I feel his gaze slide across my exposed skin and hear him clear his throat.
“Yep.”
“Well, thank you for completing the training with no objections.”
“I was objecting, but silently.”
“I’ll take it,” he replies, grabbing his jacket off the rack and opening the door. I hear a broken howl in the distance, and Arbor hesitates a moment. But he squares his shoulders, and I move toward him, knowing my alpha scent will most likely scare off anyone who is lurking nearby.
They won’t want to mess with me. Or what’s inferably mine.
I walk him to his car, and he stiffens slightly when I wait for him to get in. But I left him alone that first day. My conscience won’t let me do it again.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, an almost unwilling two syllables, but I accept them.
“Anytime.”
When he finally drives off, I slip into my truck and make my way back to my small double-wide on the south side of town. It’s not much, but I’m proud of it. I’ve done a lot of work on this place. New siding, new fencing, and a shit-ton of plants and trees.
It’s home. I park my truck and see the glowing eyes of a few feral cats on my porch.
Damn things won’t go away.
I’m not a cat person. Wolves never like felines.
“Fuck off,” I murmur as I pour them their food from the latched container under the chair.
They meow angrily at me, pissed I’m home late.
“Well, tough canines. I’m not your owner.”
Just a servant, they hiss back.
With a roll of my eyes and a nice middle finger to them, I push the door to my home open and jump slightly when I see my brother in the kitchen. I can smell dinner attempting to be cooked, and my stomach rumbles.
“River, what the fuck?” My younger brother is bouncing around near the stove. He must have his earphones in becausehe can’t hear me. So, I close the door and kick off my shoes. When I tap him on the shoulder, he screams. Embarrassed and ashamed of what just came out of his mouth, he punches me in the chest.
“You scared me.”
I let out a low laugh. “You scared me, lurking in the kitchen in the dark. Why the hell are you here cooking me dinner?”
“Uh, well, I ran out of food, and your place was closer than the store.”
“Fuck off,” I say. “You need a grocery service.”
“I wish we had that, but we aren’t in the city, man. We don’t have Pack Pantry here.”
I pull open the fridge and pull out a couple ciders, handing one to my brother before cracking one open for myself.
“Oh gods, I love this brand. Wild Howl is the fucking best.”
He slurps it, drinking half down in seconds and letting out a burp.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“I decided on spaghetti. Because, you know, I can boil a fucking noodle.”
“Let me guess? Noodles and sauce from a jar?”
