by Amanda Milo
Her eyes glint with something decidedly wicked.
And beautiful.
“Let’s go to church,” I say, because if we don’t get moving right now, I’m going to shock everybody’s sensibilities by dragging this woman back into the house to do things to her that I shouldn’t even think of on the way to holy ground.
As if she can read my thoughts—or maybe she’s having the same ones, judging by the scent of arousal I’d swear I’m picking up from her, she agrees lightly, “We’d better hurry.”
I one hundred percent agree with her on this. Thankfully, as soon as we start walking, my focus starts moving where it should—to work. To teaching. And by the time I head downstairs for the Sunday school room, with Donal taking over the scripture study for the rest of the congregation, I’m thoroughly on track and caught up in working with all the innocent little minds our pack boasts.
Today, we’re learning about Solomon’s prayer for wisdom, and his judgement over the case with the two children. It’s a tightrope walk for some chapters of the Bible—for example, two out of the three Tamars don’t get mentioned down here, Samson’s addiction to women and his use of foxes is glossed over, and David and Bathsheba isn’t a story this group is ready for. In a few years, they will be. And privately, their parents might choose to share and supplement further details they feel their children can handle, since we do keep these classes carefully edited. But for now, lessons are studies on the broadest concepts, containing simple morals they can follow. Listen, obey, treat others as they wish to be treated. Things every werewolf and shifter needs to get a handle on in order to be a properly socialized member of our society—dominant or submissive, it doesn’t matter. We also do a lot of activities: learning and writing the names of pertinent people through history, tracing shapes on felt and cutting out characters to act out scenes, and sometimes we put on little plays. I’ve never herded cats, but I imagine this is actually easier. I love these little clowns, because at this age very few of them care about hierarchy or status; they just want to absorb the world and play.
And I can help with that.
“Everybody goes to sleep,” I prompt the class, and all of them drop to the carpet, looking like inchworms that got sprayed with knockout gas. “Samuel?” I call in my most authoritative voice.
Sam, a yakan shifter (Japan’s native werewolf), leaps to his feet, his four-piece suit a little wrinkled, but nothing his parents will growl over. Everyone who’s ever dressed a child in their Sunday best expects a little horseplay in them—at least we’re inside yet and not out on the grass where he’s more likely to get stained. “Here am I!” he shouts proudly, acting out 1 Samuel 3, where God calls the little boy, who in turn obeys faithfully. It isn’t a book we’re studying today, but these guys love this game (Sam most of all, since the study figure is his namesake), so we play it often.
“Very good,” I praise, and hold out the reward box. Colorful stickers, erasers, rulers, you name it, there are little prizes in here and not a piece of candy in sight.
Sam frowns, looking crestfallen. He looks up, not meeting my eyes because he’s a submissive. But he’s not afraid to ask for what he wants, and that’s great. “Can I have jerky instead?”
I growl deep, making him duck and grin. But I had the tray ready, a fact he—and nearly every child in this room—can definitely smell.
With a playfully begrudging air, I snatch up a length of jerky—a flat square of the most delicious dried meat you’ll ever be lucky enough to try, and homemade, not the sad store-bought kind that’s either pulpy and soft or harder to gnaw on than a shoe with a human foot still in it—and point it at him like it’s a sword. “Just this once,” I insist in an aggressively petulant tone that has him giggling.
He reaches out for it tentatively, as if I might bite off his arm, but he’s laughing, not really worried in the least. “Thank you, Pastor Deek.”
“You’re welcome, Sam. It was good of you to answer right away. Go have a seat.”
He does, taking the pint-size chair that Chessa, my werewolf helper and fellow child-wrangler of the day, offers him, and I call the next nipper. “Maggie?”
Maggie, one of the few humans in the group, looked like she was going to burst her skin if she didn’t get called on soon. And since she’s not a shifter, that’d be worrisome. She hops up and races over. “Here am I!”
“Very good,” I tell her. “And here you go—what would you like?” I offer the prize box.
Her eyes go round as she spies a wolf-shaped sticker in pink. But then she looks at Sam, at the delighted way he’s going to town on his flake of jerky. She looks torn even as she asks, “May I have a piece of jerky too, Deek?”
I smile at her. “Yes. You may.” I hold one out, but when her fingers touch it, I lean down and growl at her, making her shriek—then laugh, loudly.
I let it go, watching as she dissolves into giggles and backs away from me, saying in a sing-song fashion, “Thaaaank yoooou!”
“Yeah, yeah. You did good, Maggs. And here. You forgot this.” I hold out the prize box and wait until she scampers up, awe painting her face, and claims the sticker she’d wanted.
Then I hold the box out to Samuel. “You get a prize too, buddy. Everybody gets to pick two things today.”
Sam speeds over, grabbing a dinosaur-shaped eraser that I think is supposed to smell like apples, but really just smells like burnt rubber and the esters that make artificial flavoring. The resulting composition doesn’t smell at all like the real thing, I can tell you that much—and so can any werewolf.
Speaking of smelling like the real thing, the scent of coconut has reached my nose, and because I watched Susan rub herself in coconut oil after our shower, not to mention when she took me by my dumb handle (and jacked me with her oil-slick fist, then sucked me off)—the scent makes me think immediately of her, and my mouth waters.
I will never be able to think of coconut the same. I may not even be able to safely walk past a stand of coconuts in the Pack’s grocery store.
Susan’s standing on the stairs, watching me, smiling. She mouths, “You big softie.”
I think she’s saying this in response to me calling Maggie back so she could have both things she wanted, which means the whole class will get to pick two things as a fairness ripple effect.
But I tip my head to her. “Soft is not my situation with you here,” I mouth back.
Her mouth curves up in a smile that has my heart racing.
I quickly redirect my attention to the class. “Harper?”
“Here am I!” she calls, sitting up. Roll call continues until my stack of homemade jerky squares are nearly depleted: I’m down to one. And this jerky was made by my mom and dad and shipped all the way from Ireland. These kids are eating Irish beef—the meat with the lowest trace elements of heavy metals because Ireland has never had their soil spoiled by an industrial revolution. Plus, my parents don’t believe in putting sugar in anything that isn’t a dessert, so this is the good stuff. Susan, who eats whole-food everything and even makes her own salad dressings from scratch, would approve. This dried cow is healthy, with its low number of calories while achieving high protein and sublime flavor. So help me, if one of the kids drops theirs on the floor, it’s mine.
(Among werewolves, the ‘five-second rule’ is less like this is safe to eat if I pick it up within five seconds of it hitting the ground and more like five seconds is the time it takes for every other werewolf in the place to cross the room and snatch up whatever is dropped. If you drop meat, be prepared to lose it. And if one of the kids gets the dropsies in this room, it won’t matter that we’re in church. Our adorable sea of grade schoolers will begin brawling in a fashion worthy of the movie Road House.)
I’m hungrily watching the kids’ hands, clutching the last slice of jerky close but not daring to distract myself with eating it yet, or I might miss my chance to wade in—as the adult—and prevent fighting by snatching fallen food for my own—
“
Lucan?” Susan asks, now at my side.
“Hmm?”
I stiffen when I feel a tug on my jerky. My eyes snap to her hand.
She goes still. Her fingers open slowly. I want to look up at her face, but I can’t take my gaze from what I’m clutching. “You’re acting weird. Are you…” she asks, just as slow and careful as her movements. “Are you food aggressive?”
A bit of shame licks at me. Not enough for me to straighten out, but enough I feel it. “No more than any werewolf.”
“This whole time?” she asks, the shock plain in her voice.
I’d shrug, but my focus is back on the kids—on their jerky. “Thankfully, it’s never come up. I wait til the dominants are done eating their portions, and I eat what you guys leave, and nobody ever tries to take my food or take back theirs once they’ve given their plates to me. No casualties,” I add as a joke. Obviously, I’d never harm Susan’s brood, but it would be difficult to hand off food if I thought it was mine.
There’s only one person I’d share my food with. Without moving my eyes to hers, I hold out my jerky flake. “Here. Try it. You can have half.”
There’s a pause. “You’ll give me half. The whole half?”
I slide my eyes in her direction, but quickly snap them back to the kids when I catch a wobble out of the corner of my vision. It’s Liam taking a tumble—but thankfully he’s not hurt, and lucky for him, he kept his jerky clutched tightly in his hands. Smart man. “I’ll split half my portion with my mate,” I tell Susan.
“What about the kids?” she asks.
I gesture to the room. “I make sure the kids are fed first.”
“You know, I keep thinking I have werewolves figured out, but then I learn something new and weird about you guys.” Her fingers close again on my jerky, and she tugs it, just a little.
I keep my grip on it, my hand following.
“Lucan!” she laughs.
“You can have your half,” I insist. “But Susan, I’m not letting it go.”
“Oh my land, you can’t be serious!” she cries, still laughing.
My eyes leave the kids and swing to hers. “I’m a werewolf. I never joke about meat.”
Susan holds my gaze as she leans in close—
And drags her tongue slowly and provocatively along the meat in question.
My eyes narrow. “Change of plans. You’re going to have to wait to share this,” I inform her.
Her eyes dance. “Oh?”
“This is not the place or the audience where you can lick anything in front of me, it turns out. Least of all my meat.”
She chokes on a laugh.
Chessa calls out, “Kennedy, watch it, you’re about to drop—”
Pint-sized growls erupt. I leave Susan’s side so fast she’s probably spinning. But before I wade in to break up the shifter brawl of tots with Chessa, I pressed my jerky into Susan’s hands for safekeeping. Because she’s my mate, and I trust her.
When I’ve got three kids scruffed between both my hands, I spare Susan a glance, and find her smiling wistfully at me, her heart in her eyes, and my jerky held carefully between her fingers.
“I love you,” I call to her.
She holds up the jerky square and grins. “Lucan, I believe you.”
CHAPTER 49
SUSAN
Lucan and Chessa herd everyone back upstairs to join their families. I’m glad I snuck down to watch him teach. Lucan is so good with kids. He’s playful, he’s thoughtful, he leads them by excellent level-headed example, even when half the class erupts into wolf and various shifter forms and tries to rob each other of jerky. I run my hand down Lucan’s back as I pass him, earning a lycanthrope purr (a male sound of satisfaction I got well acquainted with last night), and quietly move to our pew, following Maggie.
Lucan is right behind me. His broad hand makes contact with my lower spine, and stays there, causing a warmth to radiate through my whole body as we rejoin Charlotte and Ginny, who I left with Finn, Jenn, and Dave.
My girls eye us speculatively from the pew, and Finn is smiling—not smugly, just happily, which is nice. He also moves to stand, politely offering us an alternative to clearing his knees like Olympic pommel horses or hurdles. Liam goes in first, then Maggie, then me, squeezing past Ginny and Charlotte, our usual seating order. The only thing different this time is that Lucan is with us, bringing up the caboose of our train. There’s no room for him on the pew—or there wouldn’t be—but Finn gives him the end seat, leaving us for the choir box where he’ll lead the final song.
“Psst,” Ginny whispers to me. “Switch spots with us.”
My brows furrow, distracted—but then I see her and Charlotte’s gleeful faces, and I give them a wry grin. “Thanks. Lucan and I appreciate it.” I stand, and Ginny and Charlotte scooch behind me, sliding next to Maggie, leaving me the perfect spot.
Right beside Lucan.
“Anamchara,” Lucan greets with a soft smile and a direct glance into my eyes. “My lovely anamchara.”
What it does to me to hear him use this word. I put my hand over his mouth. “You can’t speak Irish to me in church,” I warn, keeping my voice soft in the hopes that I’m saying this for his ears alone.
Lucan’s eyes snap to mine the moment my palm meets his lips. He kisses my hand but doesn’t otherwise move. “Fayr enuf,” he murmurs.
I give him a nod so prim Mary Poppins would be proud, and lower my hand to my lap. “Thank you.”
Donal has been cueing the congregation to grab their songbooks and turn to “Mary Did You Know.”
Lucan’s gaze stays fixed to mine as he reaches out with his long arm, his tailored suit making him look even more masculine, even more impressive, if it’s possible. He plucks a songbook out of the tray, setting it so that it’s opened with the left side on his thigh, the right side of the book on my thigh, and he turns expertly to the page with “Mary Did You Know,” either because he was listening better to Donal than I was in regards to the page number, or because Lucan just knows the book that confidently.
Either way, his competence is sexy. So is his direct look.
To my shock, he holds eye contact until the congregation finds their pages and begins to sing, the rustling and the hush before the song begins turning absolutely electrifying. Lucan shares the book with me on our laps and brings his arm up behind me, resting it along the length of the pew, connecting our bodies shoulder to knees until my skin hums. It’s the weirdest, most innocent-feeling flirting I think I’ve had since my playground days.
When the song ends, and Donal asks everyone to kneel for final prayer, I whisper to Lucan, “I’m ready for the Mating Ceremony. Whenever you are.”
I expect him to meet my eyes to acknowledge what I’ve said. He does—but he also grabs me and hauls me against him, not letting me go even while we pray—he just guides us down to the kneeling pillow and we join the prayer like that, embracing each other.
When it ends and everybody moves to stand, Lucan hauls me up and calls out to the whole congregation, “Susan and I are getting Mated!”
Everybody cheers.
Easily two hundred voices reflect off the stone walls, the reverberation impressive to the ear. “Congratulations!”
The girls are going wild beside us, like we’ve won the lottery.
Gazing at Lucan, I know we have.
I tug him to me and set my mouth against his ear so he’ll be able to hear me over everyone’s excitement. “Will your mom and dad want to be here for the ceremony?”
He pulls far enough away that he can meet my gaze. “I don’t want to wait another moment. They’ll understand. But what do you want?”
I smile and search his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, we became a thing back at the parsonage.”
Ginny makes a squeak beside me, pulling both our attention to her. She’s almost bouncing on the pew, eyes bright with happiness even as she looks a touch guilty. “Sorry for eavesdropping, I can’t help it!” She taps her ear. Her werewol
f hearing works perfectly well in her human form. “Guys, we’re so happy for you!”
Charlotte starts waving wildly beside her.
I glance in the direction she’s waving—up front—and see Finn and Rooker standing off to the side of the podium, beaming at us.
Finn calls. “We’ve got you covered, lads! Don’t you worry!” He’s shed his choir robes, and he’s carrying something with Rooker. Something on a long wooden slab, something that, although it’s covered in white silk, is shaped exactly like a—
He draws the cover off to reveal a three-tiered wedding cake. Snowy white, with gold and bright yellow ribbons of icing swirling all around the frosting.
Unless there was a bakery shop that just happened to have this on hand, someone (or several someones) stayed up all night baking and decorating this magnificent edible artwork.
“Maggie!” Finn shouts, grinning. “Come here and lend us a hand, would you? Yeah, Liam, you can come help too.”
The pair of them clamber over us and scramble out of the pew, enthusiastic for the chance to get closer to the cake.
Finn jerks his chin to items that weren’t present beside the pulpit a few minutes ago. There’s a five-gallon bucket with a metal lid, a stack of paper bowls with a pile of spoons, and a wooden box with a bow. “Can you grab all that and haul it over? Awf, look how strong you two are. Perfect. Open up that box, would you, Maggie?”
When Maggie draws off the lid, she gasps.
“Ain’t that a sight?” Finn asks. “Do us a favor and set that right up here.” He indicates the cake.
He and Rooker bend their knees, arms tight as they support the massive confectionary marvel, lowering it enough that Maggie can reach up and place a wedding topper on the uppermost tier.
It’s your typical human bride figurine—and beside her is a wolf, two children figurines, and a smaller wolf figurine. Our whole family, represented on a beautifully piped wedding cake.
“And that’s not all,” Rooker tells her and Liam, everybody watching really. “Back at Half Moon, in the freezer we’ve got—”