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“He’s my son. For him, I’ll wear my fur. But it’s back to MoonDark and beaches for me now.”
Garrett embraced me next, squeezing me tight enough to press the air from my lungs. “Three. Four would be better.”
“Garrett,” Cerys growled.
“The idiot human does not know what he asks,” Marcella said dryly.
“He’s ambitious?” Demetrius suggested.
“He’s an idiot and you should tell him as much.”
“Atleastthree,” Sterling agreed, nodding to his father. “They need other pups to play with.”
“Exactly.”
“You should takebothof them aside and explain to them they’re idiots,” Marcella told Demetrius.
Garrett gave me another squeeze before releasing me and telling Sterling, “I am very glad you survived.”
“Thank you, old man, I am very glad I survived as well. Now, if you don’t mind, I am rounding up my mate and we are leaving before you say something else uncouth.”
Summoning
We retreated to Sterling’s room in the motel, which overlooked the sad excuse for the pool in the courtyard. Nobody, of course, was in the pool.
We curled up on the bed together, propped up by a hideous padded headboard, and stared at the twenty-four-hour weather channel. We collapsed together in a quiet, silent well of emotions for a few hours.
My existence was parched, baked ground and the truth was a deluge.
Sterling started patting the blankets with his other hand—the one attached to his bad shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I asked, lifting my head off his good shoulder.
He continued to rummage through the blankets. “Phone.”
I squirmed over him. It was on the floor. Where he’d tossed it. I sighed and passed it to him. “You could just notthrowthem.”
Some non-specific noise as his fingers moved over the screen.
It felt odd and surreal to be with him again, acting normal, doing normal things, being normal.
Was it real?
“Sterling.” It might have been Tuesday, but surely he’d told his assistants he’d be unavailable.
“Making sure there’s a plane on standby and where it is.” He tossed his phone back down and pulled himself up higher on the pillows. He winced and hissed.
“Are your ribs broken?” I asked as the scent of blood hit me.
“No, don’t think so. Not that it matters. They aren’t displaced.”
“Laying on your back probably isn’t helping with the claw wounds.”
“Those are just scratches. I’ll be fine.” He dismissed my concern.
“They dug through a war-form hide.” He hadn’t gotten turned into deli-thin slices fit for a sandwich, but hehadgone a few rounds.
“Pretty wolf, it’s just meat. I was hurt worse in Clare.”
