All three brothers turn to look at me with varying expressions—Percy’s amused, Prescott’s earnest, and Hamilton’s… well, Hamilton’s still got that intensity that makes my fur stand on end in ways I’m not entirely mad about anymore.
“The wolf has simple needs,” Hamilton says, his tone sliding into that teasing register that would have made me want to bite him three months ago.
Now, I just want to bite him in completely different ways.
“This wolf,” I correct, strolling out onto the porch, “has very specific needs. And right now, they include watching three supposedly sophisticated business pigs fail at basic carpentry.”
Percy abandons the swing project to wrap an arm around my waist, nuzzling my neck in a way that sends a delicious shiverdown to my toes. “We excel at other things,” he murmurs against my skin. “As you well know.”
I push him away playfully. “Focus on the swing. I’ve got plans for it later.”
“Do these plans include all of us?” Prescott asks, abandoning his tech to join us.
“That depends on how well you install it,” I respond with a wink. “I’m not risking a concussion for any of you, no matter how cute those ears are.”
Hamilton huffs, but there’s the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
Three months ago, I wouldn’t have believed he could smile like that—genuine, unguarded.
Three months ago, I was storming into Porkwell Development, ready to shred their project.
Three months ago, these three were my enemies.
Now they’re… mine.
In ways I’m still figuring it out.
The transformation didn’t happen overnight.
After our… encounter by the lake during that fateful hiking trip, things were complicated.
Messy.
Hamilton, in particular, fought the inevitable as if it were his job (which, in a way, it was).
The Project was his baby, his revenge against wolves, his obsession. Giving it up meant admitting he was wrong, and Hamilton Porkwell didn’t do wrong.
Except, apparently, he does when presented with the right motivations.
“I’m still amazed you actually canceled the Wolfstone project,” I say to Hamilton as Percy returns to his swing installation with renewed determination. “That press conference might have been the happiest day of my advocacy career. The great HamiltonPorkwell, announcing a conservation initiative instead of luxury condos.”
Hamilton’s ears twitch backward—a pig tell I’ve learned means he’s feeling defensive. “It was a business decision. The public relations benefits alone—”
“Bullshit,” I interrupt cheerfully. “You fell in love with the land. And possibly with a certain inhabitant of said land.”
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth ticks up. “I thought wolves were supposed to be intimidating, not delusional.”
“Admit it, Ham. You went swimming in a lake, rolled in some mud, and your cold pork heart grew three sizes.”
“What my brother is failing to articulate,” Percy interjects, looking up from his work, “is that we found something more valuable than another development project.”
“Preservation has substantial tax benefits,” Hamilton adds stubbornly.
I roll my eyes. “Romantic as always.”
“The wildlife monitoring system is almost complete,” Prescott interrupts. “We’ll have real-time data on migration patterns, breeding seasons, and everything needed to maintain the reserve properly.” His enthusiasm is infectious. “I’ve even designed special cameras that adjust for different light wavelengths to capture nocturnal activity without disturbing the animals.”
“And this information helps us how?” Hamilton asks, though his tone lacks the dismissive edge it once had.
