Page 45

“Speaking of new friends,” Michael interjects, “Milo, why don’t you go join them? You can show them the swings.”

“Okay,” and he runs off. We all sit and start talking.

I watch Milo disappear into the crowd after Piper, his shoulders hunched in that particular way of older brothers who’ve been told to play nice and are already calculating the minimum acceptable effort.

“Don’t worry about him,” Paige says, catching my gaze. “Milo’s a good kid. Just... eight. You know how eight year olds are.”

I don’t. I know how six year olds are, and a particular Alpha blooded, overprotective big brother six year old. I’m proud of my pup for looking out for his sister, but he’s still learning how to control his strength shaped by four years of surviving the rogue camp.

I keep half an eye on the playground while Paige and Michael fill the silence with easy, practical conversation, the school, the particular rhythm of pack life that they’ve been living.

I nod in the right places, laugh at the right moments, and keep my eyes on the playground. Darlene has found Piper.

They’re at the base of the jungle gym, two small dark haired girls standing three inches apart and staring at each other with the particular, unblinking intensity of pups deciding whether the other one is friend shaped.

Piper says something. Darlene says something back. Piper’s face splits into a grin so wide it looks like it might crack her cheeks, and she grabs Darlene’s hand and pulls her toward the swings.

Darlene goes. She doesn’t look back.

Damian doesn't follow. He stands at the edge of the playground, watching his sister like a sentry who hasn't been relieved of duty.

I’m about to call him over when Jace materializes from the crowd like a small, untucked comet. He’s got Damian’s wrist before Damian can process the approach, grabs it with both hands, says something I can’t hear over the music, and starts pulling.

Damian resists… for exactly one second. His feet plant, his weight shifts back, and the look on his face is the particular, flat refusal of a six year old who has not been consulted.

Jace doesn’t let go. He says something else, loud, grinning, with a particular enthusiasm of a seven year old who has decided that this is happening and Damian’s opinion is a formality, and tugs harder.

Damian’s feet slide. Another tug. Another slide. And then Damian’s shoulders drop that particular half inch that means he’s given up. He lets himself be dragged across the grass toward the playground with the resigned dignity of a man being escorted to his own execution.

I chuckle at my little pup. I have a feeling Jace is going to be his best friend.

Milo reaches the playground at the same moment Jace deposits Damian at the base of the climbing structure. I watch from the table.

Milo is taller than both of them. Not by much, a year and a half, maybe two inches, but he carries it the way some older pups carry height: like an argument he hasn’t finished making. His shoulders are set forward, his chin is tilted up, and he stops in front of Damian with his hands in his pockets and his weight on his back foot, and the look on his face is the particular, practiced neutrality of a kid who’s been told to be polite and is doing the absolute minimum.

“Hi,” Milo says. “I’m Milo.”

Damian looks at him. Just looks. His brown eyes sweep Milo’s face the way they swept the perimeter of the clearing.

“Damian,” he says. Polite. The same careful politeness he's watched his father use with unfamiliar wolves for years.

Milo’s hand stays in his pocket. He doesn’t offer it. Damian places his hands in his pocket. The silence between them stretches for exactly two seconds.

“Mom.” The mindlink hits me like a tap on the shoulder.

“He’s the one.” My fork stops moving. I set it down carefully, the way you set down something that might break if you’re not gentle.

“The one what, baby?”

“The one who hurt Moonbeam. Piper’s wolf. The one with one eye. Luna Selena told us at breakfast. He fed it to the dog.”

Damian hasn’t moved. He’s standing exactly where Jace left him, his hands in his pocket, his brown eyes fixed on Milo with the flat, unblinking assessment of a pup who has just filed someone in the not safe category and locked the drawer.

Jace doesn’t notice the silence. He’s already climbing, his untucked shirt flapping behind him like a flag, and he looks back over his shoulder with the particular, uncomplicated enthusiasm of a pup who has decided that everyone is a friend until proven otherwise. Jace jumps to the ground and heads towards the other pups.

“Come on!” Jace calls. “The top’s the best part! You can see the whole bonfire!” Damian doesn’t look at Jace. His eyes stay on Milo as he makes his way to play with Jace and the other pups. Milo turns and run towards Jace and the other pups.

“He hurt his own sister’s stuffed wolf,” Damian sends.