“Aurelia,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he’d intended.
She frowned. “You know my name.”
“Of course, I know your name,” he said. “What kind of…” he caught himself before he saidfatherout loud. “What kind of Alpha would I be if I didn’t?”
Her mouth twitched, just a fraction. “The kind who didn’t say hello this morning,” she said.
That stung more than anything her mother had thrown at him.
“I was…busy,” he said. It sounded weak even to his own ears.
“So was Mom,” Aurelia said, unimpressed. “We went to the bookshop, and then we had to go to a meeting with High Sister Lavinia. But you still could have come and said hello.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “You’re right,” he said. “I should have come.”
Aurelia blinked. “So, um…what should I call you?”
“What?” he asked warily.
“Mom said to the other witches that they should call you and Alpha DominicAlpha, but you’re…”
“I’m what?”
“My dad.”
The word hit like a punch. His wolf’s ears went flat, then pricked, confused and hopeful.
Arthur forced himself to breathe. “I’m—” He stopped. Tried again. “Aye, little wolf. I’m your dad.”
“I’m not a wolf,” she said, matter-of-fact, “I’m a witch. Nice to meet you.”
Despite himself, his mouth twitched. “Nice to meet you, too.”
They regarded each other for a beat. She didn’t fidget or look away. Her scent was threaded with shyness and a curl of anxiety, but underneath was something steadier.
Bravery. Or stubbornness. Hard to tell which.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked.
“Over there.” Aurelia jerked her chin toward the far end of the bar.
Arthur followed her gaze.
One of the central tables had become a small island of attention. A loose ring of wolves, Volkhov, Severney, and a couple of Nordans stood watching something with rapt focus.
Magic.
Arthur could feel it from here, a low fizz on his skin like the air before a storm.
He moved before he quite realized it, Aurelia falling into step beside him. The crowd parted automatically, habit bowing around the alpha weight.
Dani stood on one side of the table.
Black jeans, soft grey sweater, hair down around her shoulders in a wild mass that made his fingers itch. The mark on her neck was mostly hidden by her collar, but he could scent it, warm and faintly metallic, calling to his own.
Kiara stood next to her, sleeves rolled up, eyes bright, a playing card between two fingers.
There was a small pile of junk in the middle of the table: coins, bottlecaps, someone’s lighter.
