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“Yes, yes. Strange energy there.” She turned back to my plate with renewed determination. “Now eat more! Need strength!”

“Sí, more food,” Maria agreed quickly, sliding another slice of pizza onto my plate. “Growing boy needs energy!”

“You could help, you know,” I mouthed at Marcus, who was watching the whole scene with poorly concealed entertainment.

He simply raised his glass in a mock toast, the traitor. Derek and Caleb weren’t any better, looking far too amused by my predicament.

“More garlic,” Imo insisted, already crafting another architectural masterpiece of lettuce and meat. “Good for health!”

“And the herbs,” Maria added as she added more toppings to my pizza slice. “Make him stronger.”

“I’m going to explode,” I protested weakly.

“Nonsense!” both women declared, and suddenly I was being fed alternating bites of Korean and Italian cuisine while Luke continued to document my suffering.

“You realize,” I told Luke between bites, “this is technically your fault.”

“Hey, I just brought Eomma.” He grinned, adjusting his camera angle. “Not my fault she and Maria formed an alliance. Though I have to admit…” He eyed the spread appreciatively. “Jorge’s pizza game is pretty impressive.”

“Best combination,” Imo agreed, already preparing another ssam. “Korean BBQ and good pizza. Perfect meal for growing boys!”

By the time dinner finally wound down, I felt like a Thanksgiving turkey—stuffed to bursting with a combination of Korean BBQ and Jorge’s artisanal pizzas. The mothers’ feeding competition had only ended when they ran out of horizontal surface area on my plate, and even then, they’d started plotting breakfast plans with terrifying enthusiasm.

We’d stayed up late into the evening, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. Luke had enough blackmail material recorded to last several lifetimes, and Jorge had learned how to wrap the perfect ssam under Imo’s exacting tutelage.

Now, settling into bed, I could hear Imo’s melodic chanting drifting down the hallway as she blessed her guest room. The familiar sounds of her protection rituals mixed with the manor’s usual nighttime symphony—Maria’s quiet humming as she did her final checks, the brothers’ steady footsteps on their security rounds, and the soft clicking of the dogs’ claws as they arranged themselves around my room.

Scout claimed his usual spot at the foot of my bed, while Storm and Shadow took up their guard positions by the door and window. Despite being stuffed like a holiday roast and slightly worried about tomorrow’s breakfast plans, I felt oddly content. Maybe it was the food coma, or maybe it was just having all my favorite people under one roof—even if some of them were clearly conspiring to feed me to death.

I drifted off to sleep with Imo’s gentle chanting in my ears and three furry guardians keeping watch.

Chapter 13

BLACKWOOD BROTHERS

The Blackwood ancestral mansion loomed over the surrounding forest like a cathedral to old money, its Victorian spires and turrets piercing the afternoon sky. Inside, the drawing room exemplified centuries of wealth and power—hand-carved mahogany paneling imported from England, Persian rugs worth more than most homes, and oil portraits of stern-faced Blackwood ancestors glaring down from gilded frames.

Xander Blackwood sat in a leather wingback chair, his posture perfect as he nodded at precisely timed intervals. His father, Edmund Blackwood, paced before the stone fireplace, his once-commanding presence now slightly diminished by age, though no less intimidating.

“The Whitmores’ territorial claims are laughable,” Edmund said, his aristocratic accent sharpened by disdain. “Their bloodline has been suspect since the Great War. I recall their grandfather actually married a beta.” He spat the word like poison.

Uncle Lawrence, a gray-haired replica of Edmund with deeper wrinkles and a more pronounced stoop, nodded gravely. “Disgraceful. And now they wonder why their pack weakens with each generation.”

Xander maintained his expression of polite interest, though his thoughts drifted far from the tedious conversation. Across the room, James lounged against a bookcase, arms crossed over his broad chest, while Liam had claimed an antique settee, his fingers never ceasing their movement across his tablet screen.

“The council grows soft,” Uncle Reginald wheezed from his chair by the window. “In my day, mixed bloodlines knew their place. Now they speak of representation. Representation!” His gnarled hand trembled with indignation as he reached for his brandy.

This is the fourth time he’s told that story in the last hour,James’ voice sounded in Xander’s mind through their pack bond, his mental tone dripping with boredom.

Xander’s lips twitched slightly, the only outward sign of his brother’s comment.Fifth, actually. You missed the abbreviated version while fetching Uncle Lawrence’s medication.

If I have to hear about the glory days of pure bloodlines one more time, I might actually die of boredom,Liam chimed in, not looking up from his tablet.Our wolves are literally falling asleep.

“Alexander.” Edmund’s sharp voice cut through their silent conversation. “You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet. What are your thoughts on the Silvermoon Pack’s proposal for the upcoming council meeting?”

Without missing a beat, Xander straightened imperceptibly. “The Silvermoon proposal is predictably shortsighted, Father. Their focus on traditional alliances ignores the shifting dynamics among the western territories.” He delivered the statement with perfect conviction, despite having no idea what proposal they were discussing.

Edmund nodded approvingly. “Precisely. Victoria Ashworth sent another letter this morning. Her father is pressing for a formal introduction at the Equinox Gathering.”