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RAY

Idiots, the lot of them. Raul and Monica. Sam and Erica.

Their names come to me like old scars I trace in the dark. My brothers and their human mates.

Raul had stood up to Brad, our old Alpha, risking everything for the woman he loved. And Sam tangled with a witch so powerful, she could’ve torn our whole world apart. Different battles, same underlying truths.

Pain. Loss. Complication.

They’re in love—messy, intense, all-consuming love. Raul and Monica practically breathe each other. Sam looks at Erica like she hung the damn moon and her smile answers him with a glow that’s almost blinding.

Doesn’t the fact that they never had to happen make it worse? All that chaos for love?

Before the humans came into Dawson, life wasn’t exactly simple, but at least it was predictable. We worked, we fought, we drank.The usual. Humans were a rarity at our hometown bar, and that was fine by me. We kept to ourselves and everyone knew the rules. Even Brad and Kenny, as much as they postured, knew better than to go too far. Raul ripping Brad’s throat out? That had been a breaking point. All because he wanted to walk hand-in-hand with a human woman through town without fearing reprisal.

Sam had gone even further—drawing Roberta Connors down on the town and pack. That witch was death wrapped in silk, and thanks to Sam’s choices, she killed two of our own. All of that led to an almost civil war among the pack. If not for our own secret weapon, the witch Helena, we’d have lost everything to Connors or the civil war that followed. All because of a human woman and Sam’s stubborn heart.

They call it fate. Destiny. Mating bonds. Whatever. I call it chaos wrapped in perfume and good intentions.

Still, even I can’t ignore the upside. Because of Raul, I can now walk into any bar in Shandaken without feeling eyes on my back. I don’t have to worry about rules or bloodlines. I’m free to talk to whoever I want, human or not. It's a strange sort of freedom—one I didn’t ask for, but sure as hell won’t waste.

So tonight, I decide to test the edges of this new freedom.

“Tiffany’s” is a cozy bar nestled in downtown Shandaken. I’ve been here a few times, enough to know the owner, Tiffany herself, but not often. The air reeks of lemon cleaner, cheap perfume, and the kind of desperation that clings to too-high heels. Classic rock hums low beneath the chatter of small groups of women. The walls are plastered with legends—Hendrix, Joplin, Zeppelin. There’s something about that kind of musicthat hits differently when you’ve lived through war and blood and grief. Maybe it’s the rawness. The lack of filter.

I slide onto a stool, nodding at Tiffany who’s working behind the bar tonight. She’s a whirlwind of energy, always moving, always watching. She greets me with a grin and a familiar nasal tone.

“Evening, stranger. Usual? Or something to light a fire under that fur of yours?”

I chuckle. “The usual’s fine. Too hot for anything stronger.”

Her gaze flicks to the left and she grimaces before looking back.

“Stay clear of those girls at ten o’clock. Especially the redhead. She’s not from around here and she’s trouble. I knew it the second she walked in—miniskirt, heels, perfume like she’s hunting husbands. City girl, no doubt.”

I follow her gaze and freeze.

Stacy Bingham.

That freckled face—soft curves and quiet mischief—burned itself into memory long ago. Stacy Bingham. One of Monica’s friends. She’s been to Raul’s place more than a few times. We’ve shared wine, small talk, and tension thick enough to cut.

Tonight, she’s a walking temptation—blue top clinging to her skin, white skirt showing off those long, toned legs. She’s staring out the window like she’s waiting for someone.

“Hey, Tiff,” I murmur, eyes still on Stacy. “This her first time here?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the cap off my Corona. “She was here a couple weeks back. She was hanging with Ronnie Keller. They were onto their second bottle of Jack when his wife pulled up.Ronnie saw her coming and slipped off before it blew up but that one’s not giving up. Trouble, I tell you.”

I know Ronnie Keller. Married. Idiot. A right fucking cunt.

“Right,” I mutter, taking a swig.

The cold beer’s bite doesn’t kill the heat building in my chest. This is exactly what happens with these humans. Chaos. By their very nature it changes things.

I shouldn’t care who she’s screwing. She’s grown. But I do care when someone I know walks blind into a buzz saw. Around here, once you’re branded a homewrecker, it sticks. And when it sticks to her, it stains all of us—Monica, Raul, even me.

I don’t need this shit. I like my life quiet. Decision made, I set the bottle down, toss a bill on the counter, and make my way toward her table.