Her Viking Wolves(80)

Of course, dwelling on all of this is totally pointless now. Because the brothers are here, not in Wisconsin or Indiana.

What am I going to do? I wonder, mind in total panic mode. How am I going to keep them alive?

Far too soon, the time for frantic worrying comes to an end. We walk through the collection of cabins, and the two-story kingdom house appears just over the first rise. Yancey abruptly halts, sniffing the air.

“Old king’s got company,” Yancey tells my dad. “Two visitors.”

My father’s face goes hard with an unspoken question.

Which Yancey answers with, “I don’t smell any blood.”

I let out a pent up breath. No blood means no death.

No blood. Good. That means my mates are still alive.

However, my moment of relief is cut short by Dad, Yancey, and Clyde all pulling out their matching sawed-off, pump-action pistol grip twelve-gauge Mossbergs. The official shotgun of the Dark Wolf pack.

“Stay here,” Clyde says to me, and then he starts creeping toward the house in silent commando mode along with Yancey and Dad.

But like hell I’m just going to hang back here while they sneak up on the house with my two mates inside.

Knowing I need to get in front of this—like, literally get in front of this—I rush past them.

“Get back!” I hear Dad hiss behind me.

But I don’t stop running until I reach the cabin door.

“Granddad! Granddad!” I yell, banging on the door. “It’s me! Tee!”

Granddad’s nose isn’t what it used to be, but he swings open the door so fast, I know he must have been right on the other side waiting for us to arrive. He stands in the doorway, his long, slightly stooped body adorned in the usual Dark Wolf uniform: black leather jacket, black leather jeans, black leather boots, topped off by a black leather bandana tied around his head.#p#分页标题#e#

He no longer rides with the Dark Wolves. In fact, he no longer rides at all. But he looks exactly like what he once was, and what he probably still considers himself to be: the baddest wolf king in the entire land.

“Granddaughter…” he says to me with a shake of his leather-wrapped head. “You got any idea how complicated you done made shit for this family?”

I can also feel Yancey, Dad, and Clyde staring daggers at my back.

Feeling very meek under Granddad’s censuring gaze, I lower my eyes and mumble, “Sorry, Granddad.”

Granddad just harrumphs and opens the door wider. “Whatever. All of you better come on in here.”





35





Granddad watches with a sour frown on his face, as we all file in: me, Dad, Yancey, with Clyde bringing up the rear. I see the reason for his expression as soon as I get all the way into the house’s huge living room. Two reasons, actually, standing side by side in front of the large fireplace, the flames within casting their stony faces in shadow and light.

My breath catches. FJ and Olafr. Olafr and FJ.

But not the Olafr I left behind in Alaska. That wolf had a crazy bush of a beard and long, messy red dreads. I’d never seen that wolf clothed in anything more than a small towel.

However, this new Olafr looks like he could be a member of the Dark Wolf gang. He’s dressed much like my grandfather, in leather pants, a heavy motorcycle jacket, and a t-shirt with a howling wolf on the front. The dreads have vanished, only a sheen of red hair where they used to be, and his gnarly beard is gone.

You’d think a clean-shaven Olafr would look a lot less dangerous, but you’d be wrong. His new look only highlights his gray wolf eyes, glowing savagely as he watches us come in. As he watches me come in.

I quickly look away, my eyes seeking a respite in his brother, who’s always proven himself to be the more reasonable of the two. It helps that his human, not his wolf, is in charge nearly all the time. And I’m somewhat relieved to see unlike Olafr, he hasn’t undergone a complete makeover. Same long hair, tied up in a curly top knot, same fancy beard.

Yet somehow, FJ also fits in with the Detroit crowd. In fact, dressed in a dark suit, with a large black fur coat draped over his shoulders, he looks even more Detroit than the four Detroit royals in the room. If not for the hilt of his huge Viking sword peeking out from behind the flap of his coat, his light brown skin, and his red hair, he could easily be mistaken for the heir apparent to the Detroit throne.

But clearly it’s a mistake for my eyes to seek refuge with him. He looks a hell of a lot calmer than his brother, true. But that doesn’t put me at ease, because when our eyes meet, his are colder than the snow I just walked through. I quickly have to look away, chilled to the bone.

I become even more confused when my gaze falls on the coffee table. On it are three cups of coffee along with a half-eaten plate of bagels and a lit-up smartphone. My eyebrows shoot up, because for all the tension filling up the room now, it sure as hell looks like the Viking brothers and my grandfather were having a cozy chat before we arrived.