DAVE
Gift Horse
Morning fog clings to the compound like silk scarves, carrying the earthy scent of October—decomposing leaves, wood smoke from someone's breakfast fire, and underneath it all, the wild musk of pack territory. I step outside our triple-wide, coffee warming my hands, and stop dead at the sight waiting beyond our gates.
The Mercedes-Benz GLS gleams like liquid obsidian in the weak sunlight, its pristine black surface reflecting the ramshackle beauty of our compound in fun-house distortion. A red velvet bow the size of a dining table stretches across its hood, the kind of theatrical gesture that screams Sylvia Westwood with such clarity I can practically smell her signature perfume—white tea and calculated affection.
"Happy birthday!" Kat bounces on her toes beside me, her
