Page 26 of Crave

BabyGotBake: Besides, I took Snickerdoodle.

Me: You mean Major? You’re so going to be the cause of that dude’s doggie identity crisis.

BabyGotBake: Um, toxic masculinity much? (And I’ve totally taught him to bark on command when I call him that.)

Me: Yeah. Brody’s going to love that. And not to knock the little man’s mad protective Goldenskillz, but I’m pretty sure I saw him run from a cat last week.

Me: Which, spoiler alert, was in a Meow Mix commercial.

BabyGotBake: Okay. Now you’re just being mean.

Me: You hear back from the Council?

BabyGotBake: Preliminary test results in. Not sure what’s going on, but they’ve ruled out anything contagious.

Me: Well. That’s something.

BabyGotBake: Right? Got to go. Dinner tonight? *cupcake emoji*

Tapping out a quick response, I hit send and dialed West.

He picked up on the first ring. “This had better be important.”

Computer keys clacked peevishly in the background. Crap. I’d interrupted him in the middle of a good chapter. Or a really shitty one.

“Out of curiosity, do you go all Voldemort on your first period class every morning? Because someone should seriously stage an intervention.”

“As you’re perfectly aware, my first block advisory is possessed. Last week I tried to take them outside for ten minutes of fresh air and someone broke a car window throwing rocks they got from the meditation pond. The meditation pond. Let’s just sit with that one for a minute. Second, I credit their survival and mine to my morning caffeine fix. Six shots of espresso. Extra whip. Caramel, chocolate and a dash of hazelnut. Something else in there Ethan refuses to identify. House secret. Fuck, I hope it’s nothing illegal—"

“Well, knowing E—” I snorted. “How’s Topher?”

Dead. Silence. I pulled the phone away from my ear to make sure the connection hadn’t dropped.

“Wow. That good, huh?”

“Yeah. Kind of on his shit list at the moment.”

“Something you want to share with the class?”

There was a pause. “You ever do something you’re convinced is right, but as soon as you take a step back from it, you figure out you’re actually the villain of the story?”

“Not following, bro.”

“Whatever. It’s nothing. I’m just worn down. Cal thinks Topher’s recovered physically from the Tracers trying to force their way into his mind. As in, there’s nothing preventing him from accessing those memories as far as we know. It’s the PTSD in cases like these that does the most damage. He’s angry. Constantly on edge. Doesn’t trust any of us. I’m trying to do what I can to support him, but since I’m his sire, we’re pretty much always together when I’m not teaching class. Which makes me not exactly his favorite person right now.”

“Which is why you’re taking out all your aggression on the Chosen One and his Dark blond Prince?”

“Like we both don’t know I’m at my best when I rage-fic.” The typing stopped. “So are you going to tell me what Lacey was doing out at the ranch this morning with your scent all over her?”

I closed my eyes, allowing myself to be dragged back into the memory of Lacey’s lips at my throat, her claiming mark tingling beneath my shirt where she’d bitten me just before I’d all but blown the end off my dick.

“Nope.”

“Uh-huh,” West said smugly. “You can thank me later, by the way. Preferably in beef ribs—”

“Whatever. I gotta go.”

The following day was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. The Spoke was slammed withlast minute smoked turkey orders and prep for enough cornbread stuffing to feed an army of werewolves, including buckets of celery, baskets of onions, and so much cornbread I was pretty sure we were going to need a new oven. Then there were the mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, giblet gravy, and fresh-baked rolls. Plus the recipe I only made once a year, okra fried in funnel cake batter and served up with Ranch dipping sauce.