Enthralled - 18. Chapter 18

18

 

The heavy, rusted door of the 1972 Chevy Impala closed with a solid, metallic clunk that felt like a vault sealing shut.

Andy sat in the driver’s seat, his long, pale fingers gripping the cracked vinyl of the steering wheel. The interior of the car smelled faintly of old leather, gasoline, and the lingering, musky scent of wet dog. It smelled like safety. It smelled like the first real home he had known in three centuries.

He didn't turn the ignition key right away. Instead, he looked out through the rain-streaked windshield toward the Cooper family garage. The motion-sensor floodlight was off, leaving the structure cloaked in the heavy, comforting shadows of a suburban 3:00 AM. Inside that garage, sleeping on a canvas cot, was Lucas. And inside the main house, asleep on the living room sofa after a movie marathon, was Ronan.

Andy had spent the evening watching them. He had watched Lucas throw an arm over Ronan’s shoulder. He had watched Ronan laugh, a genuine, unguarded sound that reached his eyes. He had seen the quiet, blossoming reality of two young, living creatures finding solace in each other. Ronan could offer Lucas a future. Ronan could offer him the sun, a pack, and a life that didn't involve looking over his shoulder for corporate mercenaries.

Andy was a three-hundred-year-old walking corpse. He was hunted, he was broken, and his Sire—the architect of his darkest nightmares—was closing in. Esca had forged the paperwork. Esca had bought the Coopers' compliance. The snare was tightening, and every second Andy remained in Oak Creek, he placed the people he loved directly in the kill zone.

So, he was doing the only thing he knew how to do. The only thing he had ever done.

He was running.

The Impala’s V8 engine roared to life, a deep, guttural rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. Andy shifted the column shifter into drive and slowly, silently, rolled out of the driveway without turning on the headlights. He didn't look back. He couldn't. If he looked back, he would stay, and staying meant death for all of them.

He navigated the empty, tree-lined streets of Oak Creek, the cool autumn air rushing through the cracked passenger window. He had packed his few remaining possessions: a duffel bag of clothes, his forged documents, and the remaining medical-grade blood bags from the municipal heist. He just needed to reach the interstate. Once he crossed the county line, he would vanish into the sprawling, anonymous expanse of the American Midwest.

He was less than a mile from the town limits when the world shattered.

It started as a flash of red and blue in the rearview mirror.

Andy’s dead heart gave a phantom, agonizing lurch. He took his foot off the accelerator. He wasn't speeding. The Impala’s taillights were functional. There was absolutely no legal reason for a traffic stop.

But the cruiser was right on his bumper, the siren giving a short, authoritative whoop.

Andy pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, the heavy tires crunching to a halt. His senses flared, mapping the environment. It was a single patrol car. One officer. Andy could easily vanish into the tree line before the man even unholstered his sidearm. He could use his speed, tear the door off the cruiser, and disable the radio.

But doing so would leave a trail. It would trigger a massive manhunt. It would bring the human authorities crashing down on the werewolf pack.

Andy forced his fangs to retract. He forced his hands to remain loosely draped over the steering wheel as the heavy footsteps of the officer approached the driver’s side window. A bright, blinding Maglite beam swept into the cabin, illuminating Andy’s pale, tense features.

"Evening, son," the officer said, his voice carrying the relaxed, authoritative drawl of a small-town cop. "License and registration, please."

Andy’s jaw tightened. He reached into the inner pocket of his shirt and withdrew the pristine, newly minted plastic card that had arrived by courier just days ago. He handed it through the window.

The officer shone his light on the ID, his brow furrowing as he read the name. He looked from the plastic card to Andy’s face, then reached up and tapped a button on the radio clipped to his shoulder.

"Dispatch, this is Unit Four. I’ve got a 10-15 on the BOLO issued this evening. The Tyrell boy. Yeah. Got him on Route 9, heading out of town."

Andy’s blood ran colder than the autumn air. "I'm sorry?"

"Step out of the vehicle, son," the officer said, his tone shifting from casual to strictly professional. He took a step back, resting his hand near his utility belt. "Your father filed a missing persons report three hours ago. He was worried sick. Said you got into an argument and took off in a vehicle you didn't have permission to drive."

"I am an adult," Andy lied smoothly, his baritone voice vibrating with an ancient, aristocratic authority that usually commanded immediate obedience from mortals. "There has been a misunderstanding. This is my vehicle."

"The ID says you're seventeen, Andrew," the officer countered, entirely unaffected by the vampire’s gothic resonance. He tapped the roof of the Impala. "And the registration on this vehicle doesn't have your name on it. Step out. We’re going to have to bring you back home."

Andy opened his mouth to argue, to command the man to sleep, to fight. But the words died in his throat. The sheer, inescapable horror of the situation crashed over him like a tidal wave.

Esca hadn't sent hunters. Esca hadn't set an ambush on the highway.

Esca had anticipated the run. He had weaponized the local municipal police department. He had used the forged paperwork, the 'Andrew Tyrell' identity, and the protective instincts of human law enforcement to build a cage with invisible bars. The system itself was dragging Andy back.

With shaking hands, Andy opened the door and stepped out into the damp night air. The officer didn't draw a weapon, but he did guide Andy firmly toward the back of the patrol car, placing a hand on his head to duck him into the cramped, plastic-lined back seat.

As the heavy door slammed shut, engaging the child-safety locks, Andy looked through the wire mesh screen. A tow truck was already pulling up behind the Impala.

He wasn't a three-hundred-year-old warlord. He was a runaway minor being delivered back to his father. He was completely, utterly powerless.

---

The house was located in the wealthy, sprawling hills on the northern edge of the tri-county area—a gated neighborhood where the driveways were long and the secrets were deeply buried.

It was a massive, ultra-modern architectural masterpiece. It was a fortress of sheer glass, polished steel, and blinding white LED exterior lighting. There were no gothic shadows to hide in. There were no ancient stone walls. It was sterile, aggressive, and reeked of corporate, untouchable wealth.

The police cruiser rolled to a stop at the base of the wide, immaculate concrete steps. The officer opened the back door, escorting Andy up the walkway.

Before the officer could even ring the doorbell, the massive, frosted glass front door swung silently open.

Esca Tyrell stood in the entryway. He wasn't wearing his tailored charcoal suits or the terrifying black uniform of his 1944 avatar. He was wearing a soft, expensive cream-colored cashmere sweater and dark slacks, black framed ‘dad’ glasses, and a pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth. The perfect caricature of a 1950’s TV father. He looked like a wealthy, exhausted, deeply relieved father. His smile was warm, crinkling the corners of his pale grey eyes, projecting a flawless illusion of paternal love.

"Oh, thank God," Esca exhaled, his voice thick with practiced emotion. He stepped out onto the porch, reaching out as if to embrace Andy, though he stopped just short. "Thank you, Officer. Thank you so much. I didn't know what he was going to do. He’s been so troubled lately."

"No problem, Mr. Tyrell," the officer nodded, clearly charmed by the billionaire’s gratitude. "He didn't put up a fight. But he’s a minor, sir. You need to keep a closer eye on him. We don't want to have to bring him in again."

"He won't run again," Esca said softly, his pale grey eyes shifting from the officer to lock directly onto Andy. The warmth in them vanished instantly, replaced by a bottomless, glacial void. "Will you, Jędrzej?"

Andy didn't answer. He couldn't. His jaw was locked so tight his fangs were aching against his lower lip.

The officer tipped his hat and walked back down the steps. The cruiser pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the affluent darkness.

The heavy glass door clicked shut, sealing them inside the sterile, blindingly white foyer.

The illusion of the relieved father evaporated the second the deadbolt engaged. Esca’s posture straightened, the soft lines of his face hardening back into the ancient, untouchable aristocrat. He didn't yell. He didn't strike Andy. He simply turned his back on his Childe and began walking toward the sprawling, minimalist living room.

"Well?" Esca called over his shoulder, his voice echoing sharply on the polished marble floors. "Don't just stand there, Jędrzej. You know where the kitchen is. Fetch me a glass of scotch. The twenty-five-year-old Macallan. Not the eighteen. You know I can taste the difference."

Andy stood frozen in the foyer, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "I am not your servant."

Esca paused. He turned around slowly, his expression one of mild, theatrical surprise. "Oh, but you are. You've always been my servant. You just forgot." He smiled—a cold, predatory expression that chilled the marrow in Andy’s bones. "Welcome home, Jędrzej. It's been so long since I had good help. I've missed you."

Andy’s chest heaved with phantom breaths. "You don't miss me. You miss having someone to order around."

"Is there a difference?" Esca settled gracefully into a stark, white leather armchair, crossing his legs. "Now, the slippers, Andrew. The ones by the fireplace. They're wool. I prefer them warm."

"You can't do this," Andy said, his voice cracking, the desperation finally leaking through. "I'm not a child anymore. I have a life. I have an existence outside of you. I need my car. Where did they tow the Impala?"

Esca let out a soft, amused sigh, resting his chin on his hand. "I didn't have it towed, Andrew. I sold it. To a rather nice auto-shop teacher at your high school. A Mr. Henderson, I believe? He was thrilled to take the rust bucket off my hands for a fraction of its market value."

Andy staggered back a half-step, the words hitting him like a physical blow. The Impala was gone. His sanctuary, his coffin, his history—sold with a forged signature.

"Don't look so tragic," Esca admonished gently, waving a dismissive hand. "I managed to buy you something much more appropriate for a boy your age. It’s in the garage. A motorized scooter. It’s very fuel-efficient. And yellow. I thought the color suited you. I like yellow. I like bananas."

Andy stared at his Sire, the absolute, incomprehensible cruelty of the psychological warfare rendering him speechless.

"Now," Esca said, his tone turning sharp, the command absolute. "The slippers. And when you address me, you will say 'Thank you, Sire'."

"I will burn this house to the ground," Andy whispered, the gothic resonance returning to his voice, his fangs dropping fully.

Esca didn't flinch. He just smiled as if he were addressing a particularly unruly son. "No, you won't. Because if you do, or if you run again, I will have the state remove that chaotic little wolf boy from his home, and I will have Aethelgard Omnicare dissect him and his entire pack in a subterranean laboratory. Do you understand me?"

The threat hung in the sterile air, absolute and unbreakable. Esca wasn't caging Andy with physical bars. He was caging him with his own love for the pack.

Andy’s shoulders slumped. The ancient warlord died, leaving only the broken, trapped servant.

"T-thank you, Sire," Andy choked out, the words tasting like ash.

"No… no… I don’t like it… let’s try… ahh yes. Daddy," Esca corrected softly, his pale eyes gleaming with vicious delight. "Call me Daddy. I am enjoying this 'playing house' dynamic, aren't you? It's refreshing. Oh, and you’ll find your new wardrobe in your bedroom. I got you some khakis. I saw the Draven boy wearing them and thought, now there is a look I appreciate. I will burn all your old clothes. They smell like dog."

Esca pointed a long, pale finger toward the fireplace.

"The slippers, Jędrzej. Now."

And with a look of utter defeat Andy fetched his ‘father’s’ slippers.

---

The next morning, the autumnal sun shone brightly over the sprawling parking lot of Oak Creek High School.

The air was filled with the sounds of slamming locker doors, revving teenage engines, and the chaotic chatter of first period approaching. Near the entrance to the main building, a group of students paused, their conversations dying out as a strange, high-pitched whining noise approached from down the street.

It sounded like an asthmatic lawnmower.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, a bright, banana-yellow Vespa scooter puttered into the parking lot.

Sitting rigidly atop the tiny, pastel machine wasn’t Andy Cooper, no he was gone, all that remained was Andrew ‘Jędrzej’ Tyrell.

He was wearing a pair of knee-length, immaculately ironed beige khaki shorts. Above them, he wore a pastel-pink polo shirt, buttoned all the way up to his pale throat. And resting atop his head, firmly strapped under his chin, was a massive, perfectly spherical, banana-yellow safety helmet.

He looked like a stock photo for a pamphlet about bicycle safety in a gated community.

Andy parked the scooter in an empty space, the tiny engine coughing once before dying. He sat there for a long moment, gripping the handlebars, his eyes fixed on the asphalt. He had bathed in the blood of European aristocracy. He had survived the blitzkrieg. And now, he was wearing khaki shorts.

"Oh, dude."

The voice was thick with profound, unadulterated pity.

Andy slowly turned his head. Marty was standing by the curb, his massive, broad shoulders slumped in sympathetic agony. The teenage Alpha wasn't laughing. He wasn't posturing. He just looked at the vampire with the kind of sorrow usually reserved for injured puppies.

Marty walked over, his heavy combat boots scuffing the pavement. "I heard your dad was in town, Batty. But holy crap. You look like a depressed ad for Banana Republic."

"My... dad... likes bananas," Andy said, his voice entirely devoid of inflection, staring blankly through the visor of his yellow helmet.

"I can see that," Marty winced, reaching out and gently unclasping the banana-yellow helmet from Andy's head. He freed the vampire's dark hair, and his eyebrows shot up. The decided lack of pomade was very, very noticeable.

"Bro," Marty said, his voice flat. "What the hell happened to your hair?"

Andy stared at him, his expression hollow. "Tyrell confiscated my pomade."

Marty stared at him for a long moment. Then, very slowly, a grin spread across his face. "Bro. You look like a sad, confused art student. You look like you're about to write a poem about the existential dread of capitalism."

"I am not writing a poem," Andy said, his voice flat.

"You're definitely writing a poem. I can see it in your eyes. 'Ode to My Missing Pomade.' It's gonna be tragic. It's gonna be beautiful."

"I hate you."

"You love me." Marty clapped him on the shoulder. "Now come here. I'm gonna fix this."

Andy's eyes narrowed. "You don't know how to fix hair."

Marty shrugged, already rummaging through his gym bag. "I have a comb in here somewhere. And maybe some gel from the 90s. It's gonna be fine."

"That's not reassuring."

"It's gonna be fine. Trust me. I'm an Alpha. I know things."

He pulled out a battered comb and a half-empty tube of something that had definitely expired before the turn of the millennium. Marty squinted at it, shrugged, and began the process of "fixing" Andy's hair.

Ten minutes later, Andy's hair was slicked back with what appeared to be a generous amount of 1998-era hair gel. It was shiny. It was stiff. It looked like a helmet.

Andy stared at his reflection in the Impala's side mirror. "I look like I'm about to compete in a wet t-shirt contest."

"You look rad, bro," Marty said, beaming. "Very '90s boy band. Very 'I'm about to drop a mixtape.'"

"I am going to drain you."

"You love me. Now come on. Let's go show Declan. He's gonna lose his mind."

“We’re not showing Declan anything…” Andy grumbled, shivering in the cold air.

"Andy, listen," Marty added, his grin widening. "Way to downgrade your cool by, like, an order of magnitude."

Marty didn't hesitate. He shrugged off his massive, heavy blue-and-gold varsity letterman jacket—the ultimate symbol of Oak Creek Alpha status, smelling deeply of teenage sweat, cheap deodorant, and the musky, territorial scent of the wolf pack. He draped it directly over Andy’s shoulders, hiding the pastel polo shirt.

"Here," Marty grunted, adjusting the collar so it swallowed Andy’s frame. "Cover up the shame. We can play it off that you're doing college application interviews and you got cold. No one will give a shit."

The heavy, musky scent of the werewolf washed over Andy. It was gross, it was pungent, and to Andy, it smelled like absolute, uncompromising safety. It was a physical shield against Esca’s sterile, suffocating control.

"I love you, Marty," Andy whispered, genuinely meaning it.

"I know, Batty, I know," Marty patted his shoulder heavily. "Come on. The pack provides."

Marty reached down with one hand, grabbed the yellow scooter by the steering column, lifted the two-hundred-pound machine off the ground effortlessly, and shoved it entirely inside a large, decorative holly bush near the cafeteria loading dock. "Out of sight, out of mind. We'll tell insurance it got jacked."

Andy pulled the varsity jacket tighter around himself, walking alongside the massive linebacker toward the front doors. As they entered the crowded hallway, the student body parted.

A group of senior cheerleaders by the water fountain spotted him. Their eyes immediately softened in collective sympathy.

"Oh my god, Andy," the head cheerleader, a girl named Brittany, cooed, stepping forward to pat his arm. "We heard Lucas is dating Ronan Draven now. We saw the shorts. It’s okay. Breakups are so hard. Khakis are a totally normal cry for help. He isn't worth this."

Andy blinked. High schoolers interpreting his ancient, psychological torture as a post-breakup fashion crisis was the most absurd, brilliant camouflage he could have ever hoped for.

"Thank you, Brittany," Andy murmured, looking appropriately tragic. "It has been... a difficult morning."

"You're so brave," she whispered, handing him a tissue before returning to her friends to glare aggressively at any werewolf who walked past.

As Andy and Marty continued down the hall, they nearly collided with Declan Draven.

The prep-school tactician was holding a stack of AP History textbooks, his pristine navy blazer immaculate as always. He took one look at Andy. He saw the varsity jacket. He saw the pale, aristocratic face of the immortal predator.

And then, he looked down. He saw the beige, knee-length khaki shorts.

Declan’s usual, radioactive smirk vanished instantly. The arrogant superiority melted off his face, replaced by a look of sheer, open-mouthed aesthetic horror. His brain seemed to physically reboot.

"Dude," Declan breathed, taking a step back as if the shorts were contagious. "I mean... dude... shorts?"

Andy closed his eyes, accepting his fate. "My father is asserting dominance through retail."

Declan shook his head violently, looking around the hallway as if searching for the fashion police. "No. Absolutely not. The sociopathic control is one thing, but this is a hate crime against my eyes. Come with me."

Declan grabbed Andy by the sleeve of the varsity jacket and practically dragged him down the hall, shoving him into the boys' locker room. Declan marched up to his gym locker, spun the combination lock with frantic speed, and threw the door open.

He reached past his gym clothes and pulled out a pair of immaculately pressed, dark charcoal trousers still on a wooden hanger.

"These are Hugo Boss," Declan commanded, shoving the trousers into Andy’s chest. "I keep a spare for emergencies. This is a level-five emergency. Put them on. And for the love of God, give me the shorts. I am taking them to the chemistry lab and incinerating them."

Ten minutes later, Andy emerged from the locker room.

The visual was staggering. He was wearing Declan Draven’s perfectly tailored, dark Hugo Boss trousers. He was wearing Esca Tyrell’s pastel-pink polo shirt. And he was wrapped in Martin Sanchez’s massive, blue-and-gold varsity jacket. With his hair styled like something out of a ‘90’s rom-com.

He was a walking, patched-together Frankenstein of the pack's identities. They were literally layering their own protection over him, physically shielding him from his Sire’s aesthetic destruction.

Andy walked toward his locker, feeling a strange, bizarre warmth in his chest. Esca had tried to isolate him, to strip his dignity and make him feel utterly alone. Instead, he had only proven how deeply Andy was embedded in this chaotic, absurd family.

As he reached for his combination lock, the cheap smartphone in his pocket vibrated.

Andy pulled it out. The screen lit up with a single text message from a blocked number.

The blue and gold clashes terribly with the beige, Jędrzej. We will discuss your wardrobe rebellion at dinner. 6:00 PM sharp. Oh, and I have signed you up as a Scout Leader for the weekend. Community service looks so good on your college applications. Have a good day at school. — Daddy.

The warmth in Andy’s chest vanished, replaced instantly by the icy grip of the panopticon. Esca wasn't angry. He was amused. The torment was a game, and Esca had eyes everywhere.

But as Andy read the text again, his ancient, tactical mind caught on the specific nature of the punishment. Scout Leader. Esca wanted him to suffer the indignity of herding clueless, screaming human children through the woods. Esca wanted him to be humiliated by campfire sing-alongs and nature hikes.

Andy looked down the hallway. He saw Marty shoving one of his little brothers playfully into a locker. He saw a half-dozen younger werewolf pups scurrying to class, their heightened senses and pack dynamics vibrating beneath their human facades.

A very slow, very dark smile spread across the vampire’s pale lips.

Esca wanted him to lead a scout troop. He would lead a scout troop.

---

The dense, ancient pine woods of the Oak Creek reserve were usually quiet on a Saturday morning, save for the wind in the branches and the distant chatter of birds.

But today, the clearing near the old quarry was occupied by Boy Scout Troop 442.

Esca Tyrell’s spies had undoubtedly set up cameras in the tree line, expecting to record footage of the mighty Scourge of the Carpathians being tormented by bratty, sugar-fueled human middle-schoolers. They expected to see Andy failing to pitch a tent, burning hot dogs, and losing his mind.

Instead, Andy stood in the center of the clearing, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing the mandated, humiliating khaki scout uniform, complete with a neckerchief and a wide-brimmed campaign hat.

Arrayed in a perfect, terrifyingly silent semi-circle in front of him were twelve twelve-year-old werewolf pups.

They were wearing scout uniforms bedecked with badges. They had pitched their tents with absolute, military precision in under four minutes. They had dug a fire pit to exact safety specifications.

And currently, they were sitting cross-legged on the ground, using hunting knives to whittle thick branches of oak into lethally sharp stakes.

"The bevel needs to be sharper, Sammy," Andy instructed smoothly, pacing in front of the pups, tapping a swagger stick against his palm. "You want the point to slide cleanly between the ribs, not catch on the sternum. Good form, though. Excellent wrist control."

"Yes, Scoutmaster Andy," twelve pre-teen wolves chorused in unison, their golden eyes glowing slightly in the shade of the pines.

At the far end of the semi-circle sat the Sanchez triplets, Marty’s little brothers. Alvin, Simon, and Theodore (their mother was a fan). They were identical, small for their age, and possessed an aura of synchronized, unblinking intensity that was deeply unsettling even to Andy.

They were currently holding their freshly carved stakes up to the light, inspecting the points with mechanical precision.

"The structural integrity..." Alvin stated, not looking up.

"...of this specific oak branch..." Simon continued seamlessly.

"...is optimal for penetrating the thoracic cavity," Theodore finished, blinking at the exact same moment as his brothers.

"Excellent assessment, boys," Andy praised, feeling a profound, vindictive joy welling up in his dead heart. Esca hadn't humiliated him. Esca had accidentally given him the authorization to raise, train, and command a highly lethal, miniature paramilitary honor guard.

The quiet discipline of the clearing was suddenly, violently shattered by the loud snapping of twigs and the heavy, uncoordinated crashing of someone moving through the underbrush.

"Scoutmaster! Requesting permission to enter the camp!"

Andy closed his eyes, a long, weary sigh escaping his lips.

Lucas Cooper burst through the bushes, looking like a chaotic explosion at an army surplus store. He had constructed his own "Assistant Scoutmaster" uniform. It consisted of a crooked, hand-stitched sash covered in what looked like random patches peeled off old backpacks, a massive, oversized campaign hat that kept slipping over his eyes, and a thick, neon-white streak of SPF 300 sunblock smeared aggressively across the bridge of his nose.

Trailing calmly behind him was Ronan, wearing his Eagle Scout’s uniform, carrying a massive cooler and a fully stocked first-aid kit. Ronan looked exactly like a capable, deeply exasperated den mother. The fact he was probably the only real scout in the entire group certainly helped.

"Lucas," Andy warned, his voice dropping into its gothic register, desperately trying to maintain authority in front of his strike force.

"What?" Lucas grinned, adjusting his oversized hat and marching into the center of the circle, completely ignoring the twelve pairs of glowing golden eyes staring at him. "You need reinforcements. Someone has to show these kids how to make s'mores properly. Plus, I get to share a tent with the Scoutmaster."

Lucas wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I have an SSD drive full of that specific sub-genre of porn back home. Wanna teach me how to tie you down... with knots?"

"Lucas!" Andy hissed, his pale cheeks actually flushing.

"I want to earn my barebacking badge," Lucas declared loudly, puffing out his chest.

"LUCAS!" Andy lunged forward, clapping a cold hand firmly over the teenager’s mouth, his eyes wide with panic. "You are in the presence of impressionable youth!"

The twelve werewolf pups didn't look impressionable. They looked profoundly, viscerally disgusted.

The Sanchez triplets slowly lowered their stakes. They turned their heads in perfect unison to lock their unblinking stares on Lucas.

"That is a highly..." Alvin said, his voice entirely monotone.

"...inappropriate and HR-violating joke..." Simon continued, not blinking.

"...for a sanctioned scouting environment, Lucas," Theodore finished.

Lucas peeled Andy’s hand off his mouth, glaring at the creepy triplets. "Shut up, Alvin. You guys are weird. I am the Alpha here, and I am claiming the Scoutmaster’s tent. We are doing this. It’s my second biggest fantasy after the whole vampire thing."

"You are going to sleep in the dirt," Ronan sighed, walking past Lucas and setting the cooler down near the fire pit. He looked at the triplets. "Theodore, I brought the extra chocolate bars you like. Simon, I checked the perimeter; no spider nests. Alvin, keep whittling."

The triplets immediately softened, their creepy hive-mind breaking for a fraction of a second as they looked at the Omega. "Thank you, Ronan," they chorused perfectly.

Andy stood back, watching the chaos unfold. Lucas was currently trying to demonstrate how to build a fire by aggressively striking two rocks together, entirely failing to produce a spark, while Ronan calmly handed out chocolate to a highly disciplined strike force of pre-teen monsters.

Andy reached up and adjusted the brim of his ridiculous khaki campaign hat. He looked at his hyperactive boyfriend, his capable Omega, and his twelve lethal wolf cubs.

Let him watch, Andy thought, a genuine, feral smile touching his lips. Let the bastard watch.

The pack wasn't a weakness Esca could exploit. It was an army. And Andy was one of them.