Page 50 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

"Do not," he warns, his voice dropping an octave into a low, rumbling growl. "Do not test me in this house, Maisie. I've spent twenty-one years maintaining a shred of dignity under this roof."

"You had a bowl cut, Boone. Your dignity died in 2018."

He groans, burying his face in my neck, but his hands slide down to grip my hips, hauling me flush against his rock-hard erection through our jeans. He grinds against me once—slow, deliberate, and filthy—making my breath hitch.

"Sleep," he mutters against my skin, though his body vibrates with pure, coiled tension. "Before I forget my mother is thirty feet down the hall."

I laugh softly, wrapping my arms around his massive shoulders and holding him tight. And for the first time in three weeks, I fall asleep without setting an alarm.

Tuesday morning starts at six-thirty with the smell of sizzling pork fat, black coffee, and absolute bedlam downstairs.

When Boone and I make our way down to the kitchen in flannel pajama pants and thick socks, the great room looks like a diner at rush hour. Linda stands over a twelve-inch cast-iron skillet flipping homemade buttermilk biscuits, while Thomas sits at the head of the kitchen island reviewing a thick stack of forestry ledgers.

Caleb—now fully human, wearing faded jeans and a thermal shirt—leans against the counter, buttering his fourth piece of toast.

“Morning, Maisie,” Caleb grunts, barely glancing up. “Boone, you look soft. College is ruining your conditioning.”

“I benched four-forty on Friday, Caleb. Eat your toast and shut up.”

“You were skinnier in high school,” Caleb says around a mouthful of carbs.

“I wasn’t skinny,” Boone snaps, pouring me a mug of dark roast coffee before I can even ask and sliding it into my hands with two packets of raw sugar. “I was seventeen.”

Before I can take a single sip, the back mudroom door swings open with a sharp clatter.

Two enormous, shaggy hunting hounds—a brindle hound and a grey mastiff mix—trot into the kitchen, tails thumping against the cabinets. The mastiff, Barnaby, limps heavily on his right front paw, holding it off the hardwood floor with a pitiful whine. Behind him, Rusty, an older hound with scarred ears, noses straight for my knees.

Thomas looks up from his ledgers, his brow furrowing. “Barnaby, what’d you get into now? The creek shale?”

He reaches for the dog’s leg, but Barnaby flinches back, tucking his tail between his haunches and letting out a low, nervous rumble.

“Hey,” I say softly, setting my coffee mug down on the counter.

My brain clicks into veterinary autopilot before my social anxiety can catch up. I drop onto my knees on the cold kitchen floor, ignoring the pine planks under my pajama pants. Barnaby watches me with wary, bloodshot brown eyes.

“Hey, sweet boy,” I murmur in my quietest clinic voice, extending the back of my hand so he can catch my scent. “Let me see. You’re okay.”

Barnaby sniffs my knuckles, his wet nose twitching against my skin. After a second, his tail gives a tentative thump. I gently run my hands down his muscular shoulder, feeling for any heat, swelling, or joint tension, then cup his lower leg and lift his paw.

A sharp wedge of river slate is wedged deep into the large center pad, surrounded by a thin ring of dried blood and grit.

“Linda,” I call out, keeping my eyes on the dog. “Do you have clean tweezers and antiseptic wash? Iodine or chlorhexidine if you have it.”

“First aid kit in the pantry,” Linda says immediately, moving with quick, quiet efficiency.

She returns seconds later with a plastic kit and a roll of self-adhesive vet wrap. Boone drops down beside me, his large hand resting flat and steady on Barnaby’s flank. His touch has an instant calming effect—that innate alpha presence that makes animals relax by instinct.

“Hold his head gently against your knee,” I tell Boone. “Don’t let him jerk if it stings.”

“Got him,” Boone says quietly.

With steady fingers, I grip the edge of the stone with the tweezers and pull it free in one smooth, angled motion. Barnaby lets out a tiny yelp, but Boone’s low, soothing murmur keeps him still. I flush the wound thoroughly with iodine, check for remaining fragments, dab it dry with sterile gauze, and wrap the paw in neat, even layers of purple bandage, leaving his toes visible to monitor circulation.

“Keep him off the rough gravel for two days,” I tell Thomas, standing up and brushing dog hair off my knees. “Change the dressing if it gets wet, and check the edges for swelling. He’ll be fine by Thursday.”

When I look up, the entire kitchen is dead silent.

Caleb is staring at me with his toast frozen halfway to his mouth. Thomas is looking at me with a slow, deeply impressed nod, his dark eyes warm with quiet respect. Linda is beaming so hard her eyes crinkle at the corners.