Page 70 of Black Moon

Finally, he met my eyes again, the set of his brow still serious. “Of course.”

“And you’d look after their interests, try and keep them safe and healthy and happy? Weigh your decisions carefully and always do what’s best for your people?”

“Obviously. All of that.”

“Okay, well, it’s not always obvious. But it is to you, because Wanda’s right. Claud’s right. I’m right. So you can campaign just a little—which, I promise, will mostly be you sitting around while the rest of us voice our support. Eventually, you’ll have to make some kind of statement, but just—just think of it like an acceptance speech. We’ve already picked you.”

Linden sighed. “You didn’t even want to be involved in this.”

I smirked. It felt sharp, and every once in a while, it was nice to lean into that. “No, I didn’t. But Skip invited me here to try and use me. He thought he could manipulate me, and I’m feeling vindictive. That’s between him and me.”

When he scowled, I could see him battling with the frustration that I was being petty and the desire to put Skip in his place—neither of which were Linden’s problem to deal with.

Stepping in until my chest touched his, I reached up and put my hand on his cheek. “I fucking hate politics and always will, because ninety-nine percent of everyone involved is a hypocritical asshole. But you’re not. So you can either ask for what you deserve”—his grimace alone said that he wasn’t willing to ask the pack for anything—“or you can let us do a little bit of light campaigning and stop thinking about it so much.”

His hands found my hips. “Do I need to be worried about Friday night?”

I grinned. “Nope. Linden, all you need to do is keep being your incredible self. You’ll be perfect.”

His gray eyes swam with desperation to foist this off on someone else—anyone else. But fuck that. Most packs got stuck with growlers, and I wasn’t going to see the Groves, who’d been so fast to accept me, who worked together and had built the first place I’d ever felt entirely comfortable, end up just like every other miserable pack out there.

They deserved the best, and he was standing right in front of me.

37

Linden

I’d gone to The Cider House most Friday nights since I got back from finishing my residency. Not because I wanted to get involved with a bunch of old men telling fish tales, or because I loved hanging out in loud public places, but because it had been a sensible place for me to be.

A lot of the older members of the pack had been particularly resistant to the notion of a pack doctor.In their day, they would remind me over and over, slowly pulling their bodies onto the stool next to mine,werewolves didn’t have doctors. Didn’t need them.

Didn’t I know we weren’t human?

I would smile, and nod, and tell them that yes, I was aware. If I happened to ask what was paining them, they were always happy to tell me. Then, I might happen to have some advice that could help.

Nothing to do with spending years in school. Nope, just good, sensible advice, werewolf to werewolf.

Most had eventually caved and started coming to see me in the clinic. At first they’d done it because it was more private that way, and no one had to see them talking to me.

But then, over the course of the decade I’d been doing the job, there had been an almost magical shift. It had become less a mark of shame and failure, “seeing Doc Grove,” and more a social visit. They would bring cakes and scarves and mittens and “just a little something they threw together” casseroles, and the embarrassment had faded away. Somehow, I’d become one of the most popular guys in town with the over-seventy crowd.

Plus, you know, at the same time accumulated the best collection of hand-knit sweaters known to either man or werewolf, and who wouldn’t love that?

Somehow, I’d never gotten out of the habit of going to the bar, taking a seat at the end, and waiting for people to approach me with their problems. They still did. The problems had changed over the years, since most everyone came to the clinic for actual ailments now, but somehow, I’d become a source of advice on other things—sometimes things I didn’t have a clue about. What gift to get someone’s kid for their wedding, or what kind of flowers girls liked, or the silliest of all: fashion advice.

I hadn’t chosen most of my own clothes in almost a decade. What did I know about fashion?

I always did my best, and made recommendations on who could help when I couldn’t, and somehow, it worked. People kept coming back, so I guessed I probably hadn’t screwed anything up too badly yet.

Dad had been pretty pissed at me when I’d told Rowan to go ahead and dye his hair purple, but seriously, who cared? He wanted to try it, and it was just hair. He’d kept it purple for almost a year, and I think it was mostly because it pissed Dad off.

That Friday was different, though.

I was already nervous, since I knew Colt and Claudia had been plotting something nefarious based around tonight. I didn’t want to spend my night talking about how great I was instead of helping if someone needed me.

When we walked in, me with my arm slung comfortably around Colt’s waist, and the whole bar went quiet, everyone turning to look at us, I almost turned and walked out.

There was a thump on the bar, Talin setting out a heavy glass mug, and the spell seemed to break, everyone going back to whatever conversations they’d been having before Colt and I had arrived.

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