Griffith catches the flinch and goes full scowl. I swear the wolf has never smiled at me once and will refuse to until the day he dies.
“Sit here.” He sets his hand between my shoulder blades and gives me a surprisingly gentle nudge toward a cushy armchair.
“I don’t get to be part of the group?” There’s no real complaint in my voice as I wave toward the gathering that’s still quietly watching us.
All except for the baby strapped to the chest of a dark-haired man, that is. The kid plays with a ring toy, waving it around, then trying to chew on it.
“They want to ask you about the hunter. But you need breakfast first.” Griffith gives me a final, barely there push, and I collapse into the armchair. “No questions until you’re fed.”
Assuming the directive doesn’t apply to me, I ask, “Do you know if Carl grabbed Shrimp’s food? It was in a big plastic bin with a blue top.”
“Haven’t seen it.” Griffith arranges a TV tray in front of me, but I make to nudge it away so I can stand. “Stop that.” He pushes my hands into my lap.
“You stop. I need to find Shrimp’s food. Is my car still at your bar?” Mentally, I try to sort through everything I hastily shoved in the trunk. Realizing my error, I suck in a shuddering breath. “Shit. I think … shit.”
“What?” Griffith presses his palm flat on the TV tray so I can’t move the barrier. He looms over me, gaze intent on my face, and I hate that he can probably see my lip quiver.
Normally, I’m not a crier, but I’m still tired and hurting. Plus, being back in Folk Haven reminds me of what a fuckup I used to be and has me forgetting that I grew up and learned how to solve my problems with mature solutions.
“I forgot Shrimp’s food,” I confess. “I couldn’t lift the bin.” When I tried, the strain was like a fire poker getting shoved in my abdomen. “I was going to put it in smaller containers, but I got distracted.” Every second of packing, I had one ear on the door, one eye down the street, expecting the hunters to show up at any moment. “I need to go. Need to find him something to eat.”
They probably won’t have his normal brand at the local grocery store, but he’s not picky. I’ll get him the best they have, then order a bag of his specialty kibble with expedited shipping.Shrimp, patient boy that he is, sits beside my chair, his head on the armrest, liquid brown eyes gazing up at me with utter trust.
“I have food for him.”
At Griffith’s words, I glance up at him in surprise.
“You have dog food?”
“I have food dogs will eat.”
Not really what I was asking.
“He’s allergic to chicken.”
The werewolf sighs, then holds my gaze, pinning me in place with the weight of his attention. “Sit here. Eat. I’ll feed him.”
The two commands he gives prick at my pride, demanding I toss back a snarky answer.
But he just offered to feed my dog, so I put a leash on my childish urge and give him a sincere, “Thank you.”
Griffith blinks, then straightens and stalks to the kitchen.
The people at the table started up a quiet discussion during our exchange, eyes now purposefully averted from me. Griffith returns, setting down a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage links, and a stack of toast. There’s also a glass of orange juice, a bottle of Tabasco sauce, and a jar of raspberry jam.
My favorite jam. But I doubt he knows that.
“Don’t give Shrimp your sausage,” he warns me a second before I plan to do exactly that. “His breakfast is coming next.”
I’m just finished dumping a generous amount of hot sauce on my eggs when Griffith sets a metal bowl on the floor in front of Shrimp that’s full of chunks of red meat.
“Venison,” he explains.
Shrimp starts to drool.
“Eat,” I direct my pup before a puddle forms on the floor.
Shrimp dives face-first into the feast. Looking up, I find Griffith watching my dog, and I catch a twitch at the corner of his mouth, something like a satisfied smile.
