The inside of Doyle’s hadn’t changed. Same dark wood, same sticky floor. Red Sox pennants were tacked to the walls alongside framed photos that had yellowed with age. The narrow pub was stuffed with bodies, the air thick with the smell of beer, fried food, and dozens of familiar Lycan scents. Pete Doyle himself stood behind the bar, looking slightly overwhelmed, filling up pint glasses from the tap as fast as he could.
The second Sloane stepped through the doorway, a cheer went up, a well-deserved welcome for the hometown hero who brought down the Alpha who had terrorized them for decades. Within moments, they were surrounded. Eli recognized most of them. Faces he hadn’t seen in years and thought he’d never see again.
They shook hands, accepted hugs, and repeated the same story they’d told Martha. Sloane and Jacob worked the room while Matty, doing what Matty did best, played host and made sure everyone had a drink. Eli kept close to Olivia, his hand on the small of her back as they chatted with his former clan mates. Once in a while, he found himself moving his hand along her waist in a caress. At first, he thought she would flinch or protest, but to his surprise, she leaned into him, her sweet scent teasing his nose and her silvery curls brushing against him. It took all his strength not to say fuck it, toss her over his shoulder, and run away from this entire thing.
“Everything okay?” Olivia asked under her breath. “You seem quiet. Extra quiet, I mean.”
“Yeah. I’m good.” He had to stop being distracted by Olivia, and focus on what was around him. Take the temperature, so to speak. The mood was celebratory, but underneath the noise,he couldn’t help but hear the worry tainting the conversations around him.
“So, what happens to us now?”
“The council’s gonna disband us, aren’t they?”
“Who’s running things? We need someone.”
“I’m kind of getting tired, being on my feet,” Olivia said, interrupting his eavesdropping. “Can we sit down?” She motioned to the booth—Patrick’s booth—where the old man seemingly held court with Jacob, Sloane, and two other Boston Lycans. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
He nodded and led Olivia away. As they arrived, he caught the tail end of what appeared to be a serious discussion.
“… I mean, Ronan was a bastard, and I’m glad he’s gone,” Bobby Fitz said, taking a swig from his pint glass. “But at least when he was around, people knew not to mess with us.”
That was true, Eli thought glumly. Glancing around, he noticed that one person still hadn’t shown up. “Hey, where’s Sean? Did anyone message him about tonight?”
When silence greeted his question, Patrick rapped his knuckles on the table. “Might as well tell ‘em now that they’re all together,” the old man said, looking at Bobby.
“Tell us what?” Eli asked.
Bobby’s jaw ticked. “Sean O’Grady’s dead.”
“When?” Sloane gasped.
“Day after Ronan was nabbed. Cops found him in his car, over by the docks.” Bobby took a long pull from his pint. “Body was burned to a crisp.”
“Burned?” Jacob said, exchanging a glance with Eli. “How?”
“Bullet through the head, then torched. Him and the car both.” Bobby set his glass down. “Cops are saying it looks like the Russians.”
Eli felt Olivia stiffen beside him.
“Makes sense,” said Tommy, arms folded over his chest. “Word is the Bratva’s been sniffing around ever since Ronan got locked up.”
“Which is exactly why we need someone in charge.” Bobby raised his glass again and slammed it down on the wooden tabletop. “An Alpha, a boss, whatever you want to call it. Someone the other crews know not to test.”
“The High Council—” Sloane began.
“The High Council doesn’t have to live here,” Patrick interrupted. “We do.”
The exchange seemingly died down, and Eli found his opening. He caught Sloane’s eye and tipped his head toward the far end of the bar where Danny McGill and Mickey Mickelson sat with a handful of enforcers Eli recognized from the old crew.
Sloane gave Jacob a look, and he nodded once—he’d keep an eye on Olivia. Eli let his hand drop from her waist. “I’ll be right over there,” he said. “I should say hi.”
She glanced toward where he was headed, clocking the group. “Sure thing,” she said, then added in a low tone, “Be careful.”
He and Sloane made their way through the crowd and sat at the two empty stools at the end of the bar. Danny acknowledged them with a nod, but didn’t say a word. He’d always been the quieter of the two, a bull of a man who let his fists do his talking. Mickey, on the other hand, looked different. Thinner, for one, with dark circles under his eyes.
“Sloane. Eli.” Mickey raised his glass. “Glad you’re both okay.”
“Same,” Sloane said, though Eli heard the careful neutrality in her voice. “How you holding up?”
