The Walk of Shame

Logan's POV

Was it a good idea to leave Noah's place shirtless, covered in bandages, and with my bare legs exposed to all who dare to look? 

No. 

But I do it anyway. 

Because I've told him what I wanted to say, and because if I kept looking at that adorable half-shocked, flustered expression on his face, I would have kissed him until he had a good reason to blush. 

So here I am, doing the walk of shame through Lykandor land, trying to move in a way that doesn't make my shorts ride up my ass. 

In many ways, I'd have been less embarrassed if I were walking through some random suburban neighborhood, planting deep feelings of discomfort in the hearts of alarmed civilians. But no. This is Lykandor land. I'm Logan Whittaker of Pack Lykandor—this is home. 

And that's exactly the problem. 

Everyone knows me here. 

Which is why— 

A car honks as it drives by. 

I flinch. 

"OI! WHITTAKER! NICE LEGS!" 

I don't need to look to know it's Grandpa John, one of my parents' gardeners. 

I grit my teeth and mentally add him to my kill list.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, I reach the Big House, my family's home. 

Before I can even knock, the back door swings open, and my dad leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. His lips twitch in amusement as he looks me up and down. 

"I'd heard my son had become an exhibitionist," he says. "Didn't want to believe it, but here you are." 

I groan internally. I am never living this down. 

The smirk widens. "What happened, Logan? Baseball not treating you well?" 

"Hi, Dad," I mutter. 

He steps aside to let me in, patting my uninjured shoulder. "Come in, then. Don't keep your mother waiting." 

That sentence sends a different kind of dread through me. 

I step inside, and the familiar scent of home—fresh coffee, wood polish, and the lingering sweetness of whatever my mother baked last night—wraps around me. I inhale deeply, grounding myself in it. 

Then I step into the dining room and immediately regret it. 

The room is full of mated omegas. 

My sister-in-law. Jorge—the husband of my father's Second-in-Command. The wives of other pack Betas. 

They're all gathered around the massive dining table, working on a 1000-piece puzzle like it's a life-or-death mission. And sitting at the head of the table, as always, is our Luna.

My mother. 

The moment I walk in, all eyes snap to me. 

And then the giggling starts. 

I groan. "Ladies." 

A chorus of greetings follows. 

"Hi, Logan!" 

"Morning, Whittaker." 

"Looking good, honey!" 

Jorge—who has never respected me—shoots me the middle finger. 

I snort. "Nice to see you too, George." 

My mother looks up from the puzzle, her sharp hazel eyes raking over me in that 'mom' way that instantly makes me feel like a teenage boy again. 

She sighs. 

A long, weary, 'what-did-you-do-now' sigh. 

"Hi, Mama," I say sheepishly. 

She folds her arms. "Did you get jumped, or did you pick a fight again?" 

I exhale. "Little bit of column A, little bit of column B." 

My dad doesn't say anything. Just looks at me. 

I grit my teeth. "I handled it." 

"Oh, I can see that," my mother snaps. "You handled it right into needing a healer." 

Maybe coming home was a mistake. "Mama…" 

Her stare remains unrelenting. "Well? What happened this time?" 

I glance around the room. 

Then I glance at her again, hoping she gets the message: Not here. 

She does. 

With a sigh, she rises from her chair. "Y'all continue without me." 

Jorge, without looking up, slots a puzzle piece into place and mutters, "Oh, honey, we weren't going to stop." 

My mother deadpans. "Thank you, Jorge." 

She leaves the room, clearly expecting me to follow. 

My dad pats my shoulder sympathetically. "Sorry, kiddo. You're on your own. You know how scary she gets when she has that look in her eye." 

Before I can respond, my mother's voice rings from the living room. 

"You too, Martin!" 

My dad flinches. 

I smirk as we both shuffle into the living room, where my mother has already settled onto the couch, legs crossed elegantly. 

She motions to my dad. "Baby, were you about to leave when we have to reprimand our son?" 

"He's like thirty!" My dad emphasises. "He doesn't need a reprimand!"

I'm 26 but I appreciate the support. "How do you know I even did anything that bad?" 

She sighs, and for the first time, the frustration in her eyes dims. Then, softer: 

"Okay. Tell us what happened." 

So I do. 

I tell them about the stadium last night—leaving out the part about Elliot's blatant flirting—before explaining how I saw Noah and Oliver getting attacked. I tell them about the fight, how I got injured, how I took them home. 

I omit the finer details of the night. 

And when I'm done, I finish simply: 

"He let me stay the night because it was late. And now I'm here." 

For a full minute, my parents just look at me. 

Then, my dad speaks first. 

"That was very noble of you, Logan." His voice is warm. "I'm proud of you." 

My chest tightens. 

I know my dad's proud of me, but it always means something when he says it. 

"Thanks, Dad." 

He nods, then leans back. "But you know how reckless that also was." 

I tense. 

"There are cameras all over that stadium," he continues. "If the police look through them and find footage of you beating those men up, you could lose your license." 

I wince. I hadn't thought that far ahead. 

"Elliot sorted it out," I mutter. 

My dad raises a brow but lets it go. Instead, he gestures at me. "And your injuries. Seriously, Logan, you can take down three wolves in your sleep. What happened?" 

My stomach drops.

This is it. The moment where I come clean.

I clear my throat. "Uh… about that, actually." 

They both wait.

 For a second, old instincts kick in. I reach inward, searching for the familiar presence that's always been there.

There's nothing.

Just silence.

My throat tightens.

"…I can't shift anymore." 

Silence. 

Absolute, pure silence. 

Then, my mother whispers: "What?" 

I clear my throat. "Something happened. I… I can't feel Fenrir anymore." I rub the back of my neck. "I went to a doctor. Seems like it's purely psychological but…" I shrug helplessly. "Yeah." 

My mother mutters a quiet prayer to the Moon Goddess. 

Then, softer, "Logan, why didn't you say anything?" 

I look away, ears burning. "It's kinda embarrassing." 

An Alpha without his wolf. A wolf without his fangs. 

I dread to think about what my brother Rowan would say if he were here. 

My mother sighs and pulls out her phone. 

I frown. "What are you doing?" 

She doesn't look up. "Texting the healers." 

Dad grins. "We called them over to check on the cubs." 

I remember those. Routine checkups every few months to make sure the young ones are growing up healthy. I was surprised when I left home and found out that some packs don't do this but my family has always cared for all Lykandor's like that; making sure everyone is fed, healthy and housed.

I used to look forward to days where the healers showed up. If I asked politely enough, they'd give me a potion that tasted like cherries and made my tongue turn blue. And I remember my favourite nurse…

"Is—"

"She's coming," dad confirms with a knowing smirk.

I sink further into my seat, feeling like a kid again. "Cool."

"Now that all that's addressed, let's get you sorted," My mother announces, standing up. Then, her voice softens. "I'm glad you're okay, Logan." 

I force a smirk. "I've fought tougher guys, Mama." 

She holds my gaze. "And Noah?" 

My throat tightens. 

I can hear it in her voice. She wants to know if we've patched things up, if spending the night in his house is an indication that we're moving forward together.

I will earn your trust. And I will make you mine. 

"He's okay," I say finally. "So is Oliver."

I wonder if Noah went back to sleep after everything. I didn't even bother to check my phone to see if the Coyotes have practice. 

It doesn't matter right now though. 

I've said my piece. My mind is made up. After this, the games begin.