Page 17 of Craved by the Werewolf (Mystic Ridge Monster Mates #2)

" A lright, we're going live to LA, New York, Boston, Dallas, and all points between in..." Mika's voice came through my headphones as she held up her fingers in the control booth. "Three... two... one."

The red ON AIR light flashed, and I leaned into the mic with the voice that had carried me from a tiny studio in Mystic Ridge to airwaves across the country.

"Good evening, night crawlers, wherever you're hiding tonight.

This is Nightingale coming to you live from Mystic Ridge for another journey into the shadows.

" I settled back in my chair, watching the phone lines light up like fire.

"Whether you're tuning in from Chicago's Moonlit Mile or the Haunted Quarter of New Orleans, you're all part of our midnight family. "

Through the glass, Mika gave me a thumbs up and pointed to the call queue. Thirty-seven people already waiting. Not bad for a Tuesday night.

From the couch against the far wall, Knox cleared his throat loudly, a sound that carried just enough to be picked up by my mic.

"And yes, that rumbling you just heard is Knox, our resident elder wolf who insists he's not my co-host despite what he tells people at pack gatherings."

"Voice of experience," Knox corrected, his gravelly tone carrying across the studio. "Somebody's got to keep you honest, pup."

I shot him a warning look. "Don't call me pup on air. My listeners will think I've gone soft."

"You have gone soft. Remember when you used to threaten to hex callers?"

"I'm not a witch, and you know it." I turned back to the mic. "Ignore him, folks. He's like the equivalent of your embarrassing uncle at family dinner."

The first caller was a selkie from Portland with roommate troubles.

The second, a witch from Atlanta whose love potions kept backfiring.

Standard Tuesday night fare. I fielded questions about everything from vampire workplace etiquette to proper troll dating protocol, Knox adding his two cents whenever he felt like it.

"Line four," I said, patching through the next caller. "You're on with Nightingale. What's your confession?"

"I'm in love with a human," came a velvet voice, low and slightly accented. "I'm a vampire, she's mortal, and I can't bring myself to tell her what I am."

Knox straightened on the couch, suddenly interested. I caught his eye and saw the knowing look that meant he'd been expecting this one.

"How long have you been seeing her?"

"Three months. It's getting serious, but every time I try to bring up my... condition... I freeze."

"You're afraid she'll run."

"Or worse. She'll stay and grow old while I remain the same. Eventually, I'll lose her either way."

The studio felt suddenly quiet. This is what it was all about. These midnight confessions, these moments of raw vulnerability between species who might never understand each other in daylight.

"The truth is a gift," I said, letting my voice soften. "Not a burden. If she loves you, really loves you, she deserves the chance to choose with her eyes open. And you deserve someone who chooses you fully, fangs and all."

The vampire was quiet for a moment. "What if she says no?"

"Then it will hurt like hell. But not as much as building a relationship on half-truths. Trust me on this one. Honesty isn't optional."

"Thank you." The word came out rough, emotional. "I'll tell her."

"Call me back and let me know how it goes. I'm always here to listen."

I disconnected the call and leaned back in my chair, letting my gaze drift around the studio.

Everything was perfect. The upgraded equipment hummed quietly, the panoramic windows offered a view of the forest canopy, and the warm lighting made even the late-night hours feel welcoming.

Hard to believe this state-of-the-art studio was built right here in the heart of the Mystic Ridge Pack compound, a world away from that tiny booth where I'd started.

Thorne had insisted on the best of everything when they'd designed this space for me, and somehow he'd managed to create something that felt both professional and like home. Our home.

I took three more calls. A gargoyle with social anxiety in Detroit, twin phoenix sisters feuding over a territory dispute in Miami, and a warlock from Seattle whose magic kept turning his neighbor's laundry purple.

Knox provided commentary on each one, somehow managing to be both helpful and insufferable.

I queued up my final track and cut my mic. The control room door swung open, and Mika poked her head in.

"Alright, I'm out of here," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Lock this place up when you're done, yeah?"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

She grinned and waggled her fingers at Knox. "Night, old man."

"Night, troublemaker," Knox called back as she disappeared down the back hall.

The studio door opened silently, and Thorne slipped in like a shadow, moving with the same predatory grace that had caught my attention that first night we'd done a promo together. Even after all this time, he could still make my breath catch just by walking into a room.

Knox rose with exaggerated effort. "My work here is done." He gave Thorne a knowing nod and slipped out, leaving us alone.

Thorne crossed to my chair, one hand settling warm and possessive on the back of my neck. The touch still sent electricity down my spine.

"Good show tonight," he said, voice low and warm.

"You say that every night."

"It's true every night." His thumb brushed against the mark he'd left at the base of my throat, still visible after all this time, still sending shivers through me.

The music was fading, my cue for the final sign-off. I slipped my headphones back on and leaned toward the mic, feeling Thorne's presence like a warm anchor behind me.

"That's our witching hour, night crawlers. Remember, the shadows aren't empty. They're just filled with creatures waiting for someone to call their name.

This is Nightingale, your midnight messenger slipping into the mist."