as he didn’t get too close to her. What did that even mean?
“It’s going to be a long goddamn two years,” Abel muttered to himself, slamming the Chevelle’s door.
Rylie looked up at the sound and smiled. She smiled to see him . It lit up her whole face.
Yeah. A really long two years.
And yet, somehow, twenty-one months, seven seasons, and forty-eight moons passed.
T WO
Departure
It was the night before a new moon, and Rylie was worrying.
She paced outside the door to Abel’s bedroom, listening to him move inside as he packed for an overnight trip. Rylie already knew what he would take: an extra shirt, a pair of pants, and a handgun loaded with silver bullets.
He hadn’t shot any werewolves in years, but it was better to have it. Just in case.
“Why don’t we send someone else?” she whispered to the mirror at the end of the hall, rehearsing her speech. “Maybe Bekah could get this one? No, wait, she’s got yoga in the morning…”
Dammit, Rylie just didn’t want Abel to leave. Not the night before a moon. Especially not when she was still helping the new werewolf, Vanthe, get settled into life at the sanctuary.
June was late in the season for snow, but it wasn’t unheard of. What if they closed the roads and he couldn’t get back before the next evening’s new moon?
She would have to handle almost two dozen werewolves.
Alone.
The door opened, startling Rylie from her thoughts. Abel loomed over her.
He was taller than Rylie. Of course, at six-and-a-half feet, he was taller than pretty much everyone. The sharp odor of silver and gun oils drifted from the backpack at his shoulder.
Abel didn’t look surprised to see her waiting for him. “Hey, Rylie.”
“You can’t leave,” she blurted, totally forgetting every single one of her not-so-carefully prepared arguments. She even forgot her authoritative “I am Alpha and you should do what I say” voice.
Abel’s grin stretched the scars on his cheek. He barked a laugh and sauntered into the kitchen without responding.
She watched his retreating back, mouth hanging open.
He was pretty good at communicating without words—werewolves were big on that whole body language thing. And Abel’s swagger spoke volumes.
They weren’t polite volumes.
The Alpha wolf inside of her gave an offended growl.
Abel wasn’t running, but his legs were so long that Rylie had to jog to catch up with him. By the time she reached the kitchen, the back screen was slamming shut with a rusty whine.
The newest werewolf, Vanthe, was helping Aunt Gwyn pull a tray of broiled meat out of an oven. “Food’s almost ready,” she said when she spotted Rylie. “Better warn the troops.”
“They’ve been out in the fields all day. We’ll have to ring the big bell,” Rylie said, but she didn’t grab the mallet. She squeezed between Gwyn’s hip and the kitchen island.
“What’s the rush?” Vanthe asked. He was a tall, lean man in his late twenties with dark skin and shockingly blond hair.
“Abel’s going to pick up another wolf from the airport.”
Gwyn threw a critical look over her shoulder as she turned off the second oven. They’d been forced to expand the kitchen in order to accommodate the ravenous appetites of twenty werewolves, and dinner took all three ovens to cook on most nights. “So…?”
“So tomorrow night’s the new moon!”
“He’s a big boy, Rylie,” Gwyn said.
She also said something else, but Rylie didn’t hear it, because she was rushing out the back door to catch Abel. It was one of the first really warm evenings of summer; the darkening sky was thick with the haze of heat, cicadas echoed over the hills, and a breeze sighed through the long grass.
Rylie found Abel throwing his backpack in the passenger’s seat of the Chevelle. He had washed his car that morning, and it glimmered in the porch light like a steel blue jewel in the otherwise dusty ranch.
“Come to tie me to a chair so I can’t leave?” Abel
“It’s going to be a long goddamn two years,” Abel muttered to himself, slamming the Chevelle’s door.
Rylie looked up at the sound and smiled. She smiled to see him . It lit up her whole face.
Yeah. A really long two years.
And yet, somehow, twenty-one months, seven seasons, and forty-eight moons passed.
T WO
Departure
It was the night before a new moon, and Rylie was worrying.
She paced outside the door to Abel’s bedroom, listening to him move inside as he packed for an overnight trip. Rylie already knew what he would take: an extra shirt, a pair of pants, and a handgun loaded with silver bullets.
He hadn’t shot any werewolves in years, but it was better to have it. Just in case.
“Why don’t we send someone else?” she whispered to the mirror at the end of the hall, rehearsing her speech. “Maybe Bekah could get this one? No, wait, she’s got yoga in the morning…”
Dammit, Rylie just didn’t want Abel to leave. Not the night before a moon. Especially not when she was still helping the new werewolf, Vanthe, get settled into life at the sanctuary.
June was late in the season for snow, but it wasn’t unheard of. What if they closed the roads and he couldn’t get back before the next evening’s new moon?
She would have to handle almost two dozen werewolves.
Alone.
The door opened, startling Rylie from her thoughts. Abel loomed over her.
He was taller than Rylie. Of course, at six-and-a-half feet, he was taller than pretty much everyone. The sharp odor of silver and gun oils drifted from the backpack at his shoulder.
Abel didn’t look surprised to see her waiting for him. “Hey, Rylie.”
“You can’t leave,” she blurted, totally forgetting every single one of her not-so-carefully prepared arguments. She even forgot her authoritative “I am Alpha and you should do what I say” voice.
Abel’s grin stretched the scars on his cheek. He barked a laugh and sauntered into the kitchen without responding.
She watched his retreating back, mouth hanging open.
He was pretty good at communicating without words—werewolves were big on that whole body language thing. And Abel’s swagger spoke volumes.
They weren’t polite volumes.
The Alpha wolf inside of her gave an offended growl.
Abel wasn’t running, but his legs were so long that Rylie had to jog to catch up with him. By the time she reached the kitchen, the back screen was slamming shut with a rusty whine.
The newest werewolf, Vanthe, was helping Aunt Gwyn pull a tray of broiled meat out of an oven. “Food’s almost ready,” she said when she spotted Rylie. “Better warn the troops.”
“They’ve been out in the fields all day. We’ll have to ring the big bell,” Rylie said, but she didn’t grab the mallet. She squeezed between Gwyn’s hip and the kitchen island.
“What’s the rush?” Vanthe asked. He was a tall, lean man in his late twenties with dark skin and shockingly blond hair.
“Abel’s going to pick up another wolf from the airport.”
Gwyn threw a critical look over her shoulder as she turned off the second oven. They’d been forced to expand the kitchen in order to accommodate the ravenous appetites of twenty werewolves, and dinner took all three ovens to cook on most nights. “So…?”
“So tomorrow night’s the new moon!”
“He’s a big boy, Rylie,” Gwyn said.
She also said something else, but Rylie didn’t hear it, because she was rushing out the back door to catch Abel. It was one of the first really warm evenings of summer; the darkening sky was thick with the haze of heat, cicadas echoed over the hills, and a breeze sighed through the long grass.
Rylie found Abel throwing his backpack in the passenger’s seat of the Chevelle. He had washed his car that morning, and it glimmered in the porch light like a steel blue jewel in the otherwise dusty ranch.
“Come to tie me to a chair so I can’t leave?” Abel
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