Page 62 of Bad Wolf's Nanny

This? This was death by distance. By politeness. By her clipped words and neutral tone, and the way she didn’t so much as glance at him unless it was absolutely necessary. She handed him Sam like she was passing over a library book, gave him bullet points about bottles and naps like they were business memos, and never, not once, gave him the warmth she used to.

The silence between them was worse than a scream. And he deserved it.

But that didn’t make it any easier to take.

He nursed a whiskey at the Pine Shadow Club, sitting at the bar with one leg bouncing, the burn of alcohol doing nothing to cut the sharp edges inside his head. Around him, the evening hum of pack business carried on, war talk in quiet voices, training schedules posted on the wall, the low growl of wolves spoiling for a fight.

Rick dropped into the seat beside him, elegantly gesturing for a drink, wiping down the bar in front of him with a tut.

“You’re wound tighter than a tripwire,” he said, his voice silky. “I take it Lola’s still not talking to you?”

Dane didn’t answer.

Rick grinned. “Didn’t think I’d see the day you gave up teasing her.”

“I didn’t give up,” Dane muttered, “she shut me out.”

“Maybe you deserved it,” Nicolas said, appearing behind them like a ghost, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearm.

“Always good to see you, too,” Dane muttered.

Nicolas gave him a pointed look and gestured toward the back corner of the room, where two younger pack members were being pulled apart by a third, their voices low but heated.

“Those two tried to break formation on yesterday’s patrol,” he said, “went north without clearance. Thought they could track Red Teeth on their own.”

Dane swore under his breath and slammed his glass down harder than necessary.

“That’s the third group this week,” he said. “They think it’s a game. They want blood, and they’re gonna get themselves killed.”

Rick hummed, “You can hardly blame them. Every time they look around, someone’s getting more aggressive. This place feels like a powder keg.”

“They’re still my responsibility,” Dane said. “Every time one of them acts out, it costs me time I don’t have. I’m supposed to be watching the perimeter, not babysitting a bunch of testosterone-addled pups.”

“You look like shit, by the way,” Nicolas added, casually, like he was commenting on the weather.

Dane glared.

“No offense,” Nicolas continued, “just saying. You’re burnt out. Between the kid, Lola, and trying to keep the entire northern flank from imploding, you’re going to crack. And when you do, people will get hurt.”

“You’re such a ray of sunshine,” Dane muttered.

Nicolas shrugged. “I deal in facts. You want comfort, go talk to Daisy.”

“I don’t need comfort.”

“No,” Rick said, draining his beer, “but you could maybe try talking to the woman you’re clearly still in love with instead of letting your own temper chew you up from the inside out.”

Dane turned on him. “I’m not in—”

Rick raised his eyebrows. “Please. You look like a kicked puppy every time she walks past.”

Dane said nothing. There was nothing to say.

He finished his whiskey and stood.

“Where are you going?” Nicolas asked.

“To pick up Sam.”