“Four,” I correct with a smirk. “That thing you did in the shower definitely counted.”
“Ah, yes.” His smile widens to showcase those tusks I’ve become intimately acquainted with. “The thing with the—”
“Yes, that.” I cut him off, heat rising to my cheeks despite everything we’ve done. “Very… innovative use of bathroom fixtures.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling pleasantly against my side where our bodies touch. “High praise from Ruby Wolfhart, wolf rights advocate and apparent shower sex connoisseur.”
“I contain multitudes.” I stretch languidly, enjoying how his eyes track the movement. “Don’t stereotype me, Porkwell.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” His hand traces lazy patterns through my hair. “You’ve shattered every preconception I had about wolves tonight.”
“Likewise, about pigs.” I roll onto my side to face him properly. “Though I maintain your family’s business practices are morally bankrupt.”
“Fair.” He doesn’t even argue, which surprises me. “Hamilton’s vision for the company is… problematic.”
“Problematic?” I arch an eyebrow. “That’s like calling a forest fire a ‘friendly breeze.’”
Percy sighs, his expression growing serious. “My grandfather built homes. Simple ones, sustainable ones. My father expanded, but maintained some principles. Hamilton just sees profit margins and legacy.”
I study his face in the dim light. “And what do you see?”
“Balance.” His eyes meet mine. “I see the potential for development that respects what came before. Buildings that complement landscapes instead of obliterating them.Communities where different species coexist instead of…” He gestures vaguely between us. “Whatever the opposite of this is.”
“Mutual hostility and public character assassination?” I suggest helpfully.
“Exactly,” he chuckles, then sobers. “The Wolfstone plans I showed you aren’t approved by the board yet. Hamilton will fight them.”
I prop myself up on one elbow. “So why bother re-designing?”
“Because they’re better.” Percy’s voice holds conviction. “Better for the land, better for the community, better for long-term sustainability. And because a very passionate wolf with stunning amber eyes and beautiful red hair wrote an article that made me question certain assumptions.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. “You read my article and decided to redesign an entire development project?”
“I read your article, got really angry, hiked out to Wolfstone to prove you wrong, and ended up sitting by the water until dawn watching a wolf family teaching pups to fish.” His expression softens at the memory. “They were so… joyful. Free, in a way you never see with wolves in the city. I went back to the office and started redesigning that same day.”
I’m momentarily speechless. The image of Percy—privileged, powerful Percy Porkwell—sitting alone by the creek, watching my people in their natural element, challenges everything I thought I knew about him.
“That might have been my cousin’s family,” I say quietly. “Mara and her mate had five pups this season.”
Percy’s eyes widen. “They’re beautiful. The pups have this way of pouncing that’s—”
“Like they’re spring-loaded?” I finish, smiling despite myself. “Wolf pups do that until they’re about a year old. It’s how they practice hunting.”
“What else?” Percy asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. “I saw one of the adults—the father, I think—howling while the others hunted. He stayed on this rocky outcrop the whole time.”
“That’s the watcher,” I explain, surprised by his observation. “In traditional packs, we always leave one wolf to guard the territory and signal if there’s danger. My great-uncle was our pack’s watcher for twenty years. It’s considered an honour—the most trusted position.”
“But don’t they miss the hunt?” Percy’s brow furrows. “Seems lonely.”
“It’s not about the individual, it’s about the pack,” I say, realizing how different this mindset must be from the individualistic pig culture. “When the hunt returns, the watcher gets the second choice of meat, right after the nursing mothers. And during the Moonhowl ceremony, the watcher leads the first call.”
Percy looks thoughtful. “I like that there’s recognition for sacrifice. In my family, sacrifice is expected but rarely acknowledged.”
We share a moment of surprising connection, and I realize we’re having a genuine conversation about wolf culture without the usual political tension or species awkwardness of a public forum. The usual posturing has given way to an open and honest conversation, and I find Percy is not really who I thought he was.
I’m starting to trust that he’s being genuine—and it’s throwing me off more than I care to admit.
“So what happens now?” I ask, addressing the question we’ve both been avoiding. “With Wolfstone? With… this?” I gesture between our naked bodies.
