My Alpha Found His Mate. Thank the Goddess!

By nine-thirty on Monday morning, I had already prevented a drainage dispute from becoming a lawsuit, explained to a contractor for the third time that protected open space did not mean land we were saving in case he came up with a really good idea for it, and approved six hundred and forty-two new trees. It was shaping up to be a pretty normal day. “You know they’re going to die, right?” I looked up from the site plan spread across my desk. My husband stood in the doorway of my office, coffee in one hand, car keys in the other. “What’s going to die?” “The trees.” “All six hundred and forty-two of them?” “Probably.” “Good to know.” Baxter grinned and came into the room. At thirty, Baxter Blackthorn had already mastered the particular kind of confidence that came from being born knowing an entire pack would someday belong to him. Technically, the pack didn’t belong to him. I had explained that distinction to him many times. He continued to be Alpha anyway. Blackthorn was one of the larger packs in Southern California, with several thousand wolves spread across a territory that included residential communities, commercial properties, businesses, protected land, training grounds, and enough infrastructure to make my degree useful approximately twenty hours a day. When Baxter and I took over ten years ago, we had been babies. Not literally. Although looking back, eighteen and twenty felt pretty damn close. We’d spent the decade since expanding Blackthorn carefully instead of just buying whatever land became available. Housing had to work with businesses. Roads had to handle growth. Pack land had to remain defensible. Wildlife corridors mattered. So did water, utilities, schools, traffic, emergency access, and a thousand other things nobody thought about until one of them stopped working. I thought about them. That was my actual career. Being Luna was the other one. Unfortunately, they shared office hours. Baxter leaned over my desk. “What are you doing?” I looked at the enormous development plan between us. “Planning your surprise birthday party.” “My birthday isn’t for four months.” “Then act surprised.” He ignored that. “Have you seen my sunglasses?” I stared at him. He stared back. “Baxter.” “What?” “They’re on your head.” His hand went up. “Oh.” This was the man responsible for several thousand lives. Somehow, everyone remained alive. “You’re welcome.” He bent down to kiss me. I should explain something about my husband. Baxter was very attractive. Annoyingly attractive, actually. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Broad shoulders. Just over six feet tall. The kind of body you got when shifting into an enormous wolf was only one of several reasons you needed to stay in excellent physical condition. He was also a terrible kisser. I didn’t know this for a fact. Baxter was the only person I had ever kissed. But I had suspicions. Strong ones. Mostly because I couldn’t believe kissing was supposed to involve this much saliva. His tongue entered my mouth like it had been given a search warrant. I endured several seconds before pulling away. “I’m working.” “I know.” He kissed me again. “Baxter.” “What?” “You’re going to make me redo my lipstick.” “You don’t need lipstick.” Which was sweet. Then he kissed me a third time and nearly dislocated my jaw. I shoved him backward. “Go be Alpha somewhere.” He laughed. “I have a meeting.” “Then why are you still here?” “Because I can’t find my sunglasses.” I pointed at his head again. “Right.” He turned toward the door. And farted. Not accidentally. There was a difference. Baxter continued walking. I stared at his back. He stopped in the doorway and looked down. Rocky was standing approximately two feet away. Our four-pound Yorkshire terrier looked up at him. Baxter looked at me. “Rocky.” “You’re disgusting.” Rocky sneezed. “See?” Baxter said. “Even he’s embarrassed.” “He weighs four pounds.” “Small dog. Big personality.” “You walked past me and farted.” “Allegedly.” “Baxter.” He grinned. I threw a pen at him. He closed the door just in time. The pen bounced off it. Rocky looked at me. “I know.” He trotted over, and I lifted him onto my lap. Rocky immediately curled into a ball as though he’d just completed a twelve-hour shift instead of spending his morning terrorizing a leaf outside my window. I scratched behind his ears and went back to my plans. That was marriage. At least, that was ours. Not terrible. Not unhappy. Just... Fine. I hated that word lately. At eleven, I mediated a disagreement between two pack families over a property boundary. At noon, I ate half a sandwich during a video call about a commercial project on the southern end of the territory. At one-fifteen, Baxter texted me. Mom wants to know if we’re still coming Sunday. I typed back. Why doesn’t Diana text me? Three dots appeared. She did. You didn’t answer. I checked. She had. Twice. Well. That weakened my argument considerably. Diana Blackthorn had been Baxter’s mother for thirty years and my mother-in-law for most of my adult life. She was also the former Luna of Blackthorn and one of my favorite people. Which was occasionally inconvenient when I wanted to complain about her son. Tell her yes. His response came immediately. You tell her. She likes you better. That might actually have been true. I loved Diana. She had spent the first year after Baxter and I became mates teaching me everything I didn’t know about being Luna without ever once making me feel like an i***t for not knowing it. Which was impressive, considering I had been eighteen and knew approximately nothing. I texted her. Then I returned to work. At two-thirty, I approved changes to an access road. At three, I reviewed the schedule for a naming ceremony. At three-fifteen, I answered a question about a blessing I had already answered twice. At three-thirty, I wondered whether I could fake my own death. Not permanently. Just until Tuesday. Then Baxter walked into my office again. This time, he closed the door. That got my attention. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” I waited. Baxter wasn’t good at pretending nothing was wrong. He was excellent at keeping his composure during actual emergencies. Rogues at the border? Calm. Injured pack member? Focused. Business crisis? Give him ten minutes and a phone. Personal conversation? Suddenly the man had the emotional subtlety of Rocky trying to bury a treat in a couch cushion. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “We need to talk.” I leaned back. “Those are never good words.” “There’s a gathering tonight.” “I know. Marcus sent the notice.” Our Beta had sent it less than an hour earlier, which was strange enough. Pack gatherings weren’t usually called with four hours’ notice. “You need to be there.” I stared at him. “I generally attend pack gatherings, Baxter. It’s one of those pesky Luna things.” “I know.” He wasn’t smiling. Now I was worried. “Did something happen?” “No.” “Is someone hurt?” “No.” “Border issue?” “No.” “Then what?” He looked away. That was even stranger. “Tonight.” “Baxter.” “I need to handle this the right way.” “Handle what?” He stepped toward me, then seemed to change his mind. “I’ll explain tonight.” I felt Sable stir uneasily inside me. My wolf didn’t like this conversation any more than I did. Neither did I. “Are you seriously going to walk in here, tell me we need to talk, refuse to tell me what we’re talking about, and then leave?” He considered that. “Yes?” I picked up another pen. “I’m going.” “Good choice.” He left. I stared at the closed door.