Enthralled - 17. Chapter 17

17

The autumn air in Oak Creek possessed a crisp, biting chill that signaled the inevitable death of summer, but the true apex predator of Elm Street remained entirely unbothered by the changing seasons.

He was a massive, battle-scarred ginger tabby cat with a notch missing from his left ear, a tail that kinked at an unnatural angle near the tip, and an attitude that bordered on the divine. The neighborhood had unofficially named him Barnaby, though he answered to no one. He was a creature of singular, unwavering focus, and today, his focus was directed entirely at the three-hundred-pound teenage werewolf currently blocking the sidewalk.

Linebacker Dave, wearing his blue-and-gold varsity letterman jacket and carrying a gym bag stuffed with cleats, stopped dead in his tracks. He puffed out his chest, attempting to project the dominant, territorial aura of a timber wolf. He let out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated in his throat, a sound designed to send any lesser animal fleeing in primal terror.

Barnaby the cat did not flee. He didn't even flinch. He simply sat down on the concrete, wrapped his kinked tail neatly around his paws, and let out a long, exaggerated, entirely disrespectful yawn, displaying a row of tiny, needle-sharp teeth.

Dave’s brow furrowed in profound confusion. He took a heavy step forward, stomping his combat boot against the pavement to emphasize his size.

Barnaby lazily lifted his right hind leg and began to meticulously groom his flank, utterly dismissing the werewolf’s existence.

"Dude," Dave muttered to himself, his Alpha-adjacent pride taking a massive hit. He looked around to make sure none of the other pack members were watching, then sighed, stepped off the sidewalk, and took a wide, humiliating detour onto the wet grass to avoid the feline.

Watching from the elevated vantage point of the Cooper family porch swing, Lucas let out a low whistle of absolute awe. He was slouched comfortably against the wooden slats, one leg draped over the edge, entirely ignoring the physics of personal space as he practically sat on top of Ronan.

"Do you think it has a death wish?" Lucas asked, his voice hushed with genuine reverence. "Because that is the most suicidal level of swagger I have ever seen in an animal that weighs less than a bowling ball."

Ronan sat beside him, his shoulder pressed firmly against Lucas’s. He had forgone his usual oversized, protective flannel today, wearing a soft, fitted cream-colored sweater that made him look distinctly less like a terrified lumberjack and more like a catalog model. He tilted his head, watching the cat resume its slow, arrogant patrol down the center of the street, a soft, fond smile playing on his lips.

"I don't think he has a death wish," Ronan murmured. "I think he's cute. He's ginger, like me."

Lucas snorted, turning his head to look at the Omega. "You're auburn, Ro. Not ginger. There’s a distinct chromosomal difference. And more importantly, you have a soul. That thing out there? That thing has absolutely none. It’s an empty vessel fueled entirely by spite and loose tuna cans."

"Leave him alone, Lucas," Ronan said, his tone gentle but carrying a sudden, unfamiliar edge of firmness.

Lucas’s eyes narrowed, his chaotic, hyperactive Alpha-complex instantly flaring at the perceived challenge. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He leaned closer, invading Ronan’s space, his voice dropping into a raspy, teasing register. "Make me."

Ronan didn't shrink away. For the past few weeks, he had been the submissive, terrified side-piece, desperately trying to avoid getting humped in public by a boy who treated pack dynamics like a competitive sport. But something had shifted. The constant exposure to Lucas’s unearned, teflon-coated confidence was clearly contagious. Ronan turned to look directly at him, his dark eyes entirely serious.

"You chase him off," Ronan stated, his voice steady, "and you don't get to... you know... me for a week."

Lucas gaped at him. The cocky grin vanished instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated shock. His jaw actually dropped. "What? You can't do that! You're my bitch. I get to hump you whenever I want. That's the rules! I read it on a Wikipedia page about wolf packs!"

"None for a week!" Ronan’s voice cracked slightly on the volume, but he held his ground, crossing his arms over his cream-colored sweater. "And I'll tell Andy to do the same. We'll go on strike. Let's see you 'Alpha' your way out of that, big bad wolfboy."

Lucas stared at him, his brain completely short-circuiting. The threat was catastrophic. The sheer, terrifying biological reality of being a sixteen-year-old boy with a newly awakened werewolf metabolism and absolutely zero outlets for his energy was a fate worse than death.

"All for a cat?" Lucas asked, his voice rising into a high-pitched squeak of betrayal.

"The only cat," Ronan said firmly, his chin tilting up. "He's a survivor. The pack chased every other feline out of the tri-county area, but he stayed. I respect him. Plus, as I said: ginger solidarity."

"You're auburn!" Lucas yelled, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Red head is a red head!" Ronan shot back. A wild, uncharacteristic, and entirely brilliant grin spread across his face. He was winning. He was actually winning an argument against the most exhausting force of nature in Oak Creek.

Lucas groaned loudly, a pathetic sound of absolute defeat, and slumped back against the wooden slats of the porch swing. He dragged both hands down his face, mourning the loss of his unchecked tyranny. "Fine. I'll leave the stupid, soulless cat alone. But I am humping you twice this afternoon to make up for the insubordination."

"Fine," Ronan agreed easily, his cheeks flushing a sudden, brilliant shade of pink, though his eyes remained fiercely locked on Lucas. "But you're using extra lube. And you're taking me somewhere nice first."

Lucas blinked, peeking out through his fingers. "Wait, what?"

"You heard me." Ronan straightened his spine, sitting up taller on the swing. He was riding the high of his newfound backbone, and he wasn't about to stop now. "If you're going to claim me in front of the entire region, you're going to treat me nicely. You're going to take me to dinner. A real dinner. You're going to come to my house, and you're going to meet my dad properly. And you're going to start referring to me as your number one bitch."

"But Andy's my—"

"Andy's always number one," Ronan interrupted smoothly, waving a hand in dismissal. "I know how the hierarchy works. I’m not delusional. But I want to be referred to as number one in public. I have my pride, Lucas. Not much of it, considering I let you drag me around by my backpack straps, but I have it. And I don't think Andy will care in the slightest."

Lucas stared at the boy sitting next to him. He was completely, utterly speechless. The timid, flannel-wearing lumberjack had just orchestrated a flawless, bloodless coup of their relationship dynamic.

"This is going to get expensive," Lucas muttered, rubbing his temples as the financial reality of dating two people finally set in. "Having two bitches is going to bankrupt my allowance..."

"Boyfriends," Ronan corrected, his tone dropping into a deadly serious register. "Call me a bitch again, I dare you. And you'll wake up at Dr. Brenda's veterinary clinic in a plastic cone of shame, with your balls surgically removed."

Lucas’s eyes went perfectly round. He instinctively crossed his legs, a phantom pain shooting through his groin. "Whoa, Ro. When'd you grow a set?"

Ronan's cheeks were blazing red, but he didn't look away. He offered a small, entirely smug shrug. "I learned from you. Now put your arm around me. It's cold."

Lucas slowly, hesitantly, reached out and wrapped his arm around Ronan's shoulders. Ronan leaned into the touch immediately, resting his head against Lucas’s collarbone with a small, deeply satisfied sigh.

"Good boy," Ronan murmured, closing his eyes.

Lucas’s brain misfired again. "I'm the alpha," he protested weakly.

"Sure you are," Ronan said, his voice dripping with warm, undeniable affection.

A sharp, rhythmic tapping on the glass of the front window drew their attention.

Andy stood inside the living room, looking out at them through the pane. He was holding a ceramic mug of something that was definitely not coffee, wearing a tailored black button-down shirt that made his pale skin look like carved marble. He pushed the window up a few inches, the cool autumn breeze drifting into the house.

"That cat has been here longer than any of us," Andy remarked softly, his dark eyes tracking Barnaby, who was currently sniffing a fire hydrant with aristocratic disdain. "He survived the werewolf purge. He survived the hunters that swept through this town in the nineties. He is a survivor. I respect him immensely."

"Do you think he's supernatural?" Ronan asked, leaning forward slightly on the swing. "A familiar? A shapeshifter?"

"No," Andy said, his baritone voice perfectly flat. "He is simply a cat who refuses to die. He possesses no magic. Just an endless, bottomless reservoir of spite. He is, without question, the hardest creature in Oak Creek."

Just as Andy finished his assessment, the heavy, measured footsteps of Declan Draven echoed on the wooden steps of the porch. Declan had come over under the guise of "studying," though everyone knew he was just bored of his father's suffocating purity mandates. He was wearing an immaculate navy blazer and carrying a leather messenger bag.

Declan reached the top of the stairs and froze.

Barnaby the cat had wandered up the walkway and was now sitting squarely in the middle of the top step, completely blocking the entrance. The cat stared up at the teenage tactical mastermind with unblinking, glowing amber eyes.

Declan stared back, his hand hovering over the porch railing. He didn't move. The cat didn't move.

"Why is that cat looking at me like that?" Declan asked, his voice tight, refusing to break eye contact.

"He's assessing you," Andy provided helpfully from the open window. "He hasn't decided if you're a legitimate threat, or merely a soft target."

"I am a tactical genius," Declan hissed defensively. "I dismantled the social hierarchy of an entire school in three days."

"He doesn't care," Andy said, taking a slow sip from his mug. "He's a cat."

Declan ground his teeth together. He slowly, carefully sidestepped the animal, giving Barnaby a wide, deeply humiliating berth before practically sprinting across the porch and into the house. Barnaby let out a short, dismissive mrrp and began to wash his face.

Andy let out a soft, rusty chuckle, pulling the window shut to leave the teenagers to their porch swing politics.

He turned away from the glass, the faint smile fading from his lips as he walked into the kitchen. The domestic peace of the Cooper household was a fragile, beautiful illusion, and Andy was acutely aware of the shadows gathering at the edges.

The kitchen smelled overwhelmingly of lemon bleach and frying bacon. Ruth Cooper was standing at the stove, aggressively flipping strips of meat with a pair of metal tongs, while Art sat at the kitchen island, staring blankly at a manila envelope resting on the granite countertop.

The atmosphere in the room was wrong. It wasn't the usual chaotic, loud energy of a Saturday morning. It was tense. Stilted.

"Good morning," Andy said cautiously, stepping into the room.

Ruth jumped slightly, her tongs clattering against the edge of the frying pan. She offered a tight, incredibly nervous smile. "Oh! Good morning, Andy. Did you... did you sleep well in the garage? Is the cot comfortable enough? We can buy a real mattress."

"The cot is perfectly adequate, Mrs. Cooper," Andy replied, his preternatural senses immediately locking onto the envelope on the counter. His dead heart gave a phantom, heavy thud.

Art cleared his throat, running a calloused hand over his face. He looked exhausted, carrying a weight that didn't belong to him. He picked up the manila envelope and slowly turned it around, sliding it across the granite toward Andy.

"This arrived for you this morning by courier," Art said, his voice unusually quiet.

Andy stepped forward. He didn't reach for the envelope immediately. He looked at the return address. There wasn't one. The paper was thick, expensive, and sealed with a blank, wax stamp.

With a sense of mounting dread, Andy broke the seal. He tilted the envelope, allowing its contents to slide out onto the counter.

A pristine, freshly minted state driver's license clattered against the granite. Beside it fell a stack of perfectly forged, officially stamped high school transcripts, medical records, and a birth certificate.

Andy stared at the plastic ID card. His own face stared back at him—pale, brooding, and unsmiling against a bright blue background. But it wasn't the photo that made the air in his lungs turn to ice. It was the name printed in bold, black lettering next to it.

ANDREW TYRELL

Andy’s vision blurred. For a fraction of a second, the lemon-scented kitchen faded, replaced by the smell of cordite and burning tapestries. He saw the black uniform of the SS. He saw the cold, pale grey eyes of the man who had stood over him in the ruins of 1944.

He had not used the name Tyrell in over two centuries. He had abandoned it the night he fled London, discarding the legacy of his Sire in a desperate bid for freedom.

"Where did this come from?" Andy asked, his baritone voice hollow, stripped of all its usual aristocratic resonance.

Ruth shifted uncomfortably, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Your father stopped by. Just... just an hour ago, while you were in the garage."

Andy’s blood—what little of it still circulated in his dead veins—ran absolutely, terrifyingly cold. "My father."

"He's a... very intense man, Andy," Art said, looking profoundly uncomfortable. He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt and pulled out a thick, banded stack of hundred-dollar bills, setting them on the counter next to the ID. "He brought the paperwork. He said he wanted to make sure you had proper identification. To ensure you were 'integrated.' And he gave us this. To look after you. Said he wanted to make sure you were taken care of."

Andy stared at the money. "How much?"

Art's silence was answer enough. It was a sum that could pay off their mortgage twice over.

Andy closed his eyes, a wave of profound, suffocating horror washing over him. Tyrell wasn't just threatening him. He wasn't kicking down the door with corporate mercenaries and silver nitrate. He was doing something infinitely more insidious, infinitely more terrifying.

He was enveloping him.

He was using the cold, undeniable power of human bureaucracy to bind Andy to the system. To bind him to this family. To put a collar around his neck labeled Andrew Tyrell, a permanent, unshakeable reminder that the 300-year-old apex predator was still, and would always be, a childe. Tyrell had simply knocked on the front door, smiled a cold, charming smile, and bought the Coopers.

"I need to make a call," Andy said, his voice tight, grabbing the plastic ID card and turning sharply on his heel. He practically fled the kitchen, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of his Sire's invisible, suffocating grip.

The suffocating reality of Tyrell’s bureaucratic warfare followed Andy entirely into the next week, haunting him like a localized storm cloud. The anxiety was a physical weight on his shoulders as he navigated the crowded, noisy hallways of Oak Creek High.

He was standing by his locker, staring blankly at the metal door, when a heavy hand clamped firmly onto his shoulder.

"CPS are satisfied."

Andy turned. Marcus Draven was standing beside him. The substitute teacher and Rangatira of the merged packs looked immaculate in a dark navy suit, holding a stack of graded essays. But beneath the polished, corporate exterior, Draven’s golden eyes were narrowed with deep, genuine concern.

"I received the paperwork from the administration office this morning," Draven continued, his voice pitched low so the passing students couldn't hear. "Your father made sure all your records are flawlessly up to date. He signed the guardian consent forms. He updated your medical exemptions. You are properly, legally registered as a student in this district, with zero red flags."

Draven paused, his grip tightening slightly on Andy’s shoulder. He looked around the hallway, ensuring they were isolated.

"Now," Draven murmured, his tone dropping the pastoral warmth entirely, "want to tell me how the hell a three-hundred-year-old vampire has a father walking into the principal's office?"

Andy’s jaw tightened. He looked at the floor, the name Andrew Tyrell burning like a brand in his mind. "He's my Sire."

Draven blinked. The hand on Andy's shoulder dropped. "Your Sire."

"Yes."

"The vampire who turned you."

"Yes."

"The ancient, god-tier immortal you've been running from for centuries."

"Yes," Andy said, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and exhaustion.

Draven stared at him, his tactical mind racing to process the implications. "And he just... appeared. He walked into a public high school in broad daylight. He registered you. He paid off your adoptive parents. He signed your permission slips."

"He's claiming me, Marcus," Andy admitted, looking up, his dark eyes filled with naked, unadulterated fear. "He's not attacking. He's not sending hunters or dark-web mercenaries. He's integrating me. Into the system. Into his world. And I have absolutely no mechanism to stop him. If I run, I abandon Lucas. If I stay, I am accepting the collar."

Draven’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure, calculating steel. "What does he want?"

"I don't know," Andy whispered, the truth of it tasting like ash. "And that is exactly what terrifies me."

Before Draven could formulate a tactical response to the existence of a two-thousand-year-old corporate vampire, the shrill, piercing shriek of a poorly executed skateboard trick echoed down the adjacent hallway.

"Look out! No brakes! NO BRAKES!"

Lucas Cooper came careening around the corner, balancing precariously on his scuffed board, his arms windmilling in a desperate attempt to maintain his center of gravity. He wasn't wearing his usual graphic tee.

He was wearing a suit.

It was, without exaggeration, the most catastrophic piece of tailoring Andy had ever laid eyes on. It was a massive, boxy, navy-blue monstrosity that clearly belonged to Martin Sanchez. The jacket strained comically across Lucas’s narrow shoulders in all the wrong places, while the sleeves hung down past his knuckles. The pants had been hastily pinned at the cuffs, creating a bunched, lumpy silhouette. He looked like a child playing dress-up in his father's closet.

In his right hand, clenched with white-knuckled intensity, was a single, violently wilted daisy.

Lucas miraculously stomped the tail of the skateboard, popping it up into his left hand right before he collided with a bank of lockers. He stumbled, caught his balance, and offered a blinding, wildly inappropriate grin to the terrifying immortal and the Alpha werewolf staring at him.

"Hey guys," Lucas chirped, panting slightly, trying to smooth down the lapels of the massive jacket. "Do I look dashing? I feel dashing."

Andy stared at the boy. The sheer, overwhelming absurdity of Lucas’s existence was a powerful, instantaneous antidote to the crushing dread of Esca Tyrell. "You look like a witness for the defense in a 1980s mob trial," Andy said flatly.

"It has pockets," Lucas defended, plunging his hands into the oversized slacks to demonstrate. He turned his bright blue eyes to Marcus Draven. "Mr. Draven! Just the man I wanted to see. I’m heading to your house tonight. Seven sharp. Ronan said I had to meet the dad properly if I was going to be his number one boyfriend. So, I’m doing the thing."

Marcus Draven’s eye began to twitch.

The terrifying, highly disciplined Rangatira, the man who had orchestrated a bloodless coup of the regional werewolf packs, stared at the scrawny, poorly dressed teenager holding a dead flower.

"You," Draven said, his voice strained, "are taking my son. On a date."

"Yep!" Lucas beamed. "We're going to the Olive Garden. I have a gift card."

Draven closed his eyes. He took a deep, steadying breath. I am progressive, he chanted silently in his mind, fighting down the immediate, primal urge to shift into a massive wolf and tear the boy’s throat out. I embrace alternative lifestyles. I will not murder the mascot. I will not murder the mascot.

"I expect him home by ten-thirty," Draven managed to grind out, his teeth practically sparking against each other.

"Sure, sure," Lucas waved a dismissive hand, entirely immune to the lethal aura radiating from the older man. "We might take the scenic route. On the skateboard. The night air is very romantic."

Draven’s vision went entirely red.

He took a step forward, towering over the teenager. The corporate suit vanished, replaced entirely by the furious, protective wrath of a father. "And I mean this, you little shit," Draven hissed, his voice dropping into a subsonic register that made the lockers rattle. "ANYTHING you do to my baby boy, I WILL do to you, in front of the entire pack. So think twice before you get frisky!"

Lucas didn't shrink away. He didn't cower. He didn't even blink. He just tilted his head, a slow, utterly uncomprehending, slightly wicked grin spreading across his face.

"K-kinky, dude," Lucas murmured, completely unphased. "Good to know you old folk still have the energy to keep up with me. I'm very... energetic."

The silence in the hallway was profound.

Andy’s jaw dropped. He actually took a step back, genuinely preparing for the hallway to be painted with Lucas’s internal organs.

Marcus Draven’s entire body went rigid. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles popping audibly. The wood of the nearby classroom doorframe groaned as he instinctively reached out and gripped it to keep from wrapping his hands around Lucas’s neck. The wood began to splinter under his immense, suppressed strength.

"Hey, Dad!"

Ronan bounded around the corner, utterly oblivious to the homicidal tension crackling in the air. He was wearing the same soft cream sweater from the porch, looking radiant, happy, and incredibly cute. He saw Lucas and his face lit up. "Hi, Lucas! You look nice!"

"Thanks," Lucas puffed out his sunken chest, adjusting the massive lapels. "It’s Marty’s. It breathes well."

"Thanks for letting him come over, Dad!" Ronan chirped, grabbing Lucas’s hand and practically dragging him down the hallway toward the exit. "We'll be back before curfew!"

Draven stood frozen, staring after them. His hand was still gripping the doorframe, a small, jagged piece of oak snapping off with a loud crack.

From the shadows of the adjacent stairwell, Declan emerged. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a smirk of absolute, radioactive schadenfreude plastered across his face.

"Ooh, Dad," Declan drawled, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. "You gonna let him get away with that?"

"Shut up, Declan," Draven bit out, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

"I mean, the disrespect alone..."

Draven whipped his head around, his golden eyes blazing. "I am going to flay that kid. Biblically. One day. I swear to God."

"I mean, Dad," Declan continued, his grin widening to impossible proportions, "he's already banging Ro every chance he gets. The kid said he’s 'energetic.' It’s like Ro is his personal squeak toy."

"Declan," Marcus snarled, his voice vibrating with absolute Alpha command. "Go. To. Your. Room."

"We're in a school, Dad," Declan pointed out, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Geez. Figured you'd be madder about all this."

Marcus squeezed the doorframe again, another piece of wood splintering into dust. "He called me 'old folk,'" he hissed through clenched teeth, speaking more to himself than to his son or the vampire standing nearby. "He asked if I could keep up with his... energy."

Declan’s smirk didn't waver. "I mean, he's not wrong. You are old."

"Go. To. Class."

Declan retreated down the hallway, his cruel, delighted laughter echoing off the linoleum.

Marcus stood in the doorway, staring at the empty corridor. The great Rangatira. The master tactician. The wolf who had saved his family from hunters and secured a new territory. Reduced to a twitching, homicidal mess by a sixteen-year-old with a skateboard and a borrowed suit.

He slowly turned his head to look at Andy, who was still standing by the lockers, watching the scene unfold with an expression of profound, soul-deep empathy.

"I am going to need a very large drink tonight, Andrew," Marcus said, his voice completely hollow.

"I will join you," Andy agreed softly, feeling the crushing weight of the 'Andrew Tyrell' ID card burning a hole in his pocket. "We both have monsters to slay. Though mine, unfortunately, are not wearing sweater vests."

Marcus nodded slowly, releasing the ruined doorframe. The absurdity of their existence was a heavy burden, but as Andy watched Draven walk away, he felt a strange, comforting sense of solidarity. They were immortal predators, wolves and vampires, ancient and powerful.

And they were both completely at the mercy of the teenagers who loved them.

That evening, the Draven household was quiet. The immaculate, minimalist decor of the living room felt oppressive in the silence. Marcus sat at the granite kitchen island, his tie loosened, his suit jacket discarded over a barstool. In his hand was a heavy crystal tumbler filled with three fingers of expensive, aged scotch.

The front door clicked open, and Andy stepped inside. He had forgone knocking, moving with the silent grace of his kind. He took a seat on the stool next to Marcus, looking at the bottle of scotch resting on the counter.

"He called me old folk," Marcus said, staring blankly into the amber liquid, swirling the ice cubes slowly.

"He does that," Andy nodded, his voice carrying the weary tone of a veteran sharing war stories.

"He said he was 'energetic.'"

"He is."

Marcus gripped the crystal tumbler tightly. "I am going to kill him, Andrew."

"No, you're not," Andy said, his voice calm, placing a pale hand gently on the werewolf's shoulder. "You're going to be a supportive father. You are going to smile when they return. And then you're going to go to your bedroom, lock the door, and cry into your pillow."

Marcus’s eye twitched violently. He took a long, burning swallow of the scotch. "I hate you."

"I know," Andy said, a faint, commiserating smile touching his lips. "But I'm right."

They sat in silence for a long time, two predators drowning in the bizarre, domestic reality they had built for themselves.

"The paperwork, Andrew," Marcus finally said, his tone shifting. The exhausted father vanished, replaced once more by the calculating Rangatira. He set the glass down. "We need to discuss the paperwork. This Esca Tyrell. If he is your Sire, and he is utilizing human bureaucracy to integrate you... he is playing a very long, very dangerous game. He is not just claiming you. He is establishing a legal, documented paper trail."

Andy’s jaw tightened. "I know. He is building a cage made of birth certificates and tax records. It is brilliant. And it is terrifying."

"He works for Aethelgard Omnicare," Marcus stated, connecting the dots on the tactical board in his mind. "The company that issued the ten-million-dollar bounty on your head. He is inside the enemy camp."

"Or he is the enemy camp," Andy countered, the dread rising in his chest again. "He left me to burn in 1944. He watched my kind be slaughtered. I do not know if he is protecting me, or if he is simply fattening the calf before the slaughter."

Marcus looked at the vampire, the shared burden of leadership and survival hanging heavy between them.

"Then we prepare," Marcus said, his voice a low, absolute rumble. "He may be two thousand years old. He may control corporations. But this is Oak Creek. This is our territory. And if he comes for you, Andrew... he is going to have to deal with the pack."

Andy looked at the werewolf, feeling the truth of the words settle into his dead heart. He wasn't running anymore. He had a home. He had a pack.

And he had a hyperactive teenager who was currently, somewhere at an Olive Garden, establishing dominance over an Omega while eating unlimited breadsticks.

"Thank you, Marcus," Andy murmured softly.

"Don't thank me yet," Marcus grumbled, pouring himself another three fingers of scotch. "Wait until Lucas brings my son back. If that suit is wrinkled, I am throwing you both into the sun."