The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and a subtle undercurrent of my mother’s anxious energy. “Ma… stop fussing over me already.” I tried to dodge her, but Edith Walterson, even at her most gentle, possessed an immovable force. She lunged, a baby wipe clutched like a weapon, aiming for my face.

“You’ve got something on your upper lip. I want you to look presentable if you’re being sent to aid another pack. You might find a second chance mate.” Her voice, a low rumble even when huffing, filled the space. I groaned, feeling the familiar scrape of the wipe against my stubble. “Ma, it’s called facial hair.”

“That’s supposed to be facial hair?” Suzie giggled, unzipping my duffle bag with the practiced ease of a younger sibling intent on mischief. My wolf, Conway, rumbled a warning in my mind. “Stay out of my stuff, Suzie,” I growled, but it was too late. A high-pitched squeal split the air.

“EEEWWWWW!” A box of condoms flew through the kitchen, landing with a clatter. My mother’s grip on my collar tightened, her claws digging into my skin. “When did those become standard issue gear for warriors? Who do you think you are, Stephen Rhett Walterson?” I braced myself. The lecture was coming.