Bloodmoon – Like Wolves in the Night

You know how sometimes circumstances stack up into the oddest coincidences?

Like how, after at least a decade of looking for love in all the wrong places, something that started as one of the biggest nuisances of my entire lifetime somehow ended with me finding the woman I love — the woman who upended her entire life for me and who would, in the very foreseeable future, make me a father of twins.

Yeah, like that.

Even though, well… this one is a bit different. Started crazy again.

Fractures and Fault Lines

Sloane had been invited to one of those team‑building work retreat things. As I’ve mentioned many times, her field is a very male‑dominated business, and while she can bulldoze through an average day with her well‑known feistiness, this retreat felt ambitious, she had come a long way to controlling her inner wolf, but still had another long way ahead till my father, the Alpha or I, the future Alpha, would consider her stable — especially considering she was also battling her pregnancy.

Most retreats allow spouses.
This one did not.

So, I was booked into a motel offsite but close to the resort, and using her pregnancy as an excuse, Sloane would sneak out pretending exhaustion, but in reality, she’d come to see me once the actual team‑building nonsense was over and the schedule shifted into R&R.

Yeah. Sneaking around seemed to be our brand.

By now she had a pretty good handle on her inner beast, but that was, of course, another reason I usually followed her like a shadow these days. Even more often than I’d like at family events.
Yes, those were still intense. No, I would never enjoy them. Especially since her mother was now convinced I must have kicked or beaten her white fluffball for him to barely enter my field of vision.
Since Sloane and I could hardly explain that I never touched him — only half‑shifted into a huge werewolf — we let it go. She didn’t have a great opinion of me anyway, but she had realized I was the father of her next batch of grandkiddies, so she did her best to tolerate me.

We had since been invited to Blair and Evan’s fancy‑ass house — model “keeping up with the Joneses” — two doors down from Blair and Sloane’s parents. Hostile turf for sure.

Look, their neighborhood was your usual suburbia: the usual homes, each built to look individual but still somehow all the same. Except this one. Something about it.

It was Reagan’s birthday — Blair and Evan’s daughter. The home was still newly built; everything smelled like new stone, fresh cement, new paint, wood, carpets, furniture. Even the pool in the backyard was just finished enough to be used.

“We” had brought a gift that was all Sloane, but the little girl thanked both of us with sweet words and polite hugs, leaving me feeling like a fraud. I had no clue what to buy for little girls, which led me into a near pre‑parental panic about being a future girl‑dad. But I had just as little clue about little boys, so… yeah.

Blair and Evan were the perfect couple and perfect hosts.

Still, I couldn’t relax — and it felt like nobody else did either.

Some weeks later we ended up in San Myshuno for another kid’s birthday — this time Milo, Sloane and Blair’s cousin Jace’s kid.

Now, I will say, I had zero hope, but the first moment I walked into their apartment, I felt at home. It was very clearly a three‑generation bachelor pad. Rick came over and hugged us — which felt real — then offered me a beer, fully drinkable and enjoyable.

Blair, Evan, and the kids were the ones looking uncomfortable, while Eleanor walked around literally sliding her finger across surfaces to highlight the accumulation of dust. When Rick and Jace didn’t react to her not‑so‑subtle hints, she started dropping pointy verbal ones — until Rick pointed her to a hallway closet full of cleaning supplies.

“Knock yourself out, sweetheart,” he smirked, winking at me when he noticed me turning away because I couldn’t hide my laugh.

They left early. Sloane had fallen asleep on their couch, and I played cards with Rick and Jace until late into the night. When I realized Sloane wasn’t going to wake up on her own, I carried her to her apartment from there.

I’m going to say that I’ve hung out with Rick and Jace several more times — without Sloane even — and we’re pretty much buddies now. I didn’t see that one coming either. They’re seriously cool dudes. Guess not all Hartwells are created equal. Maybe Paul was cool once, before Eleanor got a hold of him. I’d ask Rick at some point.

Anyway, all that to say: this time Sloane and I were temporarily sneaking around Willow Creek — another place I never thought I’d ever see, never had much interest in.
Sloane and I were wandering around after dinner — a Cajun place she wanted to try which to me tasted like they tried to hide low quality cooking with tons of spices. We got lost on the way back to my motel, strolling through neighborhoods I’d never cared to see.

Then Sloane froze.
Grabbed me.
Dragged me into someone’s shrubs.

I thought she wanted to make out — pregnancy hormones had her libido set to “feral” — but she turned my head sharply.

Down the street.

“Holy shit, is that Evan—” I blurted out, Sloane slapped her hand over my mouth so fast I nearly bit her.

Yup, it sure as heck was him, sucking the face off a redhead in lingerie and a bathrobe that was basically a suggestion.

We must’ve looked insane — two grown adults crouched in a bougainvillea bush, mouths open, eyes wide, her hands gripping my jaw like she was trying to keep me from yelling again.

Sloane recovered first. Fire in her eyes. Ready to storm over and commit a felony.

I stopped her, firmly.

“No.”

She looked like she might cry — which made me want to go rip Evan’s spine out.

“They’re about to—” she hissed.

“Sloane. Look at them. They already have. And this isn’t the first time.”

She made a strangled noise and fumbled for her phone.
I took it gently.

“You’re not calling Blair.”

“If you had a sister, you would understand! I have to!”

“And tell her what? ‘Hey Blair, I’m sneaking around with the guy you and Mom hate and guess who we ran into with that freshly fucked glow on his face? That’s right, your perfect husband turned out to not be so perfect after all – surprise.’”

She pouted. Because she knew I was right.

The rest of the night was ruined.
So was the retreat.

Building Toward Something

Once we were back home — well, my home — Sloane still insisted I drop her off at her trailer. Sigh.

I didn’t like it, but… happy … well … girlfriend, happy life.

When I wasn’t babysitting my girlfriend — who was not only incubating two small editions of us but also secretly learning how to be in control of her inner werewolf — I took on every side hustle I could get my hands on.

Rebuild a rotten deck? Yup.

Haul off a junked garage so a car could fit again? I am your man.

Need anything built out of wood? Here, present.

I’m not even joking — I even helped Sloane’s crews clear trees for the project for some extra pay, hauled off the wood with them, then snuck some of it after hours and sold it as timber. Every dollar counted.

The days blurred together: the smell of sawdust in my hair, the sting of splinters in my palms, the weight of lumber on my shoulder, the hum of cicadas in the late afternoon, the metallic clank of tools tossed into the truck bed.

I’d come home bone‑tired, clothes sticking to my skin, hands raw — but it felt good. Honest. Like I was building something real for once.

Because I wanted to buy her a ring.
I wanted to give her a wedding and a honeymoon she wouldn’t just… accept.
Something she’d actually want.

But man, all that crap was really expensive.
So I’d come to terms with the fact that our kids might well be in school before that was gonna happen. Not what I wanted, but it was either that or rush into something barely mediocre.
See, normally relationships build slowly, at some point you see the writing on the wall, that your girl is wife material, so you start saving for that ring. When/if she said yes, you start saving for the wedding, together. And after that, you start talking and saving up for a mini-you.
In our case, my decision that I wanted Sloane forever came after she told me she was pregnant. After she was bitten by the rogue wolf. And after it finally sunk in that her being pregnant meant I was gonna be a dad. There was no time to save up for any more than one of those fancy dinners she likes.

Two days later, Friday afternoon, Sloane showed up at my place.

Dad, Grandpa, and I were upstairs working on what would eventually become our space — new floors, new walls, new everything. The whole upper level smelled like sawdust and fresh‑cut lumber, sunlight slanting through the plastic‑covered windows in dusty golden beams. The house echoed with the usual soundtrack of renovation: the rhythmic thud of hammers, the scrape of sanders, Grandpa’s creative swearing drifting down the hallway. Tools buzzed and clattered, sawdust hung in the air like a permanent fog, and I was mid‑swing with a mallet when I heard boots on the stairs.

Sloane appeared in the doorway — hair wind‑tossed, cheeks flushed, eyes locked on me like she had a mission.

Before I could say a word, she crossed the room, kissed me like she’d missed me, greeted the others, then said to me:

“Shower. Dress nice. Now.”

I frowned at her, still holding the mallet.

She didn’t wait for a response.
She spun on her heel and marched back down the stairs.
Dad and Grandpa exchanged looks — then the teasing started.

“Oh boy, you’re in trouble now.”

“Getting your taste of married life already. Tell her to stop taking classes from Ezzy.”

“What did you do this time, son? Looks like you’re in for a spanking, and not the good kind.” Dad grinned.

“Should’ve run when you heard her boots. She’s got ya hook, line and sinker now, kiddo.” Grandpa snickered.

I ignored them and headed downstairs, sawdust still clinging to my shirt.

“Why am I dressing up?” I asked once I reached my bedroom, where she had already laid out her selections from my closet on the bed.

“It’s just a collared shirt and clean, dark jeans,” she said.

“I see that,” I said, hands on my hips. “That is pretty dressed up for me. For what though?”

“We’re going to Blair’s.”

“Sloane…”

“No!” She spun around, eyes blazing. “She invited us to dinner, we are absolutely going, so get dressed and prepare to help me roast my lying, cheating brother‑in‑law. I might just bite his head off. Like… literally.”

She said it half‑joking — but there was a new undertone there. A sharpness. A reminder she was still learning control.

It gave me the bitter aftertaste I needed to shut up, get in the shower, and get ready. I knew that if I said no, she would still go — and I didn’t trust her level of control yet to allow that. I wasn’t only romantically involved; I was also the future Alpha, and I had responsibility.

Add that to my mounting pile of stuff I didn’t feel ready for.
I was a lot closer to being Alpha than we all thought.
Dad once told me that he was about to make it official just around the time the news about the babies broke. So he didn’t, to give me some time to adjust to fatherhood, but I had a feeling there would be a shift in power before my kids could even walk. Dad was done with the Alpha business, and honestly, him saying I was ready was a high honor among wolves. It’s basically crowning me a king of all wolves in the region. But it came with responsibilities. The patrols, dealing with rogues, with issues, with discord among our pack and the neighboring pack. So far I had helped. I was pretty mellow for the most part, I am sure you would agree. That was because my inner wolf ran hot. If I got angry, really angry, things could go South very fast. Once I was Alpha, I sometimes would have to show my anger, my beast, to remind the others I was the Alpha not only because I was from the strongest bloodline of wolves, but also because I deserved it.

So, here we were now — in the Langford’s posh show‑off home with the show‑offees, Blair and Evan, smiling their perfect smiles.

We’d had the perfect dinner in the perfect dining room at the perfectly set table, the kids behaving perfectly… and finally we were allowed to get up off the perfectly uncomfortable but elegant chairs. We dispersed with our cake and coffee — which was actually really tasty, well… what little I got to enjoy before Sloane plucked the plate right out of my hand before dragging me down some hallway …

Confronted

Sloane didn’t knock.
She shoved the office door open like she owned the place.

Evan jerked upright behind his desk, nearly dropping his phone.

“Sloane—hey,” he said, voice cracking. “Vincent. Uh… everything okay?”

He tried to smile. It twitched at the edges like a dying lightbulb.

Sloane stepped inside, slow and deliberate, closing the door behind us with a soft click that sounded a lot like a trap being sprung.

“Cut the crap,” she said, turning to him sharply.

Evan blinked. “What?”

“You know what. If you don’t, then take a really wild guess why we are here looking very pissed.”

He looked at me for backup.
I didn’t move. I just crossed my arms and leaned against the door.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

Sloane planted her hands on his desk, leaning in.

“Let me jog your memory then. Willow Creek,” she said. “Last week. Some typical scenic neighborhood. Redhead. Lingerie. You were trying to suck the lips off her after clearly rocking her world just prior. Ringing any bells? Or is that just a thing you do so much of that your can’t remember which chick you gnoshed around on during your so-called ‘business trips’ while your wife and kids are back home?”

Evan’s face drained of color so fast it was almost impressive.

“I—I don’t—”

“Don’t lie,” I said, voice low. “We saw you and I am even less famous for patience than Sloane.”

His eyes snapped to mine.
He knew I wasn’t bluffing.

Sloane pulled her phone out, thumb hovering over the screen.

“You want to see the pictures?” she asked. “I took a few, it was getting dark but modern technology, man, I tell you what they came out really clear, you can almost see her nipples and your buddy standing at attention in your dress pants you piece of shit!”

Evan’s breath hitched. “Delete it.”

“Oh no. No-no-no. No,” she said. “That’s not how this works.”

“What do you want? Money?”

“No, we don’t want your money, Evan. Not everything can be bought, you know! I want you to tell Blair. Fess up and beg for forgiveness.”

“Sloane …”

“You tell her, or I will.”

He shook his head violently. “No. No, you can’t—think about your sister! She’ll—she’ll fall apart. And what about the kids? Think of your niece and nephew, Sloane!”

“You should’ve thought about that before you stuck your tongue down someone else’s throat – and other body parts, you nasty waste of skin,” Sloane snapped.

Evan’s panic sharpened.
He stepped around the desk like he might try to grab the phone from her, but I moved before he could blink — one step forward, shoulders squared. My eyes daring him to try put hands on my woman and think he’d live to tell the tale.

He stopped dead.

“Don’t,” I warned.

He backed up, flinched like I’d slapped him.

“I made a mistake,” he whispered.

“You made several,” I corrected. “You’re not talking to idiots here. That wasn’t the first visit with that one — you were way too familiar. Don’t even try to lie, or Sloane and I will drive right back to Willow Creek and ask her to confirm.”

He glared at me then — a flash of something ugly.

“You two don’t get to judge me in my own home,” he spat. “You’re not exactly saints. Sneaking around behind everyone’s backs — and then just presenting all of us with a guy like that as your partner, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, a pregnancy as well. Who does that? We still don’t even know him! But it’s pretty clear you’ll be the one paying the bills for a family of four. Do you have any idea what you got yourself into here, and with a man who can’t pull his own weight in life?”

Ouch. Tell us how you really feel about me.

Sloane’s jaw clenched so hard I heard her teeth grind.

I have to admit — it was flattering to see her wearing the same one-more-word-and-I-will-rip-your-face-off-and-shove-it-up-your-rear expression I get when someone disrespects her. But I was more worried about her wolf showing through. Evan must not know about that. He was a loose cannon.

I stepped forward before she launched herself over the desk.

“Calm,” I murmured.

She trembled with anger but stayed put, chest rising and falling too fast.

I turned back to Evan.

“You’re going to tell her,” I said. “Soon.”

He shook his head again, desperate. “You don’t understand — that will ruin this family. Is that what you want?”

“That’s not your call anymore,” Sloane said, her voice low and dangerous. “You made your choices. Now it’s Blair’s turn.”

He looked between us — the pregnant woman with fire in her eyes and the huge dude blocking the only exit. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His fingers twitched on the edge of the desk.

Then he broke.

He dropped into his chair like his legs gave out.

“Fine,” he whispered. “I’ll tell her.”

Sloane straightened, chin high, shoulders squared like she was holding up the whole damn house by herself.

“And Evan?” I added.

I stepped closer, leaning down just enough that only he heard me.

“I don’t have much say in how you conduct yourself in your marriage. But your cheating made Sloane cry — because she doesn’t need your help to remember what that truth will do to her sister. So if you ever make my girl cry again with your BS, I won’t need an invite to come back here. And I will come alone.”

He swallowed so hard I heard it. Loud. Sharp. Fearful.

We left him sitting there, shaking behind his perfect desk in his perfect house, while the neighborhood outside carried on like nothing had happened.

So, that was out.

Fallout

We’d been out on the job site since sunrise, the kind of morning where the fog burns off slow and the air smells like pine sap and diesel. Chainsaws buzzed in the distance, axes cracked through roots, and the crew was hauling brush into piles while I worked a mattock into a stubborn tangle of roots. Sweat ran down my spine, my shirt stuck to me, and the whole clearing echoed with the rhythm of men who knew how to work with their hands.

Sloane had been sitting on the tailgate, sipping water and pretending she wasn’t exhausted, when her phone rang. She stepped away from the noise, one hand on her belly, the other gripping the phone. I saw the color drain from her face. Her eyes widened. And before I could even straighten up, she was already moving.

She didn’t say a word. Just grabbed her keys, climbed into the SUV, and tore down the dirt road so fast the tires spat gravel.

“What’s with her?” one of the laborers asked, like I kept her schedule in my back pocket.

“How would I know? Do I look like her secretary?!” I snapped, and the looks the rest of the crew exchanged spoke volumes.

Yeah. Beyond me why Sloane tried so hard to keep up appearances. Clearly they knew we were in deep with each other.

Not five minutes later, her SUV came barreling back, fishtailing slightly in the mud before she slammed it to a stop. She leaned out the driver’s side window and barked my name like the forest was on fire.

“You coming?!”

I jogged over, ready to give her hell for nearly mowing down half the crew, but the second I saw her face — the fury, the panic, the tears she was trying to blink away — everything in me shifted.

“Get in the fucking car, Vince.”

The crew behind me erupted into jokes about me being whipped. Without looking back, I lifted my arm and flipped them off, earning a wave of loud cheers as I pulled open the driver’s side door.

“Get in the fucking passenger seat, ’cause you are not driving like this!” I barked, reclaiming some of my manliness.

To my surprise, she didn’t argue. Didn’t even glare. She just climbed across the center console and made room for me. Very un‑Sloane‑like.

“Where are we going?” I asked as I climbed in, slamming the door shut.

“To Blair’s, of course! Just drive already!”

“Of course,” I sighed, fastening my seat belt.

Ah. So that’s what happened. Evan actually did it. He told Blair, and she called her sister in a panic. Now everything started making sense again. I steered the car toward the main road and away from the audience.

But before we even reached the highway, her breath hitched — once, twice — and then she broke.

Her voice cracked. She started crying. Real crying — the kind that hits from somewhere deep. I pulled over immediately, gravel crunching under the tires, and reached for her, pulling her into my arms before she could fold in on herself.

“Promise me you would never do that to me. And our kids!”

“Of course not,” I said, holding her tight. “I’m a lot of things, but not that. You know me better than that. Nobody in my family has ever cheated on their partners. We may occasionally cheat at cards and board games, but not in matters of the heart.”

“Do I though?” she whispered, voice trembling. “Do I know you? I mean, how well do we really know each other, Vince? We barely just met — not even a year ago. I know so little about you. I barely have an idea of the horrible music you like, I don’t know your favorite color except… plaid, apparently… I don’t know your favorite food, your favorite childhood memory…” Her breath hitched. “Blair and Evan were high‑school sweethearts, then drifted after graduation, then re‑met in college when he transferred to her campus. I mean… if they don’t know each other… and now this?!”

I pushed her back just enough so she could see my eyes. My hand went to my chest, steady and deliberate.

“We don’t have a long history,” I said quietly, “but you know more about me than anyone outside my family. And I hold a secret you have to keep from everyone else. I didn’t abandon you when I had the chance — before we created something together nobody should walk away from. Before you pledged your life to the moon… and to me.”

Her breathing slowed. Her fingers curled into my shirt.

“And as Evan just proved,” I added, “no matter how well you think you know a person, you never really do. You know everything about me that matters. The rest will come in time.”

For a moment, the whole world — the job site, the crew, the trees, the panic — fell away, leaving just us in the quiet of the woods.

Rotten at the Core

Sloane wiped her face with the back of her hand, took a shaky breath, and finally managed, “We have to go. Now. She needs me.”

The whole drive into Newcrest, I kept one hand on the wheel and the other holding hers. She was breathing too fast, eyes too wide. I kept my hand on her thigh, grounding her, even though my own pulse was climbing. Whatever Blair was like on a normal day, this wasn’t going to be normal. I was worried about Sloane, about the pregnancy, and even about Blair. She wasn’t my favorite person in the world, but she was the sister of my favorite person.

And Sloane wasn’t wrong — we didn’t know each other the way most couples do by the time they got to where we already were. I knew even less about her family. I had no idea what a Blair looked like under pressure. Could be anything. Some people cry. Some people shut down. Some people go nuclear.

My brain, being the helpful bastard it is, immediately supplied the worst‑case scenarios. Mrs. Perfect having a full‑blown meltdown. Mrs. Perfect driving herself and the kids into a lake. Mrs. Perfect cutting off Evan’s manparts with the kitchen shears. All things that have been in the news before — and all things my imagination was more than happy to run with.

Because when you don’t know someone, your mind fills in the blanks with the darkest crayons in the box.

By the time we turned onto their street, you could feel the tension from inside the car. The Hartwell house looked the same as always — perfect lawn, perfect hedges, perfect shutters — but the front door was cracked open, and that alone told me everything was very, very wrong.

I mean, sure — this neighborhood was probably the kind of place with a 24/7 watch group, cameras on every porch, and alarms that called the cops before you even finished breaking in. But still. We didn’t leave doors open at my home. And if someone was stupid enough to break into a werewolves’ house, they deserved whatever they got.

But here? Here, an open door meant something else entirely. Something human. Something bad.

I didn’t even make much of an effort to park straight. I killed the engine halfway into the driveway as Sloane bolted out before the car fully stopped. I was right behind her.

We could hear Blair from the sidewalk.

Not crying.

Screaming.

Not words at first — just raw, animal panic. Then the words hit, sharp and breaking:

“HOW COULD YOU— HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”

Sloane froze for half a second on the porch, her hand hovering over the doorframe like she needed to brace herself. Then she pushed inside. I was right behind her.

We found Blair curled up on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, a blanket wrapped around her like armor. Mascara streaked down her cheeks, her hair twisted into a messy knot that looked like she’d been pulling at it for hours.

She looked up when she heard us.

“Sloane…” Her voice cracked. “He—he left. I sent him away. I couldn’t stand the sight of him, his apologies and excuses…”

Sloane rushed to her, dropping to her knees beside the couch.

“Where are the kids?” she asked softly.

“At sleepovers,” Blair whispered. “Thank God. They didn’t hear anything. They don’t know.”

I exhaled.

Of course Evan chose tonight. Of course he waited until the kids were gone.

Coward.

Then again, maybe they were too young to be confronted with the fact that their dad was the walking definition of What Not To Do In Life. Maybe it was best for them to think he was just Dad.

Sloane brushed Blair’s hair back. “What happened?”

Blair swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “I told him to get out. And he did. He didn’t even fight me. He just… left.”

Her voice broke again.

I sat on the armchair across from them, giving them space but staying close. This wasn’t my arena — but I wasn’t leaving Sloane alone in it.

Blair wiped her face with the back of her hand. “He admitted it.”

Sloane stiffened. “What exactly?”

“He has been cheating on me with another woman in Willow Creek. Almost two years,” Blair whispered. “Two years, Sloane.”

Sloane’s jaw dropped. Her eyes flashed over to mine. “Two—?!” My eyes grew wide. Damn.

Blair nodded, tears spilling again. “With that woman. A redhead. She’s married too. Three kids.”

Sloane’s face twisted in disgust. “Oh my God… are any of those Evan’s?”

“I asked the same thing, but they’re older than the affair. He said they met when he had to travel for work. She was at the hotel bar. They talked. And then…” Blair’s voice trembled. “And then they went upstairs. That’s how it started.”

I clenched my fists.

Blair continued, voice hollow. “After that, every time he traveled there, he’d go to her house. After her kids and her husband left for the day.”

Sloane looked like she was going to be sick. “Blair… you can’t stay with him. I’m gonna ask around for a good family lawyer and—”

Blair’s head snapped up, eyes wide and wild.

“Lawyer?!” she gasped. “Are you insane? I’m not getting a divorce!”

Sloane blinked. “Blair—”

“No!” Blair shook her head violently. “I have been thinking. I want the opposite! I need to find a way to keep him. To reignite his interest. So he won’t want another woman again.”

Sloane stared at her like she’d grown a second head. I wasn’t far behind.

Blair pressed a hand to her stomach — flat, tense, trembling.

“Look, I am not like you, Sloane. I can’t just go off and start over, like you did in San Myshuno to get away from Mom and Dad’s control. I am not like that. I need my family. This house, my family — it’s everything. Besides, the house is in Evan’s name, as is the bank account. Plus, what would the neighbors think? I don’t want to be just another divorcee, struggling, with two kids who will one day rebel because of their broken home. I don’t want to end up like Uncle Rick or Jace. No, life without him isn’t an option.”

She took a shaky breath.

“I had a feeling for a while something was off. I knew something was looming, so I got off birth control weeks ago. He and I still have been intimate, so I don’t know yet if anything has come of it — I haven’t had the nerve to check — but if it hasn’t, it will. It must. I will cry until I am out of tears, then put on my big girl pants and call him to come back home before the kids get back tomorrow. I will make him promise to break things off with that woman. I know he will. That gives me all night to… well… save our marriage and hopefully get pregnant if I’m not already. I want it to happen. If I am pregnant again, he will stay with me. And only me. I know Evan.”

Sloane’s mouth fell open. “Blair, no—”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Blair said, voice cracking. “At your bump. When I was pregnant — both times — he treated me like a queen. He loved me then. He was home then. He was… mine. He’d bring me flowers and chocolates, he’d take me out and flaunt me… seeing a woman pregnant with their child does something to a man. Just ask Vincent.”

Well… I couldn’t speak for every man, but she had a point. Sloane carrying my children changed a lot for me.

And for her, obviously — since I had a feeling being pregnant with babies that would most certainly be wolves made her choose not to take the cure when she had the chance. I had a feeling had she not been pregnant then, she would be normie again.

She could’ve been with me as a normie just fine. But raising a wolf as a normie?

That was what made my mom ask for the curse. She’d been fully human until I was already in school. Her choice cost her a lot. Her grandfather, Caelan, cut her off completely once she chose the lycan path. He is vampire — just like my grandpa Connell — but Connell has always been different. Present for as long as I can remember. He and Grandma Emmy have always been a part of my life. He always loved all of us, unconditionally, even if it had to be secretive. Same with Eirwen. She and I both grew up with Grandpa, Grandma, and Damon, even though few people outside family knew about them. Vampires are masters of elegance and stealth. Wolves are clumsy and usually too blunt. Mages and witches love dramatic entrances too much. They’re by far the most theatrical of the occults.

Sloane’s voice softened, horrified. “Blair… having another baby won’t fix this. Especially now.”

“It has to,” Blair whispered. “We need another child. That is what will heal us.”

Sloane grabbed her hands. “Blair, listen to me. This isn’t the answer. You can’t trap him into loving you again. You’d just add another child to a father who is a bad person. Cheating isn’t an accident — it’s a character flaw.”

Blair yanked her hands back. “I’m not trapping him! Evan’s character is fine. He just made a mistake, and that horrible woman misled him into thinking he wanted her. I blame her, that hussy. I’ll remind him he wants me and our family. I’m saving my marriage!”

I leaned forward. “Blair… this isn’t on you. He’s the one who—”

“NO!” she shouted, startling both of us.

Sloane was speechless, so I tried.

“Maybe you should get out for a bit. We don’t have the room right now — full remodel at my place — and Sloane’s San Myshuno place is too small for you and the kids. But maybe you and the kids could stay with a friend? Or take a weekend getaway? Or — I know it’s just down the street — but maybe you can stay with your parents for a while?”

Blair stared at me like I’d suggested detonating a nuclear bomb in her living room.

“NO! Oh my God, no! No, you don’t understand, Vincent. Mom and Dad can never know. Never. They would think I failed. They would think I let my marriage fall apart. They would—blame me.”

She broke down again, sobbing into her hands.

Sloane wrapped her arms around her, holding her tight, giving me a look that said let it go.

“Blair… you didn’t fail,” she whispered. “And don’t worry — Vince and I won’t say a thing. That’s up to you. Not our place.”

“Yes, I did fail,” Blair sobbed. “I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t… enough. He had to find it elsewhere. That is my fault.”

My chest tightened. WTF what this?!

So this was the product of Eleanor and Paul’s über‑conservative raising. I’d noticed fear of failure in Sloane before, but never to this magnitude. Never thought I’d say this, but… poor Blair.

Jesus Christ had her family done her a disservice. I couldn’t even fathom the idea of me blaming myself for my spouse being a whore. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for raising me right.

Sloane looked up at me — helpless, furious, heartbroken.

We couldn’t fix this. We couldn’t talk her out of it. We couldn’t drag her away from the idea she’d built her whole life around.

But I saw more — this wasn’t just Blair’s marriage falling apart.

This was Sloane seeing what betrayal looks like up close.

What it does to a woman. What it does to a family. What it could do to her. What “perfect” looks like when you look closer — rotten at the core.

All we could do was sit there — Sloane holding her sister, me sitting guard, and Blair falling apart in the perfect house she thought would keep her safe, planning to bring another child into this travesty of a happy home.

Now, I know I wasn’t a grand prize to most women out there, but there was one thing NONE of my family has ever been guilty of: cheating.

Getaway

Remember how I started off, by saying that life has a funny way of taking the oddest turns?

I was halfway through sorting paperwork, as you do when you remodel your ancestral home to have the woman who will make you a daddy soon move in and go from blissfully single to almost father in less than a year, when Sloane walked in, all sunshine and mischief. “Clear your schedule,” she said, dropping a folded brochure on my desk. “We’re going on vacation.”

I drew in my eyebrows, staring at the brochure. “Vacation?”

She nodded, grinning. “Tartosa. A whole week. I’ve always wanted to go, and it’s now or never. I am almost at the stage in my pregnancy where I can’t fly anymore. And once the babies are born, it’s not gonna happen — and when they’re older, it’s twice as expensive. At this stage, I can still walk… sort of.”

I stared at her, leaning back in my chair, half amused, half stunned. She was serious.

Tartosa — the name alone sounded like something out of a dream. I’d seen pictures: cliffs draped in vineyards, old stone towns glowing in the sun, the royal palace rising above it all like a memory of another age. The royal Rinaldi family ruled there, and the Auditores — wine magnates, old bankers turned nobles — owned half the hills. It was the kind of place you read about, not visit.

But she was already packing in her head, talking about sea views and café terraces and how she’d make me wear linen. I didn’t stand a chance.

Sloane wasn’t one to let things simmer. We departed two days later.

When we got there, it was like stepping into a painting. The coast curved in ribbons of gold and green, villas clinging to cliffs, vineyards spilling toward the sea. The air smelled of salt, lemons and grapes and something ancient — stone warmed by centuries.

I’d never seen anything like it. I felt out of place, like a lumberjack dropped into a Renaissance painting. But it was beautiful.

We walked hand in hand down narrow avenues lined with shuttered windows and flower boxes. She stopped at every boutique, every café, every fountain. I followed, pretending not to notice how the locals looked at her — well 0r more at me, as I stood out like a sore thumb with my height alone, not to mention my broadness – and the way she fit right in, glowing and laughing.

We ate at tiny eateries tucked between arches, tried pastries dusted with sugar, drank wine that tasted like sunlight. Yes, Sloane was allowed an occasional sip, I drank the rest. I was uncomfortable, sure, but also… amazed. I’d never thought I’d see this.

At the beach, she pulled out sunscreen like it was a weapon. “Don’t get skin cancer,” she said. “We get it, you’re big and tough, but you’re also about to be a father, and I need you there. So I will hold you responsible for the next… well… rest of your life.”

I laughed, but she meant it as she proceeded to rub it all over my shamefully hairy body. Another wolf thing. Probably the raised testosterone. All males, even in human form, were always very hairy. When I took the bottle from her and rubbed it onto her back, then her stomach, something shifted. The world slowed down. Her skin was warm under my hands, her belly round and alive. I felt awe, fear, love — all tangled together.

We swam, we tanned, we relaxed.

On the night of our third day there, after dinner, we wandered through Tartosa’s lantern‑lit streets, both of us full and content. I joked that I was stuffed like a Christmas goose and tugged at the tie she’d insisted I wear — the “strangulation device for men with my neck size,” as I’d called it earlier. She laughed — that soft, warm laugh she only gets when she’s truly relaxed. We were heading back toward our rental when she suddenly slowed, then tugged on my hand.

“Come with me,” she said.

I followed her without question — down a narrow street, past shuttered shops, until she stopped in front of a small building tucked between a wine bar and a florist. The lights inside were still on.

I frowned. “Sloane… what is this?”

“Yeah, what is this?” she echoed, almost laughing at herself. “So, at first, I thought I wanted us to get matching tattoos. Promises to each other. But honestly, that would’ve been cool under different circumstances. We are so far past cool gestures — I felt we should go big or go home. That’s our brand, isn’t it? We don’t do small scale, Vince. It’s huge or not at all with us, right?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand where you’re going with this, babe…” I said, honest and confused.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned to me — cheeks flushed from the walk, eyes bright with something fierce and certain. She reached into her bag, grabbed my wrist, and carefully lowered herself to one knee.

My stomach flipped.

She opened a small velvet pouch with trembling fingers and held out two rings — black tungsten bands, cool and heavy, each cut through the center with a thin, modern stripe of silver. The metal caught the lantern light like a blade of moonlight across a night sky. A small diamond sat in the center of each band, subtle but bright, like a star refusing to be ignored.

Simple. Rugged. Moonlit. Us.

“Vincent Shaw,” she said, voice shaking but steady, “will you make me whole and say you’ll marry me? And you have to mean it, because I meant it back in that river when I chose your world. I chose you. Are you gonna choose me for the rest of your life tonight? This building we’re in front of is the Comune — the civil registry office where people get married in Tartosa. But I warn you, if we do this, it’s valid worldwide. The officiant is waiting inside for us, so… we can make it very real. But like my choice in that river, this will be forever. ’Cause you already found out Hartwell women don’t do divorces.”

Shock hit me first — then warmth — then something that felt like my chest cracking open.

Holy fucking shit, my girl was proposing to me!

I didn’t even realize I’d dropped to a crouch until I was eye‑level with her.

“Yes,” I said, smirking now. “Of course yes. Not just yes — HELL YES.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief. I kissed her, pulled her into my arms, kissed her again — the world shrinking to the smell of her perfume and the faint hum of the city settling into night.

Then she whispered against my ear, laughing, “Well, they stayed late for us — let’s not make them wait any longer. But you’re gonna have to help me up or I’ll ruin everything by peeing myself. Your children think my bladder’s a pillow.”

The clerk behind the counter looked up, startled. My appearance had that effect. Sloane straightened her shoulders, smoothing the front of her dress — a new one, I realized. Light, soft, flowy, brushing her knees. White, perfect for a wedding. She looked like she’d stepped out of a dream. An angel.

I glanced down at myself — clean dark jeans, a collared shirt she’d picked, sleeves rolled to my forearms… and the tie. The damn tie. The damn torture device I’d been loosening all evening. She’d made me dress nice “for dinner,” and now I understood why.

She had dressed us for our wedding.

I immediately started rolling down my sleeves, buttoning them, smoothing the wrinkles and retightening and straightening my tie again. I’d be damned if I didn’t look nice for our wedding!

“Hi,” she said to the clerk, breathless but determined. “We’d like to get married. I called ahead. Sloane Hartwell… Shaw. Oh, and he will handle the rest. Where are your restrooms? It’s an emergency!”

The woman blinked, saw Sloane’s baby bump, then smiled like she’d been there herself before. “Of course. Just down that hall. Do you have your IDs?”

Sloane already had them out.

I watched her rush off — the dress, the rings, the certainty — and felt something settle inside me. Something right.

That woman. I’d known her less than a year, but this right here… Yeah. I was sure. Not a single doubt.

A few minutes later, she came back, cheeks flushed, hair smoothed, eyes bright, makeup reapplied. The clerk led us into a small room with warm lighting, a polished wooden table, and a framed photo of the local royal family, the Rinaldis, next to the Tartosan flag behind the officiant — a middle‑aged man with kind eyes and a sash across his chest.

He greeted us softly, like he understood exactly what kind of moment this was.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Sloane nodded. I swallowed.

He began reading from a small leather‑bound book — the Tartosan Civil Code — words about mutual respect, shared responsibility, partnership, and the duties of marriage, luckily in English. I didn’t catch every word, too nervous, but I understood enough.

And I understood her.

Sloane stood beside me, hands folded over her bump, eyes fixed on the officiant with a calm, glowing certainty that made my chest feel too small.

Then he asked her first.

“Do you, Sloane Beatrice Hartwell, take Vincent Shaw as your lawful husband?”

She didn’t hesitate. Not even for a breath.

“I do,” she said, clear and steady.

My knees almost buckled.

Then he turned to me.

“And do you, Vincent Shaw, take Sloane Beatrice Hartwell as your lawful wife?”

My mouth went dry. Stage fright. Me — the guy who could face down a rogue wolf without blinking — suddenly terrified of messing up two tiny words.

But then she looked at me.

And everything in me settled.

“I do,” I said. And I meant it with every part of me.

We exchanged the black‑and‑silver rings with hands that shook for entirely different reasons. Hers trembled with excitement. Mine trembled because I couldn’t believe any of this was real.

Then came the signing.

The officiant turned the register toward us, the pen gleaming under the warm light.

Sloane signed first — elegant, confident strokes. She wrote her old last name, then her new one, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then it was my turn.

I stared at the line next to hers — her name, her handwriting — and something hit me so hard I had to breathe through it.

My name would go next to hers. Forever.

I signed.

And just like that… she was my wife.

The assistant lifted the phone, told us to get closer. Sloane leaned into me, her smile bright and a little breathless, rested her hand over mine without thinking — our rings catching the light, matching, solid, real. When the shutter clicked, I knew the picture would show exactly what we felt in that moment: two people who had just jumped off a cliff together and landed somewhere better.

Suddenly I was more than glad I hadn’t fought Sloane too hard about the tie. Our smiles were real. We were both happy. Radiant, even.

Damn. When this year started, I was still single, convinced I’d never find my Mrs. Right.
And now I’d just married her.

Holy crap.

When all was said and done, we stepped back out into the alley, both in a daze, she squeezed my hand and whispered, “We did it, Vince‑y. We’re officially married. Can you believe it? It’s so crazy. We are crazy. Now let’s go home, husband. I want a wedding night to make my girlfriends jealous with… while I still can. Things are getting harder and my feet keep getting more and more out of reach. So… let’s rock each other’s worlds.”

I laughed, held her close. “I love you, but this was supposed to be my job. Spoiler alert: I’ve been taking all those side-jobs trying to save up for a ring.”

She grinned up at me. “Well, we’ll need the money. I spent a lot of my savings on this trip and the rings. I have a nursery wishlist, which is everything twice because of your overzealous little swimmers. Come on, Vince — we’re more modern than that… right… or did I just marry some conservative old‑fashioned trad… ‘Evan’.”

I blinked — insulted, amused — as I pulled her into my arm, playfully clapping her behind. “Hey, take that back! Don’t call me by that cheating piece of shit’s name! That’s just… rude … Mrs. Shaw.”

“I haven’t decided THAT part yet. Might go with Hartwell-Shaw ….”

“Then I really need to show you what’s up tonight, so you get that nonsense out of your head!” I told her as I lifted her up in my arms and took off back towards our rental with long strides as she giggled.

“Oh my God, Vince … we really did this. My parents – and Blair – and your parents are going to kill us.”

“Nah, mine won’t. Yours definitely will.”

And just like that — in a tiny courthouse on a quiet Tartosan street — everything changed again.

Not because of the rings.
Not because of vows.

But because the wolf and the woman who chose the man and the curse had made it official that they chose each other forever, not out of instinct, but out of love. And neither one of us has to wonder if this is real.

Heading Home

By the time we turned onto the gravel drive, the sky over Moonwood Mill had gone that warm, late‑evening gold that makes the trees look like they’re glowing from the inside. Home. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until I saw the porch light on, the curtains drawn, the faint silhouette of someone pacing inside.

Sloane squeezed my hand as I parked.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice shaky.

“For what?” I said. “The hugging? The crying? Grandpa pretending he isn’t trying not to cry? You know my folks, Sloane. They’ll be thrilled.”

She laughed — soft, warm, the kind of laugh that makes my chest feel too full.

We stepped inside.

Esmee saw us first. She froze, eyes dropping straight to our hands, and then she let out a gasp so dramatic I thought she might faint. She rushed forward, cupping Sloane’s face in both hands, already crying. She’s always been perceptive — she didn’t need us to say a word.

“Oh sweetheart… welcome home, Mrs. Shaw.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw …” Sloane blushed, and something in my chest tilted, like my heart had shifted into a new place entirely.

Grandpa Michael came next. He didn’t say anything at first — just stared at the rings, then at us, then back at the rings. Finally he nodded once, slow and proud.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, voice thick. “You two finally did it. Congrats. I second my wife, welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Shaw.”

He hugged Sloane first. Of course he did.

Mom practically launched herself at us, squealing loud enough to shake the windows as she pulled both of us tight. “NO WAY! I KNEW IT! I TOLD NATHAN! I SAID THEY’RE GONNA COME BACK MARRIED!”

Dad just crossed his arms, nodded once, and said, “Good. About time. Congrats, kids.” Which, from him, is basically a love poem.

They fussed over us — our newlywed glow, our fresh tans, Sloane’s late‑second‑trimester twins bump. I watched them love on her without hesitation, without conditions, without judgment. And something settled in me. Something deep and right.

I leaned back and looked at Esmee, at my mom Jaymie, and at Sloane — three generations of Mrs. Shaw under one roof. The air felt different, heavier with history. And one of them was carrying the first Miss Shaw in a very long time. The fourth generation of Mr. Shaw waiting his turn.

Wow.

The word didn’t even cover it. It was the kind of wonder that made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
How did all this happen. This time last year I didn’t know where my path would lead and now I was someone entirely different.

This was home. This was family. This wasn’t fancy and never would be, but it was safe and it was ours. They had been told, and they were happy for us — for us and for the babies.

Tomorrow, we’d tell her family.

Heaven help us.

Hartwell Sunday Lunch

Walking into the Hartwell house after a week away in heaven with Sloane felt like stepping into a museum where everything was polished and vaguely disapproving. The dining room was already set — perfect plates, perfect silverware, perfect tension.

The kids had their own little table off to the side. Brian was folding napkins into what he insisted were “battle swans.” Reagan was coloring a unicorn with terrifying focus. Milo was already halfway through a bread roll he definitely wasn’t supposed to touch yet.

And then there was Pip — perched on Eleanor’s lap like a trembling, furry monarch.

The moment I stepped inside, Pip took one look at me, shrieked in dog, and launched himself off Eleanor’s lap. His nails skittered across the hardwood as he bolted down the hall like I’d come to collect his soul.

“Good riddance,” I muttered.

Sloane elbowed me.

We sat. Silence thickened like fog.

The usual small talk started — weather, travel, food — all of it brittle and polite, like everyone was afraid to breathe too hard. Eventually Eleanor asked about our vacation. Sloane gave her the vaguest possible summary, which Eleanor did not appreciate.

“Well,” Eleanor said, chin lifting like she was preparing to deliver a sermon, “I am still your mother. I deserve to know what goes on in my daughters’ lives. Blair is an open book. Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

Open book, my foot.
God, this family was delusional.

If Eleanor knew even a fraction of what was actually going on in her golden child’s life, she’d be in the hospital — heart monitor screaming, nurses sprinting, Paul signing paperwork with shaking hands. If she knew the skeletons in Blair’s perfectly curated closet, she’d never recover.

I shot a glance at Blair. She immediately looked away, cheeks tightening, fork suddenly very interesting. Then I looked at Evan — jaw clenched, eyes narrowed — looking like he’d stab me with the steak knife if I even dreamed of speaking the truth about his cheating.

“Why can’t you be more like your sister, Sloane?” Eleanor continued. “They did it right and proper. They dated to be sure they were right for each other, then got engaged and eventually married, THEN had kids. You treat family life as if it’s a side effect of ill‑advised life choices, little Miss Hartwell. We raised you better than that.”

Sloane didn’t even blink. She lifted her water glass, took a sip, and said calmly:

“Mrs. Shaw, please, if you don’t mind.” She held out her left hand and wiggled her fingers, the ring catching the light. “And before any of you even think about pouncing on Vincent, all of that was my idea. I asked him if he wanted to, he did, and here we are. See? No longer grandbabies out of wedlock. All rejoice, hallelujah.”

The room froze.

Paul’s fork clattered. Rick choked on his drink. Jace’s eyebrows shot up. Milo whispered, “Uh oh.”

Blair gasped so loudly the kids jumped. Her eyes locked on our hands. “Oh. My. GOD. They’re wearing matching rings!”

Reagan groaned, “Mom, stop yelling.”
Brian leaned forward. “Wait so they got married? Like … how?”
Milo, mouth full of bread: “Who cares how, what I wanna know is: do we get cake?”

Paul rubbed his temples. “You eloped. Good God.”
Not angry. Just resigned. Like he’d known this was coming.

Rick laughed. “Of course they did. Ha, this is Hartwell family book gold.”
Jace nodded at me. “Congrats, man.”

Evan said nothing. His jaw clenched harder, eyes narrowing until they were just slits. He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon dipped in a right hook — sour, bruised, and too proud to spit it out.

Yeah. That had to sting.

We’d just gotten married — happy, solid, choosing each other — while he’d driven his own marriage straight into a ditch and then set the ditch on fire. Aww. Too bad, so sad… for you, buddy.

Maybe next time he’d keep it in his pants instead of playing house in Willow Creek with someone else’s wife.

Actions. Consequences. Look at that — he finally met some.

Then, right in the middle of my celebratory glee, Eleanor stood — hands on hips, spine rigid as she planted herself at the head of the table. Her voice rose like a kettle about to blow, steam practically whistling out of her ears.

“NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT. You do NOT get to run off and get married like— like— like WOLVES IN THE NIGHT!”

I couldn’t help it — I barked out a laugh. Sloane kicked me under the table.

I didn’t care. The irony was too much.

If old Eleanor only knew how close she’d gotten with her analogy, she’d spontaneously combust. If she had even the faintest inkling she was enjoying Sunday lunch with not one, but two werewolves at her table… Oh, good Lord Almighty. You can’t make this shit up.

Eleanor whipped around so fast her pearls nearly snapped. “Vincent Shaw!” she shrieked, pointing at me like I was a raccoon she’d caught rifling through her trash. “Do NOT laugh at me! This is NOT funny! This is a family matter, and you— you— you are making a MOCKERY of it!”

Her voice cracked on mockery, which only made it harder not to laugh again.

“Sorry,” I said, absolutely not sorry. “Just… the phrasing.”

“The phrasing?” she repeated, scandalized. “The phrasing? You think this is a JOKE? You think running off with my poor daughter, after getting her pregnant in the dead of night like— like— like—”

“Wolves?” I offered helpfully. Did this make me a wolf who cries wolf now? I was on a roll.

Sloane kicked me again, harder this time. I jerked, shot her a glare. She returned it. A full Mexican standoff of glares.

Eleanor added her own glare to the pile, clearly deciding I wasn’t worth more words. I smiled my best son‑in‑law smile at her. She made a sound somewhere between I’ve seen a giant cockroach and someone stole my parking spot.

Eleanor sputtered, pacing now, her heels clicking like gunshots.

“We are having a PARTY. A proper celebration. With family. With friends. With photographs. With dignity. We are going to pretend it was planned that way because… because…” She waved a hand, searching for a narrative she could live with. “Right. Because no wedding dresses fit you now and there probably aren’t any suits out there that would properly fit your choice in husband, so you were ashamed. And you did the next best thing, quietly, so the babies are at least born into proper circumstances. Yes, that sounds logical and I can sell that. Everyone will understand that sometimes our children throw us curveballs. So, since we had to miss planning a proper wedding and Paul giving our daughter away, at least we’ll have a nice party. In civilization. No offense, Vincent, but nobody wants to sink knee‑deep into mud out in the wasteland you call home.”

I opened my mouth. Sloane didn’t even look at me — she just elbowed me, hard, before I could even think about adding my two cents, which would not have improved anything here.

Fair.

“Mom, that is my home now too…” Sloane groaned, seriously annoyed, trying not to flip out at her mother.

“Well, you are not exactly famous for making sound choices of late,” Eleanor snapped.

“We can have it at our home,” Blair offered quickly, too quickly. “It’s bigger.”

“Yes, splendid! Thank you, Blair‑darling.” Eleanor brightened instantly, as if the universe had realigned itself around her preferred daughter. “And your sister plans the best and most beautiful parties, Sloane. Can we do it next weekend, Blair, my angel?”

Blair nodded, smiling like she’d just been handed a crown.

Sloane shrugged, unbothered. “A party is fine, I guess.”

Eleanor blinked, thrown off by the lack of enthusiasm. “You… guess?!”

“Yup,” Sloane said, leaning back. “I guess it will work for my husband and me, Mother. But we have a few stipulations. First, it’s gonna be a family party. Both families. All of us and Vincent’s family. That’s it. Not everyone you know. Not a Hartwell / Langford production, sorry Blair. And yes, Uncle Rick and Jace, you can bring a plus one as long as they can chew with their mouths closed and don’t look like you’re babysitting them.”

Eleanor froze mid‑pace.
Paul looked like he wanted to applaud.
Blair was vibrating with excitement.
Rick was already planning the bar.
Jace was texting someone.
Milo was still thinking about cake.
Brian and Reagan were whispering about how cool it was that Auntie Lo was a Shaw now.

I slid my arm around Sloane.

“We’re married. We’re happy. We’ll show up. I’ll bring all my family. But the party is for you all — not us. We already got everything we wanted.”

Eleanor sank back into her chair, defeated but relieved she got something.

Pip peeked around the corner, saw me again, and fled for his life.

Sorry, buddy. You did that to yourself.