The Jax Pack, I learn as they escort us to what must be at least a five-million-dollar beach home, is a whole lot bigger and richer than the Pewter Pack.
“We’re not as rich as the Roswells,” their Alpha, Brett, explains to me as we sip our whiskies. (I didn’t dare ask for a Paper Plane here; they’re clearly straight whiskey kind of wolves.) “Or the Hayworths. But we make do.”
“The Hayworths,” Dean repeats, frowning. “Have you heard about our issues with Alaina?”
Brett nods. He’s not quite as large as Dean, nor as scruffy; for a wolf, he’s remarkably clean-cut. He looks a bit familiar to me, though I can’t place it. I get a bit of a douche bag vibe from him, but not an altogether untrustworthy one. “Garrett told me. We’ve been doing our best to patrol the south border for shifters, but y
