The sensation was overwhelming. Warm fur, solid muscle, the thrum of a heartbeat that seemed to sync with mine. This was Daniel. Not the Alpha, not the leader, not the man carrying fifteen years of grief. Just the wolf. Raw and real and finally, finally letting himself be touched.
I ran my fingers through his fur. Behind his ears. Down the thick ruff of his neck. And Daniel leaned into every touch like he'd been starving for contact, like this simple act of being petted was the most profound thing anyone had ever done for him.
“You're beautiful,” I told him. “Ridiculous and terrifying and absolutely beautiful.”
His tail wagged.
I laughed, the sound startling in the quiet clearing. “Did you just wag your tail at me? The big scary Alpha?”
The wolf huffed. Breath warm against my leg. Then he dropped into a play bow, front legs stretched forward, rear end in the air, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled.
“Oh my goodness.” I was grinning now, couldn't help it. “You want to play?”
He barked. An actual bark, sharp and excited, like a dog seeing its favorite toy.
I looked around the clearing. Found a stick near the base of Claire's tree. Good throwing size, weathered but solid.
“You're kidding me.”
The tail wagged harder.
“Daniel Callahan. Head Alpha of the Evernight Pack. Terror of rival wolves and enemy witches.” I held up the stick. “Wants to play fetch.”
He lunged for it.
I barely got out of the way in time, laughing as he bounded past me, all predator grace applied to completely mundane play. I threw the stick as hard as I could, watched it arc through the filtered sunlight, and Daniel took off after it like his life depended on catching it.
He caught it mid-air. Six feet off the ground, easy, jaws snapping closed around weathered wood. Then he landed, shook it with theatrical violence to make sure it was properly dead, and came trotting back looking absurdly pleased with himself.
Dropped it at my feet. Sat. Waited.
“You're ridiculous,” I told him, still laughing. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
His tongue lolled out. Tail still going.
I threw it again. And again. And again. Watched him bound through Claire's wildflowers, scattering petals, moving with joy that had nothing to do with duty or leadership or grief. Just a wolf playing in the afternoon sun, finally letting himself be something other than strong.
On the fifth throw, he didn't bring it back. Just stood at the edge of the clearing, stick in mouth, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Oh no. Don't you dare.”
He play-bowed again. The universal canine signal for “come and get it.”
“I'm not chasing you. I'm human. I have dignity.”
The tail wagged faster.
“Daniel.”
He took off running.
“Son of a bitch.” But I was laughing as I ran after him, crashing through wildflowers, tripping over roots, completely undignified as I chased a three-hundred-pound werewolf through sacred ground.
He let me catch him. I knew he did, knew he could have run circles around me for hours without breaking a sweat. But he slowed just enough, let me get close, and when I lunged for the stick he twisted and knocked me flat on my back.
Three hundred pounds of wolf standing over me, panting happy breath in my face, tail still wagging.
“You win,” I gasped, laughing too hard to breathe properly. “You're the most fearsome predator. I bow to your superior stick-catching abilities.”
