I was two seconds away from breaking down the cottage door and announcing myself as the Wolf Queen of Soup when Gregor, ever the gentleman (read: control freak), rapped his knuckles against the wood.
The door creaked open almost instantly, like whoever lived here had been waiting. And then—boom. A woman, tiny and ancient, wearing a black shawl and an apron covered in flour. Her eyes crinkled up when she saw Gregor, and I swear, the man who usually looks like he’s auditioning for “Scary Alpha of the Year” suddenly froze like a naughty schoolboy.
“Gregorino!” she exclaimed in a thick Italian accent, throwing her arms around him. Yes. Threw. Her entire, ninety-pound self. The giant Alpha, conqueror of wolves and destroyer of minivans, nearly staggered under the sheer force of grandma affect
