For a moment, there was only silence, as Jax stared down at Grant. Even if he hadn’t been standing on a higher step, he’d have had to look down at the guy, who seemed maybe my height—five-eight or so. That had never seemed to matter to Jax, who was casually powerful, sitting, standing, or draped across a sofa, regardless of anyone else’s relative height. This man? It mattered to him. He did this thing I’d done to make myself feel taller as a teenager, angling his head back so he could pretend he was looking down at the person he was facing.
It looked just as juvenile as I’d imagined in retrospect, because as I’d learned from my own inheritance of power, one didn’t become strong because they were tall or broad or imposing.
In fact, the guy behind Grant was the one who actually grabbed my attention. He was younger—maybe my age—and clean-shaven. Still a bit boyish, with high spots of color in his cheeks. He put me to mind of a model or some other profession that capitalized on good looks, beautiful and striking and golden-blond, with piercing blue eyes, and he stood on the step behind Grant, taller and broader than the supposed alpha. All around, he was just... more. There was no posturing there, only genuine curiosity, and more than that, perfect confidence. This man believed he could handle anything.
More than Grant could ever be, this man was a threat.
“Well, well, well,” Grant said, dragging my attention back to him. “The prodigal son.”
Jax didn’t even deign to respond, simply quirked an eyebrow, and... well. It made me want to jump on his dick again. Just a little.
It was so hot when he was commanding and badass.
Behind me, just barely in my field of vision, Jillian covered her mouth, trying to hide a smile.
The wolves could all smell it, I remembered.
They knew that Jax staring down the little weasel-man turned me on.
A year earlier, that would have been horrifying, and I’d have run off as soon as I could, searching for a hole to hide my mortification in. Now? Well, my man was fucking hot. Everyone knowing I found him hot wasn’t a bad thing.
He certainly wasn’t offended, as the quirk of his own lips showed a moment later.
Grant was less pleased. His face changed from that attempt at bravado, crumpling into something that looked like he’d been force-fed dirt and he was about to spit it out. “I see your manners haven’t improved.”
At that, Jax snorted. “My manners have never been a problem. You’re the one who’s invaded another pack’s territory without so much as a ‘by your leave.’”
That elicited a sly smile that made my earlier weasel analogy seem even more apropos. The man wasn’t a wolf, hewasa weasel. Briefly, his gaze flickered to me, and the oiliness of the look he sent me had a shiver rushing up my back.
“But it isn’t another pack’s territory,” he denied when his eyes, thankfully, returned to Jax. “It’s my pack’s territory. Because this little rebellion is over. It’s time for you children to return to the fold.”
There was a barked laugh from somewhere behind Jax, to which Jax held up a hand. The sound instantly stopped. “My pack fought for and won our independence from the alpha of your pack many, many years ago. You and yours have no hold over us.”
Grant smiled nastily, but my attention was once again caught by the younger man behind him. His nostrils were flared, like he was taking in a scent, his pupils enormous and fists clenched... was he offended by me stinking up the air with wanting Jax?
That was silly. He wasn’t looking at me at all. His gaze was unfocused, so he wasn’t even glaring at Jax. Hadn’t done so at all. No, he was looking past Jax, past me, scanning the faces of the pack behind us, like he was looking for someone specific.
Grant was piffling on about how pack laws said he could take all the time he needed to “bring children to heel,” Jax rolling his eyes and looking deeply unimpressed all the while. But then, given that the core of the Crescent pack was getting on to forty years old, calling them children was pretty fucking ridiculous.
Finally, while Grant was still yammering in flowery language about pack meetings to discuss their issues in the high light of the waxing moon, Jax lazily interrupted. “Look, if you want to meet with my pack, we can have dinner. There’s a Mexican place just up the street, La Cantina, we’ll call ahead and meet you there in an hour. No, you’re not invited into my pack’s home. No, you won’t ever be invited into my pack’s home. Also, don’t embarrass us or yourselves at the restaurant, because we like to go there, and I don’t need to be cleaning up after you and your brother’s messes anymore.”
Then he put an arm around me, stepped back, and closed the door in Grant’s face. He turned to Maia and asked, “Could you call La Cantina and ask them to let us use their back room? I hope it’s not already rented for the night, but I’m not having an enemy pack inside our safe haven.”
Maia had already been dialing when he asked, of course.
So that was how, an hour later, we were walking into La Cantina with eight of our closest pack mates. Well, maybe not closest. I liked Seth, but he was a pretty closed off guy on the bestday, and Kent was a little dudebro for my tastes, but it was still an excellent showing for us.
The Idaho pack had the same people Grant had brought to our door earlier. Mostly young men, who stood behind him and looked sort of menacing in that way that made you want to cover your drink or walk with your keys splayed between your fingers. That bombshell blonde whom I had initially assumed was his significant other, but... no, that had clearly been wrong. She was stuck to the younger blond man’s side like she was glued there, and as they walked, continually moved to make sure that the younger man was between herself and Grant.
Interesting.
The other woman caught my attention as they joined us in the restaurant, though, because she kept looking at Jillian, who was uncomfortable about that fact. Jillian, who was afraid of nothing in my experience, wouldn’t even look at her.
Since I was seated between Jax and Jillian, I leaned toward her. “You okay?”
She cringed a little and gratefully took the huge margarita our usual server brought her before we’d even had a chance to order. Then, very unsubtly, not even trying to whisper, she motioned to the older woman, a brunette with a sour face. “She was Reeve’s procurer. She once tried to force me to sleep with Reeve’s uncle Jason when I was fourteen. He was sixty.”
From my other side came the sound of tortured wood—Jax digging suddenly very wicked looking claws into the table and glaring at the woman. I put one hand on his. “I know, babe, but don’t take it out on the table. We can eject the gross pedophiles from our city soon.”
