Page 50

BLACKWOOD BROTHERS

Dawn painted the Olympic Peninsula in shades of steel and silver as James guided their Range Rover through winding forest roads. The morning mist clung to ancient pines like reluctant ghosts, the kind of morning that promised violence.

“The Whitmore Pack won’t last the month,” Liam announced from the back seat, sprawled across leather upholstery with his ever-present tablet. “Their alpha’s been making noise about expanding west. Into our territory.” His lips curved. “As if they could afford that particular mistake.”

Xander watched shadows dance through the trees. Victoria Ashworth’s latest marriage proposal sat unopened in his jacket pocket, another desperate bid from a dying bloodline. Their father, Edmund Blackwood, had been insufferable, ranting about pure-blood traditions while their pack grew weaker with each generation.

“Speaking of mistakes.” James’ knuckles, still bruised from his latest MMA fight, flexed on the steering wheel. “Our little quarter-wolf is settling in nicely at Cedar Grove. All grown up and wrapped in Stone Pack protection.”

“Delicious irony,” Liam mused. “The very bloodline Father despises, growing stronger while we…” He gestured elegantly at nothing.

“The Stones and their claiming games.” Xander’s reflection ghosted across tinted windows. “Ten years of waiting, just to mark one hybrid.”

“Not just any hybrid.” James’ eyes met his in the rearview mirror, golden with remembered hunger. “You should have seen him in that bookstore. No memory of that night, of course—too young to remember how close we came. But that power…” He inhaled sharply. “It’s growing. Their marks are just feeding it.”

“And Father still thinks pure blood is the answer.” Liam’s laugh held no humor. “While we get weaker, and that fascinating little hybrid grows stronger by the day.”

“Patience,” Xander murmured. Their wolves had been restless since James reported Kai’s return, prowling beneath their skin with increasing agitation. “The Stones aren’t the only ones who can play a long game.”

The Rover purred to a stop outside Blackwood Heights’ newest café. Their presence alone had convinced the owner to open early—the benefits of owning half the commercial real estate in town.

The scent hit them before the door even opened. Sweet lightning and wild storms, power wrapped in silk, something ancient and new all at once. Their wolves surged forward as one, suddenly alert in a way they hadn’t been in decades.

The boy who walked in was devastating. Delicate features carved with defiance, elegant eyes that seemed to shift color in the early morning light, moving with an unconscious grace that made their wolves bare their teeth. His lean frame carried itself with natural authority despite being shorter than them, somehow managing to look down his nose at them even from below. Mixed blood, obviously, Asian and something else that teasedat their senses. But that scent—power and potential, frustratingly just out of reach.

They’d already noticed the woman who’d entered minutes before—her prayer beads practically singing with old power. Now, watching her son’s defiant stance, the connection was obvious. But where her power felt controlled, ancient, his crackled with untamed potential.

“Get the most pretentious coffee they have,” he muttered, scanning the menu with elegant annoyance. Something about the tilt of his eyes, the sharp grace of his movements, sparked recognition in their wolves. Old magic. Older blood.

Xander caught his gaze deliberately, letting his power seep into the air between them. Lesser wolves would have shown throat immediately. This boy just glared.

“You’re in the way,” he said, and three of the most dangerous predators in the Pacific Northwest found themselves fighting unexpected smiles.

“Am I?” Xander let more power color his words.

“Yes.” Those eyes sparked with annoyance. “Some of us actually have places to be.”

“How fascinating.” Xander stepped closer, drawn by that crackling scent of untamed power. “And where might you be heading in such a hurry?”

Liam shifted to flank their prey, while James moved with casual menace to block any escape route. Their wolves purred at the tactical advantage, even as the boy’s continued defiance made them bare their teeth in delight.

“None of your—” the boy started, only to be cut off by his mother’s appearance at his side. Her prayer beads clicked ominously, each sound carrying weight beyond mere wood and string.

“Luke,” she said, and even that single word carried power. “Get us table by window. Good sight lines.”

Xander’s wolf bristled at the interruption, even as his mind catalogued the strategic implications. The way she positioned herself, the deliberate placement of her hands—this was no ordinary protective mother. She assessed them with eyes that had seen far more than simple wolves.

“Of course, Eomma,” the boy—Luke—replied. The lack of accent in his perfect English contrasted beautifully with his mother’s lilting tone, another fascinating layer to unravel.

Liam’s eyes tracked their movement to the corner booth, his usual playful demeanor sharpening into something hungrier. James had gone dangerously still, the way he did before a particularly satisfying fight. Their wolves strained against their control, demanding they follow, claim, possess.

The foreign words drifted over to them, the meaning lost but the tone clear enough. Their wolves strained to catch every sound, fascinated by the way Luke’s voice shifted between languages. His mother’s prayer beads never stopped moving, a constant reminder of old magic.

They took their time, a predator’s patience. The café filled their usual orders without asking—Ethiopian blend for Xander, black as sin, James’ protein-rich smoothie, Liam’s ridiculous caramel concoction. But their attention never left that corner table.

Luke’s profile in the morning light was devastating. The sun caught his eyes as he laughed at something his mother said, revealing hints of silver in their depths. When he tilted his head back to drink his coffee, the elegant line of his throat made their wolves pace restlessly. Even his obvious annoyance at their attention was intoxicating—the way his jaw clenched, how his fingers tightened on his cup, the slight flush that crept up his neck when he caught them staring.

“Shall we?” Liam finally suggested, his usual playful tone carrying an edge of hunger.