All You Need Is a Pack

VANESSA

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the scene unfolding across the moonlit lawn. My father—the same man who once swore Roman would never set foot on Moonstone territory again—was actually laughing at something my son's father had said.

"Well, would you look at that," my mother mused beside me, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Your father hasn't strangled him yet. I'd call that progress."

I shot her a sideways glance. "Mother."

She shrugged elegantly, the silver threads in her ceremonial dress catching the light from the paper lanterns overhead. "What? It's a valid observation."

We stood at the edge of the Moonbinding celebration, watching as Roman crouched down to help Fabian arrange his offering at the ancestor altar. My son's face glowed with pure joy, looking from his father to the small wooden wolf carving they placed together among the flowers and candles.

"He's good with Fabian," Mom said quietly.

The simple observation made my throat tighten. "He is."