Page 4 of Talk Howly to Me

Going somewhere safe and working an honest job until she figured out her next move sounded like the most reasonable choice available. Even if accepting help from a stranger violated every survival instinct she'd developed over the years.

"I already paid for a room here," Sloane said finally.

The woman waved a dismissive hand, her gesture carrying casual authority. "I know the owner, dear. He'll give you a refund." She slid off her barstool. "Let's go settle up with him, and I can drive you to this safer place."

Sloane nodded, following her toward the front desk while her mind cataloged all the ways this decision could backfire.

This is just temporary, she reminded herself. Just until I figure out what to do next.

The woman's heels clicked against the lobby's marble floor like punctuation marks to her confidence, and Sloane found herself wondering if she'd just made the smartest decision of her life—or the most dangerous.

TWO

RONAN

The Hale Lodge office existed in that peculiar state of organized chaos that came from managing a business where every day brought new crises disguised as guest requests. Ronan sat behind his desk, the familiar weight of leadership settling across his shoulders like armor he'd never learned to remove. Financial reports spread before him in neat columns, numbers that represented more than profit margins—they represented the security of every pack member who called this place home.

The office occupied prime real estate just steps from the front desk, positioned strategically so he could monitor the constant flow of guests checking in and out, asking for directions to hiking trails, complaining about Wi-Fi passwords, or requesting extra towels with the urgency typically reserved for medical emergencies. The large window facing the lobby allowed him to observe without hovering, a leadership technique he'd perfected over twelve years of balancing pack business with human hospitality.

Twelve years.

The anniversary had passed quietly last month, marked only by the private moment he'd spent at the small memorial garden behind the lodge. Twelve years since the attack that claimed his parents and younger brother Davis, twelve years since leadership became survival rather than choice. The memories pressed against his consciousness like wolves testing pack boundaries—persistent, unwelcome, but impossible to ignore completely.

He tried not to think about that night when rogues had ambushed their territory, striking with military precision that still haunted his strategic mind. The attackers had vanished into the wilderness before reinforcements arrived, leaving behind only devastation and questions that remained unanswered. Over the years, one name surfaced repeatedly in his thoughts like a splinter working its way to the surface.

Darius Kade.

No evidence existed to support his suspicions. But Darius had been a constant thorn for the past decade, orchestrating small undermining tactics—guests mysteriously canceling reservations, supply deliveries arriving late, neighboring packs receiving subtle suggestions that the Hale territory might be unstable. Nothing overt enough to justify direct confrontation, but persistent enough to create doubt.

Suddenly, the door opened without ceremony, interrupting his brooding thoughts.

"Hey, do you have time to go over the weekly itinerary for the guests now, or are you too busy brooding again?"

Kozue entered with the casual confidence of someone who'd earned the right to call out an Alpha's mood without diplomatic cushioning. His dark hair looked slightly disheveled from whatever project had occupied his day, and his green eyes held that familiar mix of amusement and gentle concern that had steadied Ronan through countless crises over the years.

Ronan shot his best friend a glare, though no heat existed behind it. Kozue possessed the unique ability to pull him back from the edge of his own thoughts, offering perspective that his duty-first mindset often obscured. Where Ronan saw threats requiring constant vigilance, Kozue saw opportunities for building something stronger.

"Yes, I have time to go over the weekly itinerary now." Ronan glanced at his watch, noting the late hour with mild surprise. Nine o'clock had arrived without his notice, the way time often disappeared when he lost himself in administrative tasks. "We don't have any guests checking in late tonight, and I was just reviewing the financials anyway."

He gestured toward the papers scattered across his desk with barely concealed distaste. Numbers held importance, but they lacked the straightforward honesty of physical challenges. Give him a rogue to track, a territorial dispute to resolve, or a crisis requiring immediate action, and he operated with complete confidence. Ask him to reconcile profit margins and seasonal projections, and his mind wandered toward more pressing concerns.

Kozue settled into the chair across from Ronan's desk, pulling a folded paper from his back pocket with the satisfied air of someone who'd already solved tomorrow's problems. "So tomorrow, Monday obviously, we have our communal dinner for the guests. You know, my famous spaghetti that has guests returning year after year just for another taste."

Despite the weight of his earlier thoughts, Ronan couldn't suppress a smile. Kozue's spaghetti had achieved legendary status among their regular visitors, and several families had specifically requested their vacation dates to coincide with Monday dinners. The recipe remained a closely guarded secret, though Ronan suspected the real magic came from Kozue's ability to make every guest feel like family rather than any particular combination of herbs and spices.

"It is genuinely impressive how you've turned pasta into a competitive advantage." Ronan accepted the paper Kozue handed him, scanning the familiar list of activities that had become the lodge's signature offerings. "Let's see what else we're promising this week."

The itinerary read like a carefully orchestrated balance between adventure and relaxation. Tuesday's hike to the waterfall would showcase the territory's natural beauty while providing subtle pack boundary reinforcement. Wednesday's s'mores gathering around the fire pit created opportunities for guest bonding and pack member integration. Thursday's workout session, officially listed as "fitness instruction," served as Ronan's excuse for playtime rather than constant lodge management duties.

"This all looks solid." Ronan set the paper aside, already mentally organizing the logistics required for each activity. "Does Emerson have her task list as well?"

Kozue gave him that look—the one that suggested he'd asked whether water was wet or gravity still functioned properly. "Of course Emerson has her task list. She probably had it organized before we finished even thinking about it. She's already coordinated with the kitchen staff, confirmed equipment availability, and likely prepared backup plans for three different weather scenarios."

Their front desk manager operated with an efficiency that bordered on supernatural. Emerson Valentine had transformed guest relations from a necessary business function into an art form, somehow knowing exactly what each visitor needed before they realized it themselves. Without her organizational brilliance and genuine warmth, the lodge might function adequately. But with her, it thrived.

"Right. Stupid question." Ronan acknowledged the gentle rebuke with a rueful shake of his head. "She's been managing guest services longer than either of us have been in our current positions."

"Yeah well, not to rain on your parade," Kozue continued, his tone shifting toward apologetic practicality, "but here's a list of maintenance items that need your attention when you get time."