“I guess my scent’s been a pretty big clue.”
Malachi stepped forward and clapped Ezra’s shoulder. His amber eyes gleamed with happiness that rose for a moment in his scent too. “You’ve found her.”
“I want her to meet the pack.” The words burst from Ezra’s chest, a deep growl coming along with them, beneath them. Hearing his own words, feeling the strength of the rumble in his chest, Ezra could hardly refrain from a roar of emphasis.
“On Saturday,” Malachi said.
Ezra nodded.
Malachi motioned to the giant Adirondack chairs on his porch, made specially by Trevor to accommodate the size of a wolf, even of the alpha. Every wolf’s porch or deck featured two or four of Trevor’s chairs.
Ezra sank into one, his senses calm, filled with the safety of the nature that surrounded them, the mountains and trees, hills and creeks. Beside him Malachi’s scent was familiar and easy too—heavy notes of authority, gamey notes of wolf, and his own signature scent, strength and solemnity blended with musk. Their breath was visible in the morning air, but they were wolves. In Tennessee’s climate, they remained comfortable in short sleeves year-round.
“I have questions,” Malachi said.
“Figured you would.”
“How long have you known her?”
“She lives in town, works at the coffee shop. That’s where we met, a couple months ago. We always talked, but I never thought…”
He laid out the story, detail by detail. Malachi spoke little, which was to be expected. First he would listen. At last the alpha said, “Has she asked to come here?”
“No,” Ezra said, tilting his head at his friend. Odd leading question.
“Has she taken any pictures of you?”
“What? No.”
“You said she guessed you weren’t the only wolf living here. You’re sure it was a guess?”
Ezra’s jaw spasmed, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “Of course I’m sure.”
“I have to ask, Ezra.”
“Ask what? If Willow might be a spy, an enemy trying to expose us? She’s twenty-three years old. She’s a gorgeous barista who likes art fairs and research and flowers.”
“I heard you. I believe you.”
Ezra bit down on a growl and shoved his hands through his hair. For a moment his body anticipated a reproving growl in response, but Malachi was quiet, let him fidget and chafe in his chair.
“You said I found her. My mate.”
“No doubt,” Malachi said.
“But…?”
“Until you’re bonded, there’s a level of risk. A low level, but I still have to ask.”
Of course he did. The burden of the pack’s safety lay on Malachi’s shoulders. Still Ezra felt like growling at his alpha, a thing no self-preserving wolf would dare to do. He huffed instead.
“You’re protective,” Malachi said. “As you should be.”
“She’s mine.”
“I know that, friend.”
Ezra leaned against the back of the chair and shut his eyes. His stomach had become a knotted ball of defensive rage, and he didn’t even know why. He trusted his alpha. He trusted Malachi with his own life and, if it came down to it, even with Willow’s. Yet Malachi’s questioning of her character had wrought this red-hot fury Ezra had to rein in hard. He clenched his hands on the wooden arms of the chair and silently lectured himself.Get a grip, wolf.
