The stove was winning.
Akira glared at the gleaming monstrosity, its digital display mocking her with numbers that meant nothing. Twelve thousand winters of survival, and she couldn't make eggs without burning them into carbon memories. Smoke billowed from the pan, setting off the shrieking alarm that made her dire wolf want to tear the ceiling apart.
"Temperature control," Lyra said patiently, reaching past her to adjust the dial. Liam's younger sister moved with beta ease, comfortable in her own skin without the weight of dominance. "You're cooking eggs, not smelting iron."
"In old days, fire was fire." Akira scraped the cremated remains into the trash. "Hot or not hot. Simple."
"Welcome to the twenty-first century." Luanne entered carrying fresh eggs, the pack mother's presence imme
