In response, Deacon passes him a stern glare, but Covington and I are already laughing at him, which only further stiffens his brow.
I don’t stick around to see if he recovers.
Elliot is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He and Dame are speaking in a hushed tone, but they stop as I reach the last few steps.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I say. “I love a good secret.”
“Yeah, we know,” Dame responds. “That’s why we stopped.”
I swat him in the arm as they both chuckle.
“Hey,” Dame mutters, still grinning. “You’re Crescent now, no hitting your alpha.”
I swat him one more time for good measure, and this time, it’s Elliot and me laughing at Dame.
“What is it with these girls, man?” Dame rubs the sore spot on his arm. “They’re hardheaded. Every single one of ‘em.”
I don’t know who else is on Dame’s shit list tonight, but whoever she is, she’s doing excellent work. He looks as if he’s five seconds from pulling out his hair as he turns back to Elliot. They exchange a quick handshake, and Elliot palms him something.
“Good luck, man,” Elliot whispers, but the quiet exchange is cut short as a voice shrieks from somewhere behind me.
“Ahh! You’re here!” Kitty squeals, and we all turn to see her bouncing on her toes at the top of the steps.
“You’re actually here!” She shouts. “I thought Dame was joking.”
She races down the stairs and ropes me into one of her backbreaking hugs.
“You’re going to love this,” she says. “It’s the best.”
She’s still crushing me close when Elliot wedges his arm between us, peeling her off.
“Easy, Kit. I like her breathing.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Kitty blushes a deep red and releases me. “I’ll save you a good seat,” she says, winking at me before sauntering off toward the den.
“Alright!” Elliot hollers, shouting at the wolves idling throughout the house. “Let’s go! Move out!”
People come streaming in from every room, down the steps, and through the den before heading directly out the back door.
“We’re going outside?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s a bit of a walk. Do you—” Elliot pauses, noticing my feet. “Are those my socks?”
I try for a polite smile as I wiggle my toes.
“My feet were hurting,” I say lamely.
“I’m sure they were in those stilts you call shoes.”
He leans forward, wrapping his arms around my thighs, and he lifts me onto his shoulder in one swift motion, giving me no opportunity to protest.
“Hey!” I shout as my feet leave the floor. “Put me down. I can walk.”
“I know. But I’m not letting you fuck up my socks,” he says, already following the trail of people out of the house.
I duck as we pass through the door, but he’s careful to dodge any low-hanging branches as we weave our way past the treeline and deep into the forest.
I don’t know how anyone knows where we’re going in this darkness, but the crowd seems familiar with the path. It continues far from the back porch, through the trees. After about ten minutes, the wide willows and the soft dirt grow more familiar.
