Percular Pup

Frivolous Affection

Montserrat and Paloma chuckled from behind their water glasses, watching Laura casually obliterate Claudia’s dignity with just a single eyebrow raise and a mocking “Excellent idea.”

They made their way into the dining room—a large, old-school space with a rustic bench-style table, lots of natural light, and a cabinet that looked like it survived three wars and a renovation attempt. The table was already set, suspiciously too perfect, as if Claudia had staged it for a Better Homes & Alphas magazine spread.

As they sat down, Abel’s eyes locked on Laura, and suddenly Jairo’s mood shifted from “I’m tolerating this dinner” to “I might throw someone through a window.” His wolf, Zarah, was clawing at the edges, ready to rip something—or someone—apart.

“Laura?” Abel asked like he wasn’t sure if he was greeting a long-lost friend or a hallucination.

Laura blinked at him, brows knitting. “Yes?”

Abel smiled softly, eyes scanning her face. “How’ve you been? I heard you left your old pack years ago. Didn’t expect to find you in Europa, of all places.”

Something clicked in Laura’s expression. “I’ve been well. How’s your father?”

The question landed like a lead weight. Abel’s smile faltered, and Laura’s face fell. “Oh… I’m truly sorry, Abel.”

Montserrat’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. What an awkward, emotionally loaded exposition just happened!

“Mother, you know Alpha Montenegro’s father?” she asked, suspicion and curiosity leaking into her tone.

Laura didn’t miss the shift in her daughter’s voice—or the way her eyes gleamed. Great, she thought. She smells gossip like a wolf smells blood.

“Yes,” Laura said slowly. “We went to Alpha school together.”

Montserrat broke into a wide, almost suspiciously joyful grin. Jairo and Laura exchanged a quick, panicked glance. That smile? It was the one Montserrat wore when she was either planning something or emotionally spiraling. Possibly both.

The omegas began placing plates in front of everyone—steak, green peppers, broccoli, mashed potatoes, and garlic bread that could probably solve most diplomatic problems if weaponized properly.

Paloma tilted her head, smile suspiciously sweet. “Sooo... Alpha Montenegro, what brings you to our humble corner of nowhere?”

Abel glanced at Cesar. “Hmm.”

Montserrat leaned forward, narrowing her eyes like a detective interrogating a suspect. “Because if I recall, there’s no formal alliance between our packs. Not that I stalk diplomatic treaties or anything... but still.”

Cesar looked like a deer caught gossiping. “Well, actually—”

“That’s what we came to discuss,” Abel interrupted smoothly. “Laura and my father were allies, and I thought—why not build something with their neighbors? You know... community.”

Montserrat and Paloma replied in eerie unison: “Interesting.”

Jairo choked slightly. That tone? That synchronized smirk? It was the same one they wore before putting a dead squirrel in Claudia’s shoe last winter. Trouble had a look—and his daughters were wearing it.

Dinner limped along in painfully polite small talk, filled with occasional nods, hums, and the sound of utensils clinking. Montserrat’s snark levels slowly dropped as she fell into thought. Abel watched her, caught by the quiet war behind her eyes. He could tell she was holding back. Pretending. And gods, those eyes—they were hiding something.

He was staring. Too long.

Cesar nudged him mentally: Dude. Blink.

“So who’s older?” Cesar blurted out.

“Paloma,” Montserrat replied, deadpan.

“I’m older by two months,” Paloma said with a snort.

“Actually…” Montserrat switched to a wildly inaccurate British accent. “I’m a premature baby, born two months early, ye olde legend of the early wolf.”

Everyone stared. Abel and Cesar nodded awkwardly like they were on a hostage video. Once the last bite was eaten, silence settled again. An omega stepped in to clear plates, but Montserrat waved her off.

Claudia narrowed her eyes. “So... who’s picking up dishes?”

Montserrat pushed back her chair, grinning. “Me, obviously. I was a waitress once, remember?” She started stacking plates with practiced ease. “This is called pre-bussing. That’s when we clean up before the guests leave. It’s not just magic, Claudia.”

She waltzed into the kitchen with the plates and a little flair, placing them gently in the sink. She turned the faucet, adjusted the temperature, added some soap, and hummed—a mix between the Harry Potter theme and Pirates of the Caribbean because emotional confusion requires a dramatic soundtrack.

Behind her, a voice made her jump.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding me.”

A plate hit the floor.

Montserrat swore. “You scared the hell out of me, Alpha Montenegro,” she snapped, crouching to pick up the shards. “Is there something you need? Or are you just here to haunt my kitchen?”

Abel leaned against the doorway, unbothered. “Tell me something, Montserrat. Are the rumors true?”

She froze mid-movement. “What rumors?”

“That you haven’t shifted. That you’re... more human than wolf.”

Montserrat’s eyes widened. Oh. So that’s what they said. Her stomach dropped, but she straightened up, face unreadable.

“And do you believe everything people say?”

Abel faltered. “No... I—”

“Yeah,” she cut in, sharp and quiet. “You do.”

She turned to leave, voice flat. “Excuse me. My father needs me.”

Abel reached out, gently grabbing her arm. He spun her around, just close enough to see it—those light brown eyes, glossy with things she didn’t say.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you knew... what others think of you.”

Montserrat blinked, her voice low and tired. “Is that why you came? To see the freak-show daughter of Alpha Benitez?”

“No,” Abel said, quickly. “That’s not it.”

“Then why did you come?” she snapped, yanking her arm away. “Curiosity? Pity? Politics?”

She stormed out, brushing past Cesar, who entered the kitchen looking like he just walked into a soap opera.

“Don’t ask,” Abel muttered, running a hand down his face.

Back in the living room, things weren’t going better. Jairo and Laura were mid-fight, their voices low but furious. Jairo had Laura’s elbow in a grip that was borderline primal.

Cesar squinted. “I think we should… leave.”

“Agreed,” Abel murmured. He cleared his throat loudly.

Jairo turned around with the fakest smile in recorded history. “Leaving already?”

“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Abel replied smoothly. “Today’s... been educational.”

“I apologize,” Jairo said. “This isn’t how I wanted the evening to go.”

“On the contrary, Alpha,” Abel said with a crooked smirk. “I think it went delightfully sideways.”

Jairo gave a resigned nod and walked them out, the silence heavy behind him.

And somewhere, upstairs, Montserrat sat alone—heart pounding, head spinning. Because for the first time in her life, her wolf had whispered a word that terrified her more than any rumor ever could: Mate.