Page 63 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“Keep driving,” I said. “And I’ll tell you about my family.”
Maxwell looked like he was going to argue, but then turned on the ignition.
“My family isn’t exactly what you’d call… functional,” I said, staring out the passenger window as he pulled back onto the winding Highland road. “The Thorne Pack is old money, old traditions. Very old traditions.”
Maxwell nodded, eyes fixed on the road. “Your father was the alpha?”
“Malcolm Thorne,” I said, the name tasting bitter. “Shot by an armed officer three days after I left home. Mum rang to tell me. That was the last time we spoke. I didn’t go to the funeral. If there was one—she said they couldn’t even retrieve the body.”
“I’m sorry,” Maxwell said quietly.
I shrugged, feigning indifference. The thing about abusive fathers dying is that you’re supposed to feel something definitive—grief or relief or closure. I felt none of those things. Just… hollow. “He wasn’t exactly father of the year.”
“And your mother?”
I laughed, the sound bitter and twisted. “Edina Thorne. She’s the alpha now, which is actually progressive by their standards. Most Highland packs would’ve passed leadership to another male relative.” Out of the window, the mountains grew more familiar with each passing mile. “She’s… cold. Proper. All about appearances. The kind who’d rather die than have anyone think there was something wrong with her children.”
Maxwell glanced at me briefly. “Like with your ADHD?”
“Like anything that didn’t fit her perfect pack image.” I fiddled with the seatbelt strap. “When the teachers suggested I needed assessment, she told them I just needed more discipline.”
“And your mother knows I’m coming?” he asked, shifting slightly.
“Oh, definitely. Alex would have relayed everything I said, including that I was bringing my boyfriend.” I shot Maxwell a sidelong glance. “She’ll hate that you’re human. She’ll hate that you’re a cop even more. The Thorne Pack doesn’t exactly have warm feelings toward law enforcement.”
“I figured we wouldn’t be telling them I’m a Met detective anyway. Doesn’t really go with the whole undercover thing.”
“Good plan. Wolves and cops don’t mix well.”
“Yet we’re such a convincing couple,” Maxwell said dryly.
I snorted. “Just remember to look besotted. And try not to flinch when I touch you.”
“I don’t flinch when you touch me,” he protested.
“Oh, really?”
I lifted my hand toward his face. Maxwell’s eyes widened, tracking my approaching fingers like they were venomous snakes. He jerked away sharply.
“Ha! See?” I crowed, laughing at his reaction. “You almost dislocated your neck.”
Maxwell scowled, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. “I’m driving.”
Before he could protest further, I reached out again—quicker this time—and ruffled his perfectly styled hair. The short, tight coils sprang back immediately after my touch, as if defying my attempt to mess them up.
As my fingers brushed against his scalp, that same weird electric current I’d felt twice before sparked between us—warm, alive. A zing that travelled from my fingertips straight down my spine, settling somewhere deep inside me.
Maxwell sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body tensing.
I yanked my hand back, glaring at him to mask whatever my face or thoughts might have been revealing. “Why does that keep happening? You feel it too, right? Is it when you’re trying to read my mind or something?”
“No,” Maxwell said, his voice tight as he fixed his gaze on the road. “I’ve never experienced anything like that before.” He reached up to touch his head where my fingers had been, his movements stiff and controlled. “It must be a wolf thing.”
I barked out a laugh. “Oi, only I’m allowed to say something’s a ‘wolf thing,’” I said, making air quotes with my fingers. “That’s like me saying your constant brooding is a ‘telepathy thing.’”
Maxwell’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile before he caught himself. “I don’t brood.”
“You’re brooding right now!” I pointed at his furrowed brow. “Look at that face. That’s the face of a man composing sad poetry in his head while it rains outside.”
