brown eyes moved to Slash. “I've known Slash since I was a whelpling and he was always good to me... and Joseph,” she whispered that last. No way was she going to think about her brother's death.
Slash stayed where he was when every fiber of his being screamed to be with the female, her sadness a tangible thing between them. God help them if there were ever a rite... which was a real thing. A thing in which the wolves chose each other's mates; not the humans. Then different dens be damned. Males would fall to mate with an alpha female. Age was immaterial, as once Weres were of age, their maturation was slow. Slash was early twenties when Adi referenced the early relationship they shared when she was a whelp. Now that she was entering her wolf's early adulthood, she would be of breeding age, while Slash remained forever looking thirty. He was not, but closer to forty in years walked on this earth. It was the contrary nature of supernaturals, females would look even younger. He allowed his eyes to rove Adi’s form, so small, so determined... so keenly unaware of her own beauty. Was there such a thing as an ugly alpha female? Slash hadn't encountered one. But Adi was special. One such as she could never love a hardened battle-scarred Were from another pack. Slash turned away, shrugging off his internal monologue. He gave the full heat of his gaze to Lawrence, Alan, and the newest member of his pack, Karl Truman.
“How long have you been Were?” Slash asked him.
“I don't know, about a day...” Karl said with a chuckle. A furrow formed between Slash's brows, damn fast assimilation in the pack. It was troubling that David and Ford were not here. Of course, it was not smart to have both Packmasters gone from their respective dens. Sister dens were vulnerable if leaderless simultaneously. His gaze went to Truman, who was clearly an alpha. Only the strongest could be turned in one day, and behave as if they still had their head about them.
Slash looked at the other Were. Then he swung his gaze back to Truman. “Does he know what he looks like?”
Truman's gaze sharpened on Slash.
Cyn knew exactly what the scarred alpha was asking. She came forward, digging in her back pocket. She extracted: lip gloss, a non-working cell, and finally, a small compact that was part compartment and part mirror. The deep blue enamel of the top had an eight point star etched on the top.
“Amazing you can pack all that shit in your back pocket with how tight those jeans are,” Alan said in a voice that struggled to be neutral and Cynthia raised the middle finger of her free hand.
“Sit and spin, ya lying jackass,” she replied. Ignoring him, she approached Truman as a glowering Alan stepped back from her.
Smarter than he looks , she thought. “Look at yourself,” Cyn said and then glanced at Slash for confirmation and he nodded. Yeah, she thought that was what he meant. He better know what he really was, the whole tamale, not just the good stuff.
Karl took the makeup thing from Cynthia Adams and looked at his reflection.
Truman prided himself on being a flinty sort- unflappable. Nothing much rocked his boat. But when he got a good look at himself, he staggered back, almost dropping the compact.
He was saved from falling on his ass by the Packmaster of the Northwestern den, his arm falling on Truman's with its hefty weight. They probably thought he was getting ready for a hysteria fit.
“It is sometimes thus when someone has been changed late in their cycles,” Lawrence said almost apologetically.
“What the blue hell does that fancy turn of phrase mean?” Truman asked, raising the mirror again. He walked his fingers over skin now smooth and tight, eyeballing his tight jawline. Un-fucking-real, Truman thought.
The gaze of a much younger man was reflected back. Eyes that held the wisdom of ages like a promise, a face that had lived perhaps thirty years.
It was a face he hadn't seen in two decades.
Truman wordlessly handed
Slash stayed where he was when every fiber of his being screamed to be with the female, her sadness a tangible thing between them. God help them if there were ever a rite... which was a real thing. A thing in which the wolves chose each other's mates; not the humans. Then different dens be damned. Males would fall to mate with an alpha female. Age was immaterial, as once Weres were of age, their maturation was slow. Slash was early twenties when Adi referenced the early relationship they shared when she was a whelp. Now that she was entering her wolf's early adulthood, she would be of breeding age, while Slash remained forever looking thirty. He was not, but closer to forty in years walked on this earth. It was the contrary nature of supernaturals, females would look even younger. He allowed his eyes to rove Adi’s form, so small, so determined... so keenly unaware of her own beauty. Was there such a thing as an ugly alpha female? Slash hadn't encountered one. But Adi was special. One such as she could never love a hardened battle-scarred Were from another pack. Slash turned away, shrugging off his internal monologue. He gave the full heat of his gaze to Lawrence, Alan, and the newest member of his pack, Karl Truman.
“How long have you been Were?” Slash asked him.
“I don't know, about a day...” Karl said with a chuckle. A furrow formed between Slash's brows, damn fast assimilation in the pack. It was troubling that David and Ford were not here. Of course, it was not smart to have both Packmasters gone from their respective dens. Sister dens were vulnerable if leaderless simultaneously. His gaze went to Truman, who was clearly an alpha. Only the strongest could be turned in one day, and behave as if they still had their head about them.
Slash looked at the other Were. Then he swung his gaze back to Truman. “Does he know what he looks like?”
Truman's gaze sharpened on Slash.
Cyn knew exactly what the scarred alpha was asking. She came forward, digging in her back pocket. She extracted: lip gloss, a non-working cell, and finally, a small compact that was part compartment and part mirror. The deep blue enamel of the top had an eight point star etched on the top.
“Amazing you can pack all that shit in your back pocket with how tight those jeans are,” Alan said in a voice that struggled to be neutral and Cynthia raised the middle finger of her free hand.
“Sit and spin, ya lying jackass,” she replied. Ignoring him, she approached Truman as a glowering Alan stepped back from her.
Smarter than he looks , she thought. “Look at yourself,” Cyn said and then glanced at Slash for confirmation and he nodded. Yeah, she thought that was what he meant. He better know what he really was, the whole tamale, not just the good stuff.
Karl took the makeup thing from Cynthia Adams and looked at his reflection.
Truman prided himself on being a flinty sort- unflappable. Nothing much rocked his boat. But when he got a good look at himself, he staggered back, almost dropping the compact.
He was saved from falling on his ass by the Packmaster of the Northwestern den, his arm falling on Truman's with its hefty weight. They probably thought he was getting ready for a hysteria fit.
“It is sometimes thus when someone has been changed late in their cycles,” Lawrence said almost apologetically.
“What the blue hell does that fancy turn of phrase mean?” Truman asked, raising the mirror again. He walked his fingers over skin now smooth and tight, eyeballing his tight jawline. Un-fucking-real, Truman thought.
The gaze of a much younger man was reflected back. Eyes that held the wisdom of ages like a promise, a face that had lived perhaps thirty years.
It was a face he hadn't seen in two decades.
Truman wordlessly handed
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