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I can’t handle it. I run my hands through my hair and try not to lose my cool on her.

Her brows furrow. “There was a vegetarian pizza in the freezer⁠—”

“It’s not even lunchtime,” I snap.

She puts her hands on her hips, ignoring the way the acrid smell brings tears to her eyes. “I’m hungry, and I don’t like to eat a lot of meat. All your leftovers are steak.”

“Oh my fucking God.” I turn away from her and shove the window over the sink open. I’m not going near that oven—but she has other plans. Before I can stop her, she opens it. More smoke belches out.

Along with my ruined containers.

“What the hell?” She stares at the melting plastic. “Why do you have those in your oven? Are you insane?”

I bump her out of the way and slam the door closed again. I don’t want to even look at it. The oven will be a mess to deal with at a later date. Right now, I’m struggling to control myself. And the way she looks is not making it any easier. God, I want to strangle her. But I also want to pat her down and make sure she didn’t breath in any of this vile shit.

I step toward her, and she goes back. I force her out of the kitchen, where the air is a little more clear.

“What’s insane is not checking an unfamiliar oven before you turn it on.”

She scowls. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re a goddamned nightmare,” I retort.

Oh, that gets to her. Her cheeks redden, and the color spreads across her whole face. Her heart rate increases, and I can see the flutter of her pulse in her throat. Her whole body changes except her Mark, which remains black against her skin. And my silvery bite just below it.

She’s flustered and, for some reason, pissed. Is it because I’m yelling at her? She needs someone to yell at her and bring her to heel.

Submission, my wolf agrees. But he also likes her fire. He is keenly aware whenever we’re around her, storing bits of information. This goes in a file, too: she never used her oven as storage. She doesn’t eat a lot of meat. She’s fucking stubborn even when she’s wrong.

Her mouth opens and closes, but it seems that all the good comebacks evade her. When she can’t come up with anything, she flips her hair off her shoulder and glares at me. Without a word, she turns and stomps away. Her braid swings across her back.

I hide my smile. Fighting with her is satisfying. I’m in a whole different mood than I was fifteen minutes ago.

I open all the windows downstairs and go outside, if only to breathe non-contaminated air.

She’s hungry, my wolf murmurs.

He sends images of presenting her with a fresh-caught rabbit. Then he seems to change his mind because it’s replaced with a bear in an instant.

Like we’d ever take down a bear without cause. A bear? That would feed most of my pack. And she just said she didn’t like meat.

Now you’re being obtuse.

I huff and continue toward the lodge. Inside, a few of my wolves are clearing the last remnants of breakfast and setting up for lunch. Some wolves choose to cook for themselves, but I liked the community-building aspect of eating together. This building went under construction from a meeting place to what it is today shortly after I took over from my father. I added the kitchen, removed rows of hard benches and a pretentious podium, replacing it with tables and chairs.

A place for us to be together in human form.

Plus, I know some of my wolves are shit at cooking, though they’d never admit it.

The wolves in the main room call out greetings as I pass, and I nod to them. I duck through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Down one long row of stainless-steel equipment and counters stands Marjorie.

She’s ancient, and she only shifts when need dictates. Her hair is white, and her skin holds a thousand wrinkles. Her dark brown wolf’s face is almost completely white now, too, when she joins us on the full moon. She’s closing in on 110 years old, but she’s the best damn cook in the state. There’s no way she’d sit at home and simply exist.

Most of us do better with jobs. Erin and Matteo taught me that purpose, even for the smallest, weakest wolves, helps confidence and mental health.

Marjorie has a notepad in one hand, a pencil in the other, and a younger wolf running around calling out inventory. Both pause when I stop before her.

“Go on, child,” she says to the boy. “Have some time in the sun.”