Page 2 of Growl Me, Maybe

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of settling in—figuring out the mail ward system (the letters bit back), learning where to file reports on magical disturbances (in a cabinet labeled “Cranky Werewolf Business”), and generally trying to stay out of everyone’s way. She met two other staffers—Amos,the shy vampire who only worked nights and referred to her as “the chaos muffin,” and Petra, a dryad who watered herself at her desk every two hours and gave amazing gossip.

“So the alpha,” Petra whispered, watering her elbow vine. “Total lone-wolf vibes. Doesn’t date. Doesn’t laugh. Basically allergic to joy. I think he likes being lonely and bitter.”

Lyra tucked a curl behind her ear, pretending not to be curious. “Sounds intense.”

“Oh, he’s hot. Like, cave-you-up-against-a-wall hot. But cold. You know what I mean?”

She didn’t. But her face was burning.

Petra smirked. “Just saying, keep your wits. He won’t know what hit him.”

By mid-afternoon, Lyra had organized the entire magical archive room by hex category and mood. Her fingers were smudged with soot from a rogue burn scroll, and her head buzzed with spells, whispers, and… the sudden, bone-deep certainty that someone was watching her.

She turned toward the hallway and froze.

A man stood at the end of it.

He was tall. Towering, really. Broad in a way that made the hallway feel narrower. Dressed in dark jeans and a black henley that stretched deliciously across his chest, he had a face like carved stone—sharp jaw, dark brows, and storm-grey eyes that fixed on her like a snare.

Lyra’s mouth went dry.

He looked as if the mountain air had forged him, wild and cold and impossible to ignore.

He looked at her the way storms looked at ships, curious about how fast they’d sink.

And when he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder.

“You’re in my office.”

Oh.Oh.

Jace Montgomery.

Alpha. Boss.

Definitelyhot. Definitelynotsmiling.

Lyra’s heart tripped over itself. She managed a small, awkward wave.

“Hi. I brought muffins.”

2

JACE

By nine in the morning, Jace Montgomery had already broken up a sparring match, handled a boundary patrol dispute, and scolded two teenage shifters for shifting mid-argument behind the farmers market fruit stall.

He wasn’t in the mood for paperwork. And he definitely wasn’t in the mood for babysitting a new assistant.

“Dammit, Calla,” he muttered under his breath as he yanked open the double doors to Moonfang Keep’s central command hall—a cavernous room that smelled faintly of pine resin, old magic, and exhaustion. “You said she’d be helpful, not a distraction.”

He hadn’t wanted an assistant. Hell, he hadn’t wanted half the changes the council kept throwing at him. But with Ezra Wolfe prowling at the edge of the territory and half his pack fraying at the seams, someone had to handle the influx of magical incident reports, council correspondence, and, for some reason, thirty-two unsigned requisition forms for enchanted boots.

Jace did everything. Always had. His father had taught him the weight of leadership before he could shift, before he understood what it meant to bear the title of Alpha Montgomery.

“You don’t lead with teeth,” his father used to say. “You lead with shoulders. Carry more than your share. Always.”

And so he did. Every hour. Every damn day.

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