Kier looks surprised by the honor but allows himself to be led to the table where Ryker and other senior pack members are already seated. As we settle into our places, I notice the speculative glances from the pack, the knowing smiles exchanged between some of the older wolves.
Great. Even more gossip fodder.
But as the food is served and wine begins to flow, I find myself relaxing despite the attention. The meal is a celebration of Shadowmist’s bounty—venison and wild boar, fresh fish from the mountain streams, vegetables and fruits harvested from the pack’s gardens, bread still warm from the ovens. It’s a feast fit for a homecoming, which I suppose this is in many ways.
Conversation flows easily around the table, with Kier fielding questions about his travels as a nomad with good humor and interesting stories. He has a way of speaking that draws people in, making them laugh with his dry wit or lean forward to catch every word of a particularly harrowing adventure.
I watch him from the corner of my eye, fascinated by this side of him I’ve barely glimpsed before. He fits here, among my people, in a way I hadn’t expected. There’s none of the awkwardness or forced politeness that usually marks outsiders’ interactions with the pack. He’s just… himself. And they respond to that authenticity, including him in their jokes, their stories, their community.
“So, Kier,” Felix asks from across the table, “is it true you once tracked a rogue alpha through three territories using nothing but a week-old scent marker?”
Kier chuckles, taking a sip of his wine. “It was ten days old, actually. And I had help—a particularly stubborn thunderstorm that refused to stop raining the entire time.”
“How does rain help tracking?” one of the younger wolves asks, clearly fascinated.
“It doesn’t, usually,” Kier explains. “But this particular alpha had a habit of seeking shelter in abandoned human structures when it rained. All I had to do was check every dilapidated barn and shed along his likely path. Found him curled up in an old schoolhouse basement, still damp from the last downpour.”
The story earns appreciative laughter, and I find myself smiling despite my attempt to maintain some emotional distance.
“What about you, Beta?” someone calls from farther down the table. “Any good stories from your time on the run?”
All eyes turn to me, including Kier’s, and I feel a flush creeping up my neck. “Nothing as entertaining as Kier’s adventures, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Kier says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “The way you handled those pursuers when we reached the northern ridge was pretty impressive.”
I narrow my eyes at him, sensing a trap. “That was just basic survival instinct.”
“Basic survival instinct?” He turns to the others, his expression mock serious. “She led three armed guards on a chase through a burning forest, then climbed a sheer rock face with broken ribs while silver poisoning was still in her system.”
Murmurs of approval ripple through the gathered wolves.
“And then,” Kier continues, his voice dropping dramatically, “when we were cornered at the top with fire closing in from both sides, she found an underground stream that saved both our lives.”
“That’s not exactly how it happened,” I protest, though the memory of those desperate moments brings heat to my face for entirely different reasons.
That kiss really was something else.
From Kier’s knowing smile, I suspect he’s thinking the same thing.
“Always modest, our Beta,” Ryker says, raising his glass. “But worthy of celebration nonetheless. To Lithia—who survived against impossible odds and returned to us stronger than ever.”
“To Lithia!” the pack echoes, raising their glasses.
I accept the toast with as much grace as I can muster,uncomfortable being the center of attention. The meal continues and more stories are shared, and I find myself genuinely enjoying the evening. It’s been too long since I allowed myself to simply be present, to enjoy the company of my pack without the weight of responsibility pressing down on me.
After the meal, musicians set up in one corner of the hall. The tables are pushed back to clear space for dancing, and soon the air is filled with lively music. Couples move onto the makeshift dance floor while the young pups run around, dancing in enthusiastic, if awkward, clusters.
“Dance with me,” Kier says, holding out his hand. It’s not a question, but not quite a demand either.
I look up at him, ready to refuse, but the words die in my throat at the expression in his eyes. There’s want there, certainly, but also something softer, more vulnerable. He’s offering his hand, but what he’s really asking for is a chance.
Just for tonight,I remind myself.I can have this, just for tonight.
I place my hand in his, letting him lead me onto the dance floor. The music shifts to something slower, more intimate, as if the musicians somehow knew.
Kier’s hand settles at my waist, warm and steady, while the other keeps hold of mine. He pulls me closer than strictly necessary, our bodies nearly touching as we begin to move with the music.
“You dance well,” I observe, trying to keep my tone light despite the electricity crackling between us.
