Valkyrie lets me take the toy but follows, pressing against my leg like she’s still debating whether or not the intruder is a threat. When we step back into the living room, Celeste immediately gasps, pressing both hands over her heart.

“Oh. Em. Gee! Look at her! She’s still so stressed,” she coos, reaching out like she’s going to smother Valkyrie with love. Valkyrie yanks the pacifier out of my hand and ducks behind my legs, chomping on her toy.

Orion shakes his head. “Some guard dog.”

Valkyrie, as if to prove my point, lets out a long, exaggerated sigh around the pacifier, then drops her pacifier as she tips her head back letting out a pitiful howl.

Not barking. Not growling.

Howling.

It’s a full-on, mournful, operatic performance. The kind that sounds like she’s auditioning for a wolf pack. She adds a little vibrato at the end to show us she’s really putting emotion into it.

Celeste gasps again, clasping her hands. “She’s serenading us! Oh, sweet girl.”

Orion groans, rubbing a hand down his face. He stands from where he had laid back down on the couch and leaves with a “Fuck this.”

“She’s expressing herself,” Celeste screeches, utterly delighted.

Valkyrie does it again, this time really leaning into the drama.

Valkyrie lets out another soulful howl.

Celeste claps. “Encore!”

I am never getting my peaceful night back.

The worst part about it? Celeste joins in. Howling in tune with Valkyrie, like they’re their own pack.

* * *

Morgan

The sharp knock at the door startles me, interrupting the quiet of the evening. My heart jumps as I glance toward the window, where the dim glow of my porch light reveals a hulking figure standing outside.

That’s not Bennett’s knock.

Theo has a key so he wouldn’t need to knock.

I grab the Glock from the end table drawer and tuck it into the back of my jeans. I’m no stranger to trouble, and after everything that’s been happening, I’m not taking any chances.

With one hand on the doorknob and the other hovering near the gun, I take a steadying breath and crack the door open. The moment I see him, my gut twists.

The man on my porch looks like he just stepped out of an action movie—broad shoulders straining against a black henley so tight it looks like it’s painted on, hazel eyes sharp and assessing, and a jawline that could probably cut glass. His presence is magnetic in a way that instantly puts me on edge. I know men like him. The ones who take up space effortlessly, who know they don’t need to raise their voices to command a room. The ones who smile like they’ve already won.

“Can I help you?” I ask, keeping my tone cool and my stance firm.