Don't Call Me Luna

Chapter Eight

KAT

Fortress Building and Other Bad Ideas

I woke up tasting Dave Westwood's mouth and wanting to punch something.

Not because the kiss was bad—Christ, the opposite problem entirely. The man kissed like he'd been taking lessons from the devil himself, all heat and lust and desperate need wrapped up in Southern gentleman packaging. No, I wanted to punch something because I'd spent the night dreaming about hands that glowed with healing magic mapping territory I rarely allow anyone to explore.

Twenty-nine-year-old virgin. Who the hell admits that with a straight face?

More importantly, who the hell makes it sound like a promise instead of a problem?

I rolled out of bed and into last night's jeans, because fresh clothes required energy I didn't have after spending six hours replaying every second of Dave pressed against my kitchen counter. The way he'd gotten hard just from kissing me. The broken sound he'd made when I'd ground against him. The absolute trust in his eyes when he'd told me he was waiting for someone who mattered.

Fuck. I was in so much trouble.

Outside my trailer, the compound was already moving into morning routines. Spring in Kentucky meant unpredictable weather, and today the sky looked like it couldn't decide between sunshine and apocalypse. Perfect match for my mood.

Dave was already up and working, because of course he was. The man probably woke up at dawn to make coffee for the birds and write thank-you notes to the sunrise. I found him near the eastern perimeter, where yesterday's fence posts had somehow multiplied overnight into what looked like the beginning of an actual defensive barrier.

"Morning." He looked up from digging post holes, dirt streaked across his forehead and something that might have been embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Like he wasn't sure how to act around me after last night's kitchen encounter.

"You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." He went back to digging, muscles moving under his t-shirt in ways that made my mouth go dry. "Figured I'd make myself useful."

Useful. Right. Because twenty-foot fence posts and reinforced wire barriers were just casual weekend projects for most people.

"This is more than fence repair."

"Tornado season's coming." He gestured toward the threatening sky. "Compound needs better protection. Not just from weather."

The unspoken 'from Dirk Morrison' hung between us like a promise of violence. Dave had been here ten days and already understood that survival meant preparing for the worst while hoping for something better.

"You think fences will stop him?"

"I think visible defenses make people reconsider their approach." His voice carried the kind of calm authority that probably made opposing counsel wet themselves in court. "Psychological warfare. Make the cost of aggression higher than the potential reward."

Smart. Tactical. The kind of thinking that kept packs alive when bigger predators came sniffing around their territory.

"Need help?"

"Actually, yeah. Hold this steady while I set the concrete."

We worked in comfortable silence, his hands guiding mine on the fence post while he poured cement around the base. Every time our fingers touched, electricity shot up my arm and settled as heat low in my belly. The man was going to kill me with casual contact and Southern politeness.

"Kat!" Cheryl's voice carried across the compound with the authority of someone who'd found new bureaucratic challenges to conquer. "Need you inside. Legal stuff."

Dave's hands stilled on the post. "That's my cue. We've got Council paperwork to review."

"Paperwork?"

"Recognition applications. Territorial claims. All the forms that prove you exist according to supernatural law." He stepped back, wiping cement dust on his jeans. "Boring stuff, but necessary."

I watched him walk toward the main building, noting the way other pack members gravitated toward him like he was dispensing salvation instead of fence posts. In ten days, he'd become essential in ways that had nothing to do with Council mandates and everything to do with the quiet competence he brought to every broken thing in our world.

The legal s**t was exactly as boring as advertised. Cheryl had spread forms across every surface in what used to be the chapel, each one requiring signatures, witness statements, and documentation that proved we weren't just a collection of criminals playing house in a haunted trailer park.

"Territorial boundaries." Dave pointed to a map that showed our property lines in excruciating detail. "This is where it gets complicated. Technically, the compound sits on condemned land. Nobody wants it because of the cult suicide history."

"Which works in our favor," Cheryl added, sliding another form across the table. "Can't claim abandoned property that nobody else wants. But the agricultural land is different."

"The selkies' inheritance." Dave leaned back in his chair, the movement causing his shirt to stretch across muscles I definitely wasn't supposed to be cataloging during legal discussions. "Two hundred acres of prime farmland, legally owned, perfect for establishing legitimate agricultural business."

"If Coral, Pearl, and Shelly agree to incorporate their land into pack territory."

"They will." I signed another form without reading it, because Dave had vetted everything twice and Cheryl had threatened to murder anyone who tried to slip bullshit past her. "They're pack."

"Being pack and being willing to risk their inheritance are different things." Dave's voice carried the careful tone of someone delivering bad news. "If the Council decides against recognition, their land could be seized as assets of a criminal organization."

The implications hit like cold water. Not just our survival at stake, but the selkies' future. The land their human lover had died to give them. Everything he'd worked sixty years to build.

"We need to talk to them."

"Already arranged." Dave stood, stretching in ways that made my mouth go dry. "They're expecting us this afternoon. But first, I promised the kids I'd help with their kickball game."

Of course he had. Because saving the pack, fortifying the compound, and navigating Council bureaucracy weren't enough. He also needed to play sports with children.

The kickball field was really just a flat patch of ground behind Big Eddie's trailer, but the pack kids had claimed it as sacred territory. Rosie, the six-year-old ethicist who worried about chicken welfare, led a team of eight assorted youngsters against Dave's squad of teenagers and adults who'd volunteered for humiliation.

Watching Dave Westwood play kickball was like watching someone discover joy for the first time. He threw underhanded to the little ones, caught easy flies from the bigger kids, and celebrated every run like it was winning the World Series. When Rosie scored the winning point, he lifted her onto his shoulders while she shrieked with victory.

"He's good with them." Margot materialized beside me, holding a jar of something that glowed faintly blue. "Kids sense authenticity. Can't fake caring about six-year-olds."

"What's in the jar?"

"Healing salve. Dave asked me to make it for Billy Ray's arthritis." She watched Dave explaining base-running strategy to a cluster of fascinated eight-year-olds. "Man notices things. Sees what needs fixing and fixes it."

"Must be nice."

"What?"

"Having someone who fixes things instead of breaking them."

Margot's heterochromatic eyes studied my face with uncomfortable intensity. "You could let him fix you too."

"I'm not broken."

"Everybody's broken, Kat. Question is whether you trust someone enough to let them see the damage."

Before I could come up with a suitably sarcastic response, Dave was jogging over, grass-stained and grinning like playing with kids was better than whatever lawyers did for fun in their natural habitat.

"Ready to visit the selkies?"

The walk to Coral, Pearl, and Shelly's corner of the compound took us past the agricultural land that might save us all or destroy everything we'd built. Fruit trees heavy with unpicked bounty, corn growing wild and free, vegetables thriving without human interference. Paradise reclaiming itself while we figured out how to survive Council oversight.

The selkies lived in a modified farmhouse that had been winterized and expanded until it looked more like a luxury cabin than an old shack. Coral answered the door, silver hair braided with shells and sea glass, eyes the color of deep ocean. Behind her, Pearl and Shelly moved with the fluid grace of beings who remembered what it felt like to swim between worlds.

"Dave. Katana." Coral's voice carried traces of accent that belonged to no human country. "Come in. We've been expecting you."

Their home smelled like saltwater and growing things, every surface covered with treasures from the sea and earth alike. Pearls, driftwood, crystals that caught light and threw it back in colors that had no names.

"Tea?" Pearl gestured toward a table set for five, like they'd known exactly when we'd arrive. "Or something stronger?"

"Tea's fine." Dave settled into a chair that looked handmade, accepting hospitality with the easy grace of someone raised to respect elders and otherworldly beings equally.

"You want to talk about the land." Shelly's voice was younger, sharper. "About making it part of pack territory for Council recognition."

"We want to understand what you're comfortable with." I leaned forward, meeting her gaze directly. "It's your inheritance. Your choice."

"Saul left us that land because he loved us." Coral's hands curved around her teacup like she was holding memories. "Twenty years of love, ending in freedom to be what we are without hiding."

"Beautiful man." Pearl's smile was soft, distant. "Understood that some hearts were made for deeper waters, but chose to love us anyway."

"The land was his gift. His promise that we'd always have home." Shelly's eyes flashed with protective fury. "Nobody takes that from us. Not Council, not Morrison pack, not anyone."

Dave leaned forward, his voice carrying the careful respect of someone who understood what sacred things looked like. "What if we could protect it? Make it officially yours forever, with legal standing no one could challenge?"

"How?"

"Incorporate it into pack territory, but under selkie ownership. You keep title, keep control, keep everything Saul wanted you to have. The pack gets agricultural legitimacy, you get Council protection."

The three women exchanged looks that spoke in languages older than human speech. Water recognizing water, depths acknowledging depths.

"And if the Council denies recognition?" Coral's voice carried the weight of someone who'd lost homes before.

"Then you're still landowners with clean title and legal standing. Protected by human law if supernatural law fails."

"Worst case scenario, you're exactly where you are now. Best case, you're untouchable."

Shelly smiled, sharp and satisfied. "We like those odds."

"Then we're in."

The relief in Dave's expression was almost physical. Another piece of the puzzle falling into place, another foundation stone for the argument that might save ninety-seven souls from disbandment.

Walking back through the compound, I watched him catalog everything that needed attention. Post holes that required concrete. Buildings that needed weatherproofing. Gardens that could use expansion. He saw potential where others saw problems, solutions where others found excuses to give up.

"You're planning to stay." The words came out before I could stop them.

"I'm planning to try."

"Even if the Council says no? Even if this whole thing falls apart?"

He stopped walking, turned to face me with those impossible blue eyes that saw too much and promised more than they should. "Especially then."

"Why?"

"Because somebody needs to help you rebuild. Somebody needs to stand with you when the next threat comes. Somebody needs to—"

"Fix me?"

"Love you."

The words hit like lightning, illuminating everything I'd been trying not to see. Not fixing, not saving, not rescuing the poor little alpha who couldn't handle her own problems. Loving. Present tense, active choice, ongoing commitment that had nothing to do with pity and everything to do with seeing someone clearly and choosing them anyway.

"Dave."

"Too much?"

"Terrifying."

"Good terrifying or bad terrifying?"

Before I could answer, engines roared at the compound's edge. Four bikes, riding hard and fast, kicking up dust clouds that looked like war paint against the threatening sky.

Morrison pack. Again.

But this time, they weren't stopping at the perimeter.

"Get to the house." I was already moving, hand going to the knife at my belt. "Get Cheryl, get the others. This isn't a social call."

Dave's hand caught my arm, gentle but firm. "Where you go, I go."

"This isn't your fight."

"Everything about you is my fight."

The bikes roared closer, and I realized that whatever Dirk Morrison wanted this time, he'd brought enough backup to make his point permanent. Four riders, armed and angry, heading straight for the heart of everything we'd built.

Eighty days left to prove we deserved to exist.

One Morrison pack determined to prove we didn't.

And Dave Westwood standing beside me like he'd rather die than step away, love confession hanging between us like a promise and a threat.

Some days, being alpha meant making impossible choices.

Today, being alpha meant protecting the man who'd just handed me his heart while preparing to fight for the pack that had become his home.

Even if it killed us both.

Which, given the Morrison pack's approach and the storm clouds gathering overhead, seemed statistically likely but romantically inevitable.