He pulls his shirt off, turning to show us his shoulder where the old exile mark sits.
“Here,” I say. “Over this.”
“To cover it?” he asks.
“To change it,” I say. “Every time you look at it, I want you to remember: nobody gets to cast you out again. Not without going through me first.”
His jaw trembles.
The innkeeper places the brand.
Beau screams.
It tears through the air, high and raw, bouncing off the inn’s stone walls. His knees buckle. I catch him, wrapping my arms around his chest as the iron does its work.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “I’ve got you. Breathe, big guy. In. Out. That’s it.”
The stench of burning skin is harsher this time, thicker, mixed with the damp salt of his sweat and tears.
When the iron pulls away, Beau is shaking like a leaf.
“Okay?” I ask quietly.
He pants, eyes squeezed shut.
“That was worse than the first time.”
“Scar tissue.”
He nods slowly. “I…” His voice cracks. “I’ll be the best beta that ever lived.”
I huff out a laugh that burns my lungs. “I know you will.”
He turns and suddenly hugs me so hard he nearly knocks the air out of me. We stand like that for a long minute, two grown wolves clinging to each other in the back lot of a shitty inn, branded and burned and finally, finally belonging to something that’s ours.
The innkeeper clears his throat. “You two gonna start crying on my shoes, or you done?”
“Not quite,” I say, wiping my eyes and shrugging on my shirt while Buff does the same.
“You’re not branding me again, are you?” Buff squeaks.
I laugh. “I have something for you. Close your eyes.”
I extract Buff’s mom’s necklace from my jeans pocket. I managed to hunt it down from a traveling salesman and bought it back for three times the price Buff sold it for, but it was worth every penny.
I drop the necklace in his hand. “Okay, you can open them.”
He opens his eyes and takes in the gold glinting in his palm. He looks at me, then at the necklace before tackling me.
“You’re choking me,” I cough, laughing as he clings like a feral koala.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes bright and suspiciously wet. “You’re an idiot,” he says hoarsely. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” I grin. “But I’m your idiot.”
He looks down at the necklace again, thumb brushing over the worn gold like he’s afraid it might vanish. “She used to say this was lucky,” he mutters. “Said it kept her safe.”
“Well,” I say quietly, “seems only right it finds its way back to you.”
