I approach him, my movements smooth and powerful, imbued as they are with the strength of my wolf that begs to be let free. All to put this piece of shit in his place.

“That bitch piss you off too, Jameson?” Ross throws out when I’m only a few steps away. “If you won’t keep her on a leash, I will.”

It’s all I can do to stop myself from attacking him immediately. Instead, I let a snarl tear from my throat. When I speak, the word comes out deep, steeped in the magic of the pack.

“Challenge.”

He steps back, shocked. “What?”

I don’t need to repeat myself. Everyone here heard.

Uncle Mason steps up behind me, lending his authority to the situation. “You have been challenged. Name the time and place.”

“This is ridiculous.” Ross glances around at everyone nearby, as if searching for support. Someone to laugh with him. No one does. “She’s just a human.”

“Challenge,” I growl.

“Fine.” He throws his hands up, pretending exasperation when I can tell I’ve rattled him. “Tonight. In the woods behind The Rabbit Hole.” With that, he stalks off to the other end of the worksite.

For the rest of my shift, I keep my distance. Not that it does anything to lessen my anger. I’m hefting double the load any human man could handle when a voice cuts through my angry haze.

“Maybe we should get you mad more often. Never seen you work so hard,” my uncle says, appearing behind me without a sound.

He’s good at that. Has the unexpectedly-creeping-up-on-people skill down perfect.

Luckily, I’m used to it, so I don’t do more than flinch.

“If you think insulting Zoey is going to get you a better worker, you’ll find yourself a man short in the future.”

I know my ease at mingling with the human population in the town is not the norm for most members of the pack, but you’d think they could at least be civil.

“You like her. The Gunner girl.”

I turn to give Mason my full attention. Something in his voice gave away that this might not be a casual conversation.

“Yeah, I do. She’s …” I trail off. But not because I don’t have any words to describe her.

I have too many.

Strong, funny, sweet, creative, odd, beautiful, brave, sexy⁠—

The list goes on, but I think my uncle would wander off after a certain amount of adjectives. Before I can figure out how to end the sentence, Mason is already nodding in a distracted way. He stares over my shoulder.

“I knew her mother, Selena. She was”—he waves his hand to indicate all the descriptors I didn’t list, but acts as though he read them in my pause—“too.”