh, I had a dozen smartass replies ready. Every single one of them would’ve gotten me stabbed with a stiletto heel. I swallowed them all.

Instead, I crouched, wrapped my hand around her ankle, and yanked the heel free with a loud, wet schlurp.

She wobbled, grabbed my shoulder for balance, then immediately let go like she’d touched a hot stove.

“Thank you,” she muttered.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Don’t push it.”

With a grin I didn’t even attempt to hide, I nodded my chin toward her trailer door. She didn’t argue, and we walked the rest of the way in silence.

But it wasn’t the same silence as before.

Something had shifted.

Neither of us admitted it.

Both of us felt it.

We had sparred — and found out we were very much equals, each in our own way.

Site Walks

The next morning, she showed up in a new outfit — still expensive, still impractical, still wrong for a site walk in the wooded wilderness.

Her management — a cluster of uber‑important men drenched in cologne strong enough to kill small wildlife — pranced after the architect, his assistant, and the foreman. They pointed here and there, holding up maps and sketches, talking over each other, explaining the perimeter of the planned project.

I was along as “local leadership.” She was the one who’d eventually have to orchestrate whatever her bosses and the architects decided.

Other than that, they ignored her. Whenever she spoke up, they barely huffed in her direction.

We were out there for hours — walking here, walking there. The VIPs rode in ATVs. The rest of us mere mortals had to walk.

It was cold, rainy, and foggy. Eventually we ended up on a ridge overlooking the region, the VIPs clustered around the architect like he was Moses parting the Red Sea.

She was shivering.

I didn’t comment.

I just shrugged off my jacket — thick, warm, worn in all the right places — and held it out.

She blinked at it like I’d handed her a live grenade.

“…what is this?” she whisper‑yelled, while her bosses kept rambling.

“A jacket,” I snarled back.

“I have a jacket,” she hissed.

“That isn’t a jacket. That’s a summer shirt pretending to be a coat. This is a jacket. One that actually works.”

She hesitated. Her teeth were chattering at this point.

“What about you?” she whispered, leaning closer. I could hear her teeth clicking. The concern in her voice honestly shocked me.

I waved it off. Werewolves naturally ran hotter than normies.

“I’m hot‑blooded. I’ll be okay.”

Slowly, she took it — almost dropping it because it was heavier than she expected.

It swallowed her whole. Sleeves past her hands. Shoulders halfway to her elbows. Hem almost to her knees.

She looked ridiculous.

But also adorable.

The boys in town and I had that in common — we all loved seeing a girl in our shirt. There was just something about it. Not necessarily that girl, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

She looked… human. Real.

She caught me staring.

“What?” she whispered.

“Nothing.”

She pulled the jacket tighter around herself.

“…thank you,” she said quietly.

I didn’t say anything, but I felt like I’d just won this round too.

Something in her expression softened — just for a second — before she snapped her armor back into place.

I kept my eyes trained ahead, pretending not to notice her looking at me again and again.

Raise A Glass

A few days later, after driving her, one of the execs and the architect around in an ATV like a chauffeur — at my father’s request.

“You don’t want them getting lost in the woods, you know those fools would accidentally kill themselves turning this mess into a huge investigation, do you?! You know they would find things and you know we would all be in serious trouble. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Go and offer to take them as a local guide! Part of being a leader is averting trouble to save the pack. Go be a future leader, Vince!”

I finally dropped them off at their temporary trailer park and needed a drink. And by that I mean at least half a keg. Those iditots were exhausting.

I walked into the bar, headed straight for the counter. Bubba saw me and was already pouring my standby when I heard some of the guys.

“Did you see the way she looked at him? Damn, our San Myshuno Barbie wants some of that.”

“Are you blind? She hates him. If I were him, I’d stay back or she might scratch his eyes out.”

“Argh – that’s foreplay. Women like that always play hard to get. She wants him.”

“She’s too fancy for him.”

“But she’s got a temper. He likes that.”

“He’s too hairy for her. She wouldn’t touch men like us with a pole.”

“The fancy chicks always like it feral. Tired of those wanna-be men with their princess hands who take longer in the bathroom than the chicks. She wants that. The real problem is that she’s gonna break him when she ups and leaves. Cos she will. Women like that are not made for our part of the world.”

“He’s gonna break her. He’s three times her size!”

“You’d be surprised. Some women like it rougher and bigger in all the right places.”

“Yeah, I agree with him, I give it a week until they’re on top of one another.”

“Ha – I give it three days. You can see the sparks flying.”

“I give it until she realizes he’s built like a damn mountain. Everywhere.”

“Have you ever met a woman who would complain about that?!”

I walked over. Said nothing, just stood there, reminding them of who I was.

They all shut up.

Except one. “Hey, where’s your fancy lil girlfriend?”

Then someone let out a wolf whistle.

They all laughed.

I growled.

They howled.

And then she walked in.

“Found her!” one of the guys hollered, and the whole bar erupted in laughter.

Sloane ignored them — or tried to — as she marched up to the counter like she was about to file a formal complaint.

Bubba glanced up from wiping a glass, eyebrows lifting. “Evenin’, Miss. What’ll it be?” he asked, voice warm but amused.

“Do you have wine?” she asked, already sounding doubtful.

Bubba snorted softly, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the question. “Sure do. Red or white?”

She blinked. “Umm… what kinds are they?”

Bubba paused mid‑wipe, giving her a look like she’d just asked him to recite the periodic table. “Well… the red or the white kind.”

I felt my grin coming on. Oh, this was gonna be good.

Sloane’s jaw tightened. “Chardonnay? Pinot Grigio? You have to know what you buy!” She sounded personally offended by the concept of generic alcohol.

Bubba shrugged, completely unbothered, setting the glass down with a thud. “Yeah, I do. Red and white. So which do ya want?”

She let out a long, suffering sigh and slid onto the barstool like she was accepting her tragic fate. “Gimme the white.”

Bubba winked at her, already reaching for the tap. “Comin’ up, buttercup.”

I bit back a laugh.

She gave me a side‑eye as I walked up next to her, gesturing my almost empty beer mug at Bubba for a refill, then closed her eyes and groaned.

“Of course you would be here.”

“I was here first. You don’t like it, take that wine to go. I’m sure Bubs would put it in a red solo cup for ya.”

“No thanks. I’d like to at least preserve some illusion of civilization here.”

She said it just as Bubba set her wine down — in a beer mug.

Her face was priceless.

I laughed so hard I nearly choked. We all did. And at some point, she even had to smile.

Yeah, my life was gonna get a lot more interesting for sure.