Don't Call Me Luna

Chapter Four

KATANA

When Puppies Play with Wolves

The morning Dave Westwood decided to organize pack patrols, I knew we were f****d. Not the delicious kind that left bite marks and satisfied moans, but the catastrophic variety where earnest do-gooders got their throats ripped out for smiling at apex predators.

"Our resident Disney princess made schedules." Tommy materialized in my doorway like bad news wearing hipster chic. "Color-coded spreadsheets, Kat. He's assigned me Tuesday afternoons with Margot."

I spat tobacco juice into my middle-finger mug because subtlety was for people who hadn't learned to weaponize everything, including breakfast. "Has he met everyone?"

"All ninety-seven of us. In three days. He's got spreadsheets. I saw them." Tommy's expression suggested someone watching a particularly fascinating train wreck. "You know what he said when I mentioned being gay? 'Cool, my friend Bob's boyfriend makes killer fry bread. You cook?' Like orientation was just another interesting fact to file away."

Through my window, Dave held court in the converted chapel, my pack of beautiful disasters surrounding him like he dispensed salvation instead of organizational charts. The memory of yesterday hit me like Kentucky bourbon on an empty stomach—Dave shirtless, splitting wood while summer heat turned his skin golden, muscles moving under sweat-slicked skin like poetry written in flesh and physics.

I'd wanted to lick that sweat off his collarbone. Find out if he tasted as good as he looked, if those careful hands knew how to be anything but gentle. The way he'd caught me staring and offered to put his shirt back on, gentleman to his core, never knowing I'd been mentally cataloging every ridge of muscle, every flex of bicep as the axe split wood.

Big Eddie loomed behind Dave like an anxiety-riddled mountain, six-foot-eight of were-bear who wouldn't hurt a butterfly unless it threatened his sourdough starter. Crash and Burn flanked Eddie—mountain lion sisters who'd clawed their way out of meth addiction and into my protection—moving with liquid grace that suggested they'd claimed Dave as pack.

"He fixed Methany's stove. Taught the pups fishing flies. Made Big Eddie actually tear up over bread critique." Tommy cataloged Dave's crimes against my sanity. "Who gives constructive feedback on sourdough?"

"Someone who's never met a problem he couldn't solve with aggressive competence."

A murder of crows had claimed the chapel roof as their surveillance network, cawing alerts at every perceived threat. Which would've been useful if they hadn't also announced squirrels, falling leaves, and suspicious weather patterns.

"Incoming." Uncle Hiro materialized with his trademark dramatic flair. "Morrison pack. Four bikes, eastern perimeter."

My wolf snarled, hackles rising at Dirk's name. Not just for what he'd do to me, but what he might do to—

To Dave. f**k.

I was moving before conscious thought caught up, strapping on Betty and checking Diane's clip with muscle memory smooth as aged bourbon. Tommy fell into step beside me, psychology homework abandoned for threat assessment.

The bikes announced themselves with all the subtlety of a cardiac event in church. Dirk rode lead because his ego needed its own zip code, followed by his honor guard of chromosomal disappointments: Blade, Diesel, Gunner, and Steve-who-kept-forgetting-he-was-Fury.

Dave was already positioned between them and the compound like the world's politest barrier. The crows had multiplied, coating nearby trees like feathered gargoyles. Even the chickens had wandered over, Henrietta leading reconnaissance like she was casing the joint.

"Gentlemen." Dave's voice poured out like molasses over gravel, all Southern charm with steel underneath—the same tone that had probably made opposing counsel surrender before opening arguments. "I'm afraid y'all are disturbing our residents."

That drawl. Sweet Jesus, the man's voice was liquid sin wrapped in flannel and good intentions. Low and smooth as aged whiskey, with enough heat to melt better judgment and good sense.

Dirk swung off his bike with typical masculine overcompensation. "Who the f**k are you?"

"Dave Westwood, Council liaison for pack integration." Each word precisely enunciated with enough Southern gentleman to make steel magnolias swoon. "And I'm afraid you're in violation of supernatural territory law. Visiting alphas are required to submit written requests seventy-two hours prior to any territorial approach."

I stopped so fast Tommy collided with my back. Dave was lawyering. Actually using legal precedent against Dirk Morrison while crows provided air support and chickens took notes.

"You're shitting me." Dirk's face performed interesting contortions when confused, like a Neanderthal discovering fire but not understanding the electric bill. "You're quoting regulations?"

"Also city noise ordinances." Dave's drawl thickened just enough to make legal jargon sound like sweet tea and seduction. "Those motorcycles register well above acceptable residential decibel levels. Makes a person wonder what exactly you're compensating for."

The insult wrapped in legal concern took Dirk's brain three full seconds to process. When it did, his face went the color of rare steak.

"You little—"

Big Eddie materialized from shadows, all six-foot-eight radiating the kind of presence that made smart predators reconsider life choices. His 'Kiss the Cook' apron should've been comedic but somehow made him more terrifying. Crash and Burn flanked him with liquid grace suggesting apex predators who'd learned hunting was more fun when it meant something.

"Everything alright here, Dave?" Eddie's rumble carried undertones promising creative uses for his bread-making hands.

"Just explaining local ordinances." Dave hadn't moved, hadn't even shifted weight, but something in his stance suggested mountains that had decided to wear flannel. That voice though—butter and bourbon and barely leashed authority that made my knees forget their structural purpose. "Mr. Morrison was just leaving."

"I came to see Katana." Dirk's eyes found me, smile making my skin crawl backward. "Heard the Council's sniffing around. Wanted to make sure my girl was handling the pressure."

"Your girl?" The temperature dropped ten degrees at Dave's quiet question. Crows went silent. Even Henrietta stopped pecking. "I wasn't aware Ms. Lightfoot was anyone's property."

The way he said my name—formal, respectful, with just enough edge to suggest violence wrapped in politeness—sent heat spiraling through places that had no business responding to protective males and their courtroom voices.

"You don't know s**t about—"

"I know she leads this pack." Dave's drawl sharpened to scalpel precision, each word a surgical strike. "I know the Council recognizes her authority. And I know you're currently trespassing on sovereign territory without proper documentation." His smile belonged on things with too many teeth. "Would you like me to explain Kentucky's Castle Doctrine as it applies to supernatural territorial disputes?"

Blade made the mistake of stepping forward. "You threatening us, pretty boy?"

Dave tilted his head, considering with the patience of someone explaining basic concepts to particularly slow children. Then he walked to Dirk's custom Harley—the bike that cost more than most people's houses—and lifted it. One-handed. Like it was made of papier-mâché and poor judgment.

"Threatening?" He set the motorcycle down with devastating gentleness. "No sir. I'm educating. There's a difference. One involves violence. The other involves understanding why violence won't be necessary."

The casual display of strength sent liquid heat pooling low in my belly. Yesterday I'd watched those hands split wood. Now I saw them handle a thousand-pound motorcycle like a toy, and my imagination supplied extremely inappropriate applications for that kind of power. What those hands might feel like on skin. How that strength might translate to other activities entirely.

The crows chose that moment to dive-bomb Steve, who'd apparently made the mistake of existing too loudly. He flailed, cursing, while birds demonstrated their opinion with surgical precision.

"They're very intuitive creatures." Dave observed with mild interest, like he was watching nature documentaries instead of orchestrated chaos. "Crows recognize faces for years. Hold grudges too."

I found myself moving forward before conscious thought engaged. "Dirk. Leave."

He turned that predator's smile on me. "There she is. Was starting to think you were hiding behind your new pet beta."

"The only thing I hide behind is superior firepower and reasonable doubt."

"Cute. But we both know what the Council really wants. Male leadership. Real alpha authority." His eyes raked over me like I was buffet options. "Offer's still open, Kat. Your pack under my protection. All you gotta do is—"

"All she has to do is continue being recognized pack leader." Dave's interruption carried the calm that preceded natural disasters, that voice dropping to register that made my knees weak and my wolf purr. "The Council's position on female leadership is evolving. I'm here to facilitate that evolution."

"Evolution." Dirk's laugh was ugly, sharp. "That what they're calling it when bitches forget their place?"

The silence that followed had weight, substance, pressure that made ears pop. I felt my pack gathering—Tommy's hand dropping to his knife, Eddie's gentle nature wrestling protective instincts, the twins coiling for violence.

But it was Dave who moved. Not aggressively, just a shift that put him between Dirk and me, subtle as breathing and twice as necessary. Protective without being possessive, claiming space without claiming me.

"I think y'all should head on home now." No honey now, just stone wrapped in politeness, authority that had probably made juries convict on voice alone. "Before this situation escalates beyond simple trespassing into something that requires paperwork."

That's when I noticed the rest of my pack had materialized. Not aggressively, just present. Margot leaned against her trailer with casual menace suggesting pockets full of interesting chemistry. The selkie sisters perched on Eddie's truck, legs swinging like playground children if playgrounds came with drowning threats. Even Methany had emerged, wearing a colander hat but holding a crossbow with disturbing competence.

"Is this Westwood reject your new fucktoy?" Dirk's bravado was cracking like cheap paint. "That's adorable."

"Actually," Cheryl appeared like bureaucracy incarnate, if bureaucracy carried aluminum bats and grudges, "the Council sent him. Official capacity. Attacking a Council representative carries mandatory death sentence. No appeals."

That penetrated even Dirk's thick skull. His eyes narrowed, calculating odds that weren't in his favor. Four against nearly a hundred, with a Council witness who bench-pressed motorcycles for entertainment.

"This ain't over." Retreat dressed as threat, but we all heard the fear underneath. "Council can't protect you forever."

"Good thing I've never needed protection." I spat tobacco juice near his boot, calculated insult. "Just ammunition and a bad attitude."

They left in clouds of exhaust and wounded masculinity. I waited until engine sounds faded before turning on Dave, who was being congratulated by crows like he'd won battles with words and poultry welfare.

"You. Inside. Now."

He followed me to my trailer, apparently unconcerned about baseball bats or homicidal expressions. The man had de-escalated Dirk Morrison with legal precedent and city ordinances.

"You trying to get yourself killed?" I slammed the door, needing walls between us and interested pack eyes. "That was Dirk Morrison. He's killed people for breathing wrong."

"He was trespassing. Threatening you." Dave stood in my space like he belonged there, all earnest eyes and impossible competence, that voice still carrying traces of courtroom authority. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Not antagonize the psychopath! Not quote regulations like they're magic spells!" I paced, anger and fear mixing dangerous cocktails in my chest. "You think Council status will save you? He'll gut you and claim territorial dispute."

"I'm harder to kill than I look."

"You look like you rescue kittens and help old ladies cross streets!"

"I do both those things." That damned dimple appeared, making me want to bite it.

"Exactly!" I whirled on him, getting close enough to smell sawdust and safety and something indefinably male. "You don't understand what someone like Dirk will do—"

"I understand he scares you." Dave's voice went soft, which was worse than shouting, that butter-smooth drawl wrapping around my defenses like silk rope. "Not for yourself. For your pack. For anyone you think you're responsible for protecting."

"I'm not scared."

"You're terrified." He moved closer, and I had nowhere to retreat unless I wanted to climb walls. "But not of him hurting you. Of him hurting people you care about. Using them to get to you."

"Stop it."

"That's why you're angry. Not because I interfered, but because I made myself a target."

"Stop." The word scraped raw from somewhere I didn't visit without bourbon and bad decisions.

"Suzy."

My real name in that voice was like being seen naked. Nobody called me Suzy, except Cheryl. Suzy was the accident, the unwanted half-breed, the girl who'd believed in love before the world taught her better.

"Don't." But the word had no teeth, no force. Because Dave Westwood was looking at me like I was something precious instead of sharp, and I didn't know how to fight kindness that came armed with understanding.

"I'm not going to let him hurt you." Simple statement of fact, delivered in that voice that had probably made opposing counsel surrender before trials began. "Or your pack. That's why I'm here."

"You're here because the Council sent you."

"I'm here because I choose to be." His hand came up, hesitated just shy of touching my face. "Because you built something beautiful out of broken pieces. Because you're the kind of alpha the world needs."

"Stop saying nice things." My voice cracked like cheap foundation. "I don't know what to do with nice things."

"You could try accepting them."

His thumb brushed my cheek, gentle as butterfly wings and twice as devastating. The heat of him. The way he smelled like safety and sawdust and something that made my wolf purr and my human half contemplate extremely poor decisions. Like finding out if that courtroom voice went rough when he was buried inside someone. Like discovering whether those careful, gentle hands knew how to be anything but careful and gentle.

"What if I promised to catch you?"

The worst part was believing him. Believing this flannel-wrapped impossibility who quoted regulations and lifted motorcycles and looked at me like I was worth saving.

"Princess." The nickname came out softer than intended. "You can't save everyone."

"I don't need to save everyone." His forehead touched mine, shared breath and dangerous proximity, that voice dropping to register that made my knees forget their structural integrity. "Just you. If you'll let me."

I could've kissed him. Should've kneed him in the balls and kicked him out of my territory. Instead I did neither, caught between wanting and wisdom, between the girl who'd believed in love and the woman who'd learned better.

"Patrol schedules." I pulled back, needing distance like lungs needed air. "You made patrol schedules."

He let me retreat, understanding in those impossible eyes. "The pack needs structure. Someone watching their backs."

"We've survived this long without color-coding."

"Surviving isn't living." He moved to my door, giving me space and taking all the oxygen with him. "You deserve more than just survival, Suzy."

He left me there, surrounded by weapons I couldn't use against kindness, armor that didn't protect against hope. Outside, my pack greeted him like conquering heroes welcomed puppies.

Through my window, I watched him organize my pack with patient efficiency, that voice carrying across the compound like whiskey and promises. The memory of him shirtless, sweat-slicked and powerful, collided with the image of him lifting Dirk's bike like it weighed nothing.

The man was going to get himself killed. Or worse—he was going to make me believe in things I'd buried with my father's blood and my mother's goodbye.

Like love that came with dimples instead of demands.

Fuck.