Too Early for This Shit

Morning hit me like a hammer.

I woke up stiff, cold, and annoyed that the first thing in my head was Sloane Hartwell calling me a caveman. Second thing was the way she’d looked at me when I caught her last night — startled, furious, and something else she’d never admit.

I shoved it down and got dressed.

Grandpa Mike was at the stove, dad reading something on his phone at the table when we exchanged greetings.

Dad didn’t look up from his coffee when he said, “You’re taking the city team out again.”

I groaned. “Why me?”

Grandpa Mike flipped bacon like it owed him money. “Because you already built a relationship with them, you and that lead lady are around the same age, and you’re the only one who can keep them alive. And because your father told you so.”

“Dad can do it. He’s more diplomatic. Or Mom. Or Esmee. She ran a damn company when you met her, and Mom used to work for one. They’re way better at this than me.”

Grandpa’s movements slowed. He turned. Gave me that look. The one that meant I’d already dug my grave and was now furnishing it.

One more word and he’d whoop my ass — and to normies that might sound like abuse, but wolves aren’t normies. In a pack, that’s just how you remind each other who’s wearing the pants. We’re built for it. We can take it.

To us, it’s nothing but a love tap — a dominance nudge, a “watch your mouth” reminder. To a human? Yeah… not so much.

One hit from me could kill a person. One hit from Grandpa could kill a truck.

He stopped in front of me, all eighty years of him still tall, still broad, still able to punch through a wall without breaking a sweat.

“You mean to tell me,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “that the woman who raised you like a grandson, and your own mother, should be out there protecting a group of normies who don’t listen, who are harder to contain than a herd of cats, who already pissed off half the wildlife — the angry boar, the charging elk, the beaver family? And you know damn well rogues get attracted to this area thinking they can steal food. So, you’re saying to my face that you want the women out there when I have a healthy grandson with nothing better to do?”

His face was close enough I could smell the scrambled eggs he’d been sneaking.

“No, Grandpa.”

“Didn’t think so.” He turned back to the stove.

I exhaled — and immediately got whacked on the back of the head.

Dad raised one eyebrow. That eyebrow said everything.

“Got it, Dad.”

“Set the table, you lazy fuck.”

“Okaaaayyy.” I sighed. “Where are Mom and Esmee?”

Both of them gave me the same look.

“Hey, chill. I’m just wondering.”

Dad finally answered. “They left early. Getting ingredients from the Collective. Reminds me — invite that lady friend of yours for dinner tonight.”

“What? She’s not my friend! You stuck me with her! And why?!”

Grandpa barked from the stove, “’Cause your father said so!”

“Dad, come on—” my dad mediated with his dad, who just waved us off with an annoyed headshake. Old people.

Dad explained to me. “Your mother and Ezzy heard Miss Hartwell’s team gets to go home for the weekend, but she has to stay behind to oversee everything and they thought that was awful. So they decided they want her to feel included. Your mother and Ezzy’s wishes are our command, and there is logic behind it all, since we’re the leading family, we should extend the invitation. Also… we want to feel her out about the project.”

“Has she said yes?” I looked doubtful.

“She better, once you ask her. So make it good, son.”

“Me!? If I ask, she’ll definitely say no. Dad, she hates my guts and the feeling is mutual!”

Dad shrugged. “Then ask nicely and be on your best behavior. All that is part of being a leader, swallow your pride for the greater good. And as I said, your mother wants her there. Make it happen, Vince.”

Breakfast felt like my last meal before execution.

Tourguiding

By the time I reached the trailer park, her team was already wandering around like confused tourists.

And then she appeared — hair neat, dress fitted, shoes somehow even less practical than yesterday.

She saw me and visibly deflated.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Morning to you too, sunshine.”

She crossed her arms. “Are you my escort again? Are there really not any other people in this town who know the area?”

“There are. But all of them had better excuses than I did. So here we are. Unfortunately.”

“For whom?”

“For both of us,” I said. “Trust me, I can think of a million things I’d rather do than keep you and those dingbats from getting eaten alive.”

She blinked. “Eaten by what?”

Oops. Freudian slip.

“Wildlife.”

“What kind of wildlife? Everything runs away when humans make noise. Every child knows that.”

I shrugged. “Big kind. They don’t care. They know they’re stronger.”

She frowned. “Bears?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Something like that.”

Worse. Much, much worse. If only Little Red Riding Hood knew the big bad wolf was her guide.

She sighed. “Well, you ready to go then?” She looked at me like I was a giant cockroach.

“Ready for what?”

“To head out. Here.” She shoved a map at me, a red circle drawn around a section.

“You know where that is?”

“Yep.”

“Then let’s go.”

“What about your entourage?”

“Just a small group today.” She turned to the men loitering around, laughing, ignoring her.

“Excuse me! Hello? Guys, we can leave now. Helloooo?! HEY!?”

Nothing.

I whistled — sharp, loud, enough to startle squirrels out of trees.

They jumped like they’d been shot.

I gave them a glare and jerked my head. They scrambled.

Sloane stomped off — in the wrong direction. I caught up, grabbed her arm, and steered her the right way.

Fantastic. I had to ask her to dinner while babysitting her and a group of unmotivated… whatever they were. None of them looked like they could lift anything heavier than Sloane.

Why me?

We hiked for an hour in blessed silence before she stopped dead.

“Vincent… is this normal?”

I stepped beside her.

A tree trunk was raked open by claws. Deep. Fresh. Too fresh.

You could still smell sap.

Her breath hitched. “That’s not a bear.”

“Sure it is,” I lied.

“No. Bears don’t do that.”

“Some do.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you lying to me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I absolutely was.

One of the crew swallowed hard. “Should we… go back?”

“No,” I said. “We stay on the trail. We stay together. We’ll be fine.”

You’ll be fine. I’m not worried about me.

Sloane moved closer to me.

Not that I noticed.

Her team was a disaster. They wandered off the trail twice, nearly stepped into a ravine once, and somehow managed to piss off a family of raccoons.

Sloane was furious.

“This is impossible. I cannot work like this. I cannot think like this. I cannot—”

“Breathe.”

She glared. “Don’t tell me to breathe.”

“Then stop panicking.”

“I am not panicking.”

“You’re vibrating.”

“I am cold.”

“Yeah, because you’re still not wearing appropriate clothing.”

“I am fine.”

“You’re not.”

She opened her mouth to argue — slipped — and would’ve face‑planted if I hadn’t caught her by the waist.

Her hands hit my chest. Her breath caught. Her eyes widened.

We froze.

Again.

“Let go,” she whispered, glancing at her crew.

“Say please.”

She shoved me so hard I almost laughed.

Dinner Invites From Hell

By the time we got back, she was exhausted, muddy, and furious at the entire concept of nature.

Her team thanked me. She didn’t.

She just looked at me — tired, annoyed, and something else simmering — and said:

“Same time tomorrow?”

I smirked. “Can’t wait.”

She rolled her eyes and stomped away.

Then I remembered the dinner.

Goddammit.

I jogged after her, catching her right as she reached her trailer. She turned, suspicious.

“Umm… my mother and my father and my grandfather and his wife… uh… well… you know… my—”

Her lips twitched. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘family.’”

I smirked despite myself. “Yeah. Family. My family would like to invite you to dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?” She said it like it was a foreign concept — or like she knew exactly what it meant and hated it.

“Yes. My mom and Ezzy cooked specifically with you in mind. As a welcome to our… region.”

“You want me to have dinner with you?”

“No! I mean— not me. I mean, I would likely be there, but it’s with my mom and Ezzy and Grandpa Mike and my dad— he’s the— uh—”

She folded her arms, amused. “I could watch this all night. But I’m cold and sweaty and I want to shower, so just to get you to go away: sure. I’ll come. Where do you live?”

“I can pick you up.”

“Oh god, no. I don’t want to be seen with you any more than absolutely necessary.”

Ouch. That one stung.

I tried not to sound as grumpy as I felt while explaining the way to our house.

The Walk of Mutual Suffering

Well, the dinner went better than expected.

My family managed to act mostly civilized. Sloane didn’t spar with me the way she usually does. And if I hadn’t felt like I was being interviewed for a job I didn’t apply for, it might’ve even been pleasant. Wolves are always hungry, but despite Mom and Ezzy cooking enough to feed a battalion, I could barely get a bite down.

Naturally, Mom volunteered me to walk Sloane home.

The walk was quiet. Too quiet. We passed the Pack Lodge, where a few townies were lingering outside. They wolf‑whistled and howled — until Grandpa Mike stepped out behind us. I didn’t even have to look. In my peripheral vision, I saw him heading their way, and men half his age scattered like dogs who knew they’d pissed off the wrong alpha.

Sloane and I kept walking. Silence. Cold air. Awkwardness thick enough to chew.

When we reached her trailer, she turned, looking just as uncomfortable as I felt. We exchanged a few polite words — the bare minimum — and she slipped inside. I turned back toward home, grateful and irritated in equal measure.

A New Normal (Sort Of)

After that, things between us… improved. Not by much. Not enough to call it friendly. But the edges were less sharp.

She still had her odd city ideas. I still had my backwoods allergy to anything complicated.

But we weren’t actively trying to strangle each other anymore. Progress.

One afternoon, we’d just returned from a site walk. The suits were bent over maps and drawings, Sloane standing by to answer questions, and I was lingering nearby in case they needed anything else.

I should’ve sensed her coming. Normally I would have.

But I was… distracted. Staring at Sloane.

So when someone covered my eyes from behind, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I spun around and found myself staring into violet eyes framed by long, icy‑blonde hair — right before I got pulled into a hug I definitely didn’t ask for.

I grabbed her by the upper arm and hauled her out of sight.

When I let go, she was giggling.

“Oooh, love the fire, wolfie.”

“Don’t call me that. And what are you doing here? Are you insane, just waddling into wolf territory?” I hissed, keeping my voice low. Her expression shifted from amused to stubborn — her default setting — as she crossed her arms.

“Yeah, nice to see you too. How have I been? Doing great. Lots to tell you — which you’d know if you hadn’t missed the last TWO get‑togethers. Your mom too. And my mom told me to tell both of you that you — and I quote — SUCK.”

I grimaced.

“Yeah, sorry. We’re kinda preoccupied with…” I gestured toward the planning crew. “That shit over there.”

Eirwen stepped out of the bushes to get a better look, hands on her hips.

“Okay, and what exactly is that ‘shit’ supposed to be when it’s done?”

“Some company bought the last of the government land. They want to build a resort so rich people can pretend to rough it without getting their shoes dirty. That’s all I know.”

She snorted. “Wow. My dad would’ve run them off before they unpacked.”

“Well, your dad is a several‑centuries‑old mage who lives in a gloomy purple swamp where no normie would ever want to build anything beyond an outhouse.”

“Millennia,” she corrected. “And it’s a bog. A magical one. Plus, downtown Ravenwood is beautiful and only a short walk away, you mangy critter. And yes, developers have tried. Between my dad, Leeora, Caterina, and the Orlovs, we disabused them of that idea real fast. You should do the same. Can’t you transform and go over there? They’d be gone in seconds. I’ve seen your wolf form. Not for the faint‑hearted.”

“Yeah, and then they come back with the full government force. Do you not remember the meeting where all the occult leaders agreed we had to stay invisible? The one after Blaine and Scarlett got forced to move to Forgotten Hollow? Damon wouldn’t shut up about it for months.”

“He still hasn’t shut up about it.” She rolled her eyes. “His hot nurse girlfriend basically moved in with him and his parents because her brother’s kids are old enough to notice she doesn’t age. Cesare moved her into the castle. Damon found it cringe because Caelan kept hovering, so he complained to Grammie and Grampa until they let her stay. Blaine and Scarlett live across the plaza and showed up the other day. Blaine wore a shirt that said ‘If I want your opinion, I’ll remove the duct tape,’ and pointed at it every time Damon tried to stop him from interrogating poor Ceryn. Damon was so upset he thought she’d dump him because of Blaine.”

“Well, every time I see Blaine, he barks at me and pretends to throw things for me to fetch. So yeah. Poor Damon.”

“Poor Damon? He’s a Coven Enforcer. Aren’t they supposed to be strong and—”

I slapped my hand over her mouth the second I saw Sloane approaching. My hand practically covered Eirwen’s whole face. She wriggled like a feral cat.

Sloane stopped short, eyes wide.

“Umm… hate to interrupt…”

I let go. Eirwen immediately unleashed a tirade of insults that would’ve made a sailor blush.

Still fuming, she turned her glare on Sloane. “What do YOU want?”

“Eirwen, shut up.”

“Why? Because I have balls and you don’t?”

“We talked about this! Shut up — PLEASE.”

She huffed but obeyed, arms crossed, shooting daggers at both of us.

Sloane cleared her throat. “Vincent, could you come look at the route plan for tomorrow? The projected spa site.”

“Sure.” I forced a polite smile, then turned to Eirwen. “Wait for me at home.” Not a request.

“Sure. I’ll bake you a lovely cake while I eagerly await your arrival,” she deadpanned, then spun on her heel so fast her braid nearly took my eye out.

Sloane definitely had thoughts about all of this. She said none of them.

And I still hadn’t figured out how to explain that the feral blonde menace was my cousin.

Three Weeks of the Same Bullshit

I’ll fast‑forward through the next three weeks — just slightly different versions of the same bullshit on repeat.

I woke up every morning to my dad reminding me to keep an eye on the construction site like it was gospel being hammered into my skull.

My mornings to early afternoons were spent dragging the city folk around the forest, making sure they didn’t fall off cliffs or get mauled by something they thought was “cute.”

Lunch at home. Sometimes helping the guys clear trees for the future build sites — real work, the kind that paid well and made sense.

Dinner with the family. Then the Pack Lodge for drinks until I was ready to collapse.

Rinse. Repeat.

Something you should know about wolves — and I mean all of us, across the board — we thrive on routine. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just predictable.

So when one weekend Sloane was suddenly gone, my entire internal clock went haywire.

Apparently the whole city crew took off for a long Independence Day weekend.

Three days without my routine.

By the end of day one, I was miserable. Didn’t know if I was coming or going. Sure, Moonwood Mill had BBQs and fireworks, but it all felt like any other Sunday when someone had a birthday.

Eirwen invited Damon and me to the Bay — Brindleton Bay — where the rich folks put on firework displays that cost more than my truck.

We went. We drank. We were bored out of our skulls.

Two beers in, she grimaced at me and said we should go to San Myshuno instead. “Find some real fun.” Damon tapped out and went home. Eirwen and I weren’t ready for our usual routines so we went.

We screamed along with the crowds in the streets, then she dragged me into a club. If it wasn’t obvious before, I’m not the clubbing type. Wolves have enhanced senses even in human form — loud people and louder bass are torture.

Eventually Eirwen gave up trying to peel me out of every dark corner that wasn’t already occupied by couples making out. She yanked me out the back door.

The sudden quiet of the alley made my ears ring. She had to yell to tell me this was the same alley where Damon had his “fateful night” with Leonie — the one who later showed up with a baby everyone thought was his. Including him.

Turned out not to be. But it was a can of worms none of us needed.

“Why is that noteworthy?” I shouted.

She shrugged.

We wandered. San Myshuno never sleeps — always noise somewhere — but the back alleys are dark and straight out of every horror movie ever made.

We turned into another one of those alleys. Nobody in their right mind would pick a fight with me. And if they thought Eirwen was easy prey, they’d learn fast — and probably not survive the lesson.

She looked unassuming. But I’d seen her dad in action. And he adored her to the point of obsession. No way he didn’t teach her everything he knew.

So we walked. Just two idiots who looked like a mismatched couple trying to find their way home.

The ringing in my ears finally faded — and that’s when I felt it.

A wolf instinct. No name for it. Just a pull.

I stopped. Eirwen turned, hands out in a silent question.

I didn’t answer. I just moved.

She followed, boots clicking fast behind me.

We turned into a narrow alley — and found three young women cornered by four drunk men. One guy had his hands all over one of them. She was screaming. The others were sobbing. The men were taunting, laughing, unbuttoning pants.

“Oh, hell no,” Eirwen snapped — and took off.

I had no choice but to follow.

She shouted at them. They turned. Grinned. Thought they’d just added a fourth option to their drunken nightmare.

Then they saw me. And tensed.

“Get lost, Frankenstein!” one of them barked.

I knew then this wasn’t going to be easy. I’d hoped my size alone would send them running.

Nope.

One swung at me immediately. I dodged, reacting fast but careful — I wasn’t trying to kill anyone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another guy grab Eirwen, shove her into a wall, corner her, and start undoing his pants.

I tried to get to her — but she didn’t need me.

He forced her hand downward — and her expression shifted. Calm. Cold. Focused. Then she grinned. That evil kind of grin. The kind that says, you’re about to regret every life choice you’ve ever made.

She clamped down on his twig‑and‑berry region like she was testing a new bench vise.

The guy screamed. Then screamed louder. Blue light flickered in his pants.

She was electrocuting his favorite body part.

Ouch.

As a man, I was hurting in solidarity.
As her cousin, I was applauding the craftsmanship — hoping she’d turn his sausage and eggs into a permanent cautionary tale.

Another guy lunged at me. One punch — controlled, but hard — and he was done for the night.

When I looked back, Eirwen was crouched beside two of the women, who were sobbing and shaking.

And then I saw her.

“Sloane?”

She didn’t react. But it was her.

Something in me snapped.

I grabbed the two remaining guys — the ones who hadn’t gotten theirs yet — and slammed their heads together hard enough to guarantee concussions. They dropped.

Eirwen tended to the other girls. I crouched in front of Sloane, her shirt torn. I took off my coat and wrapped it around her.

She finally looked at me — but through me.

We tried to take them to the hospital, but they refused. So, we walked them home.

Two of them wanted to stay together. Eirwen handled that.

I took Sloane.

She was in shock. Couldn’t even unlock her apartment door. Her hands shook too hard.

I took the keys and opened it for her.

She walked inside and collapsed onto the couch, pulling her knees up and crying.

I started to leave — but it felt wrong.

I called her name. “Sloane?”

Nothing. Just quiet sobbing.

“Sloane… do you need something? Should I take you to a doctor?” No reaction.

I texted Eirwen. She told me not to leave her alone.

So I wiped my boots on her doormat — don’t ask me why — and stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

I stood there awkwardly, offering water, coffee, a sandwich — anything. Dumb, I know, but it did get her to stop sobbing.

She glared at me like I’d donated my brain.

Then she got up, walked to the kitchen, opened the freezer, grabbed a bottle, and chugged half of it.

I pulled it from her. Vodka.
“Hey. Hang on. You don’t want to get sick on top of everything else.”

She stared at me — and then promptly vomited at my feet.

I jumped back, noticed her swaying hard, so I grabbed her before she fell, and tried to guide her — but she passed out mid‑step.

I caught her. Stood there holding her in my arms, brain buffering.

This was far outside my comfort zone and above my pay grade. Finally, I came up with a plan. A woman, drunk, traumatized, passed out needs a bed. So there. A plan.

I found her bedroom. Tried to take off her shirt because it was torn and soiled — then realized how bad that looked. Tried to put it back on. She rolled away and burrowed into her pillow.

I sighed, covered her, and left quietly.

The Morning After … Sort Of (Kill Me Now)

Tuesday morning, I’d barely taken ten steps toward the jobsite when she came at me like a freight train.

“Were you at my apartment Sunday night!?”

“Umm… well…”

“So it was you. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it. So you and your girlfriend helped my friends and me?”

“Cousin.”

“What?”

“Eirwen is my cousin. Not my girlfriend.”

“Oh.” her face remained in surprised mode, then quickly changed to the usual arrogance. “Right, well, who cares? But that was you. That was real?”

“Uh… yeah.”

She gasped — then hugged me.

I froze. Arms stiff at my sides. Eyes wide.

She let go, cheeks pink. Mine, not hers.

“Thank you. That was really nice of you.” she said genuinely.

“Yeah. You’re welcome.”

We malfunctioned at each other for a moment. Then she cleared her throat and nodded toward the jobsite.

We walked.

“Oh, Vincent?”

“Hm?”

“Did YOU take my top off?”

I jerked. Tried to hide it. Shook my head.

“Hm. Odd. I must’ve done it in my sleep. I’ve done that before — went to bed in my pajamas and woke up without them.”

She giggled awkwardly.

I cringed so hard my soul entered a new dimension.

Why would you tell a man that? What heterosexual man on earth hears something like that and does NOT immediately picture it? And not at appropriate times — oh no. No, that image was now permanently filed under “will pop up at the worst possible moment.”

I cleared my throat, trying to force my brain back online.

“Yeah. Must’ve. You inhaled half a bottle of vodka from your freezer.”

“Oh crap, that was me? Was hoping you got a little thirsty.”

“I don’t break into people’s freezers for booze. I’m a beer guy. Nobody keeps that in freezers.”

“Right.” she mumbled, then jerked her head back toward me “Did I throw up on you in my living room?”

“Just about. Near miss.”

“Oh my God.” She grimaced. “Vincent?”

“Hm?”

“Any chance you could maybe forget about all that? I can give you some money.”

I groaned. “Keep your money. Already forgotten.”

She nodded.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

She blinked — then realized my clever comeback was also my answer. She smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She turned to walk— Then paused.

“Oh, but Vincent?”

Her tone changed. That tone. The one she used when she was about to ruin my day on purpose.

“…Yeah?”

She folded her arms, all business again.

“You really couldn’t have mopped up the sick from my living room floor before you left?”

I stared at her.

She kept going.

“It was there for almost twelve hours. Twelve — and on my hardwood floor. It still smells like it, even though I bought two very expensive air fresheners and opened every window and—”

I swear I heard tires screeching. Like my inner peace hit a brick wall at 90 miles an hour.

All the warmth, all the gratitude, all the soft edges from two seconds ago?

Dead. Buried. Scorched earth. Salted for good measure.

My brain just shut down. Full system failure. Blue screen of death.

I turned away with a low growl and headed straight for the breakfast table the crew set up every morning, because I would rather face lukewarm coffee, stale pastries, and the entire construction team at once than another second of that woman.

Anything but that woman.