Page 54 of The Werewolf’s Study Date

By four o’clock, the entire crowd squeezes around the massive redwood dining table, with three folding tables lined up to accommodate the overflow.

The feast is glorious. Platters of turkey, ham, venison, sweet potato casserole, buttery stuffing, and sourdough rolls pass from hand to hand in an endless, laughing conveyor belt of food. Boone sits beside me, his thigh pressed flush against mine under the table, his hand resting warm and heavy on my knee between bites.

When the plates are mostly cleared and the room settles into a warm, wine-and-tryptophan hum, Thomas Kinkaid stands at the head of the table.

He taps his water glass with the handle of a butter knife. The low chime cuts through the noise, and the room falls into respectful, attentive silence.

Thomas looks around the long table, his dark eyes shining with quiet, steady pride.

“Another year,” Thomas begins, his deep baritone rumbling through the room. “Our pack is healthy. The ridge is quiet. We’ve got good food, good timber, and the best people on this earth sitting under our roof.”

A chorus of murmured agreements and raised glasses ripples down the table.

“Ninety years ago,” Thomas continues, his gaze sweeping over the mix of wolves, humans, vampires, and witches crowded together, “Nathaniel and Margaret proved that strength doesn’t come from closing our borders or hiding in the dark. It comes from choosing the people who make us better. It comes from family.”

Thomas turns his head, looking directly down the length of the table at me.

“To the ancestors who built this house,” he says, raising his glass high. “And to the new blood, the brilliant minds, and the strong women who join our table. Welcome home, Maisie.”

“To Maisie!” thirty-six voices roar in unison, glasses clinking together.

My throat tightens so hard I can barely swallow. I look down at my plate, blinking rapidly against the sudden sting of tears, my heart swelling until it feels bruised against my ribs. I don’t just feel accepted. I feel claimed. I feel loved.

Beside me, Boone goes completely, terrifyingly still.

The subtle shift in his posture sends a ripple through the room. The chatter dies in an instant. Werewolves down the table pause, their noses twitching as they catch the sudden, massive spike of pure, raw adrenaline rolling off Boone’s skin.

Boone sets his napkin on the table.

He turns in his chair to face me, his amber eyes glowing with a terrifying, beautiful intensity that makes my breath catch. His hands are trembling slightly—a tiny, impossible fracture in his usual unbreakable composure.

“Boone?” I whisper.

He reaches into his trouser pocket, pulls out a worn, dark-blue velvet box, and drops down onto one knee on the hardwood floor beside my chair.

The entire dining room erupts in a collective, gasping shriek. Linda slaps both hands over her mouth, tears instantly spilling down her cheeks.

My brain completely short-circuits. “Boone. What are you doing?”

“Maisie,” he says, his voice thick, rough, and vibrating with emotion.

He flips the velvet box open.

Nestled inside the silk is an antique ring—a deep, luminous blue sapphire cut in an elegant oval, flanked by two sparkling trillion-cut diamonds and set in intricately engraved platinum. It looks ancient, timeless, and utterly breathtaking.

“This was Margaret’s ring,” Boone says, his eyes locked on mine, completely ignoring the thirty-six people holding their breath around us. “Nathaniel gave it to her after they graduated, back in CU’s earliest years. It’s been in our family all these years, waiting for the right woman.”

He takes my left hand in his. His palm is hot, his fingers trembling as he cradles mine.

“You gave me the choice to be yours, Maisie,” Boone says, his voice ringing clear and steady through the quiet room. “You didn’t let fate decide for you. You looked at all that history, you looked at me, and you chose me anyway. You made me earn your trust, and you taught me what love actually looks like outside of instincts and biology.”

A tear escapes, sliding hot down my cheek.

“I love your brain,” Boone continues, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. “I love your stubbornness, your terrible jokes, and the way you fight like hell for your dreams. Wherever you go, I’ll find a way to build our life there. That’s where my pack is. That’s where my home is.”

He swallows hard, his amber eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Marry me, Maisie. Let me build a life with you.”