DAVE
Safe Harbor
The Best Western lobby smells like industrial carpet cleaner and barely controlled panic. Behind the desk, a kid who can't be older than nineteen watches my pack file through the doors with the expression of someone reconsidering their career choices. His name tag reads "Tyler," and the way his hands shake as he processes key cards tells me he's about thirty seconds from a full meltdown.
"So," Tyler manages, voice cracking like he's going through puberty all over again, "that's... all the rooms? Every single one?"
"Both hotels." I lean against the counter, casual as Sunday morning, letting just enough alpha presence bleed through to steady his nerves. Not enough to be obvious—humans get twitchy when they sense what they can't understand—but sufficient to transform his
