Page 34 of His Lucky Charm

The Lucky Hound came into view as we turned onto Main Street, its familiar green door and wooden sign a welcome sight after days away. Though Rafferty had transferred daily management to Siobhan years ago when he assumed full Alpha responsibilities, it remained the heart of both town and pack activities.

“Shall we stop in?” Rafferty suggested, noting my gaze. “Say hello before heading home?”

“Actually,” I checked my watch, “let’s go straight home. I’d like to see Abigail before she gets too tired, and I need to change before the party.”

He nodded, turning onto the road that led to our cottage. “Home it is.”

* * *

The sight of our house never failed to fill me with contentment—the stone façade covered in climbing roses, the wide front porch with its comfortable chairs, the seamless addition we’d built when Abigail arrived. It was the perfect blend of human comfort and Guardian practicality, with reinforced doors, specialized latches, and direct access to the forests beyond.

As we pulled into the driveway, the front door burst open and a small figure came barreling down the steps.

“Daddy! Papa!” Abigail’s voice carried across the yard, her dark curls bouncing as she ran toward us with the uncoordinated enthusiasm of a toddler.

Rafferty was out of the car in an instant, scooping her up into a twirling hug that produced peals of delighted laughter. I followed more sedately, watching the two most important people in my world reunite after just three days apart.

“Papa!” She reached for me as soon as she spotted me, little arms outstretched imperiously. “Up!”

I obliged, accepting her weight as Rafferty transferred her into my arms. “Hello, little scholar. Have you been good for Grandma?”

“Yes!” she declared with the absolute confidence of a child who defined “good” very differently than adults. “I made paws, Papa! Like Daddy!”

My eyes met Rafferty’s over her head. “So I heard,” I said carefully. “That’s very exciting.”

“Wanna see?” Before I could respond, she screwed up her face in concentration, staring intently at her small hands.

“Abigail, sweetheart,” Rafferty intervened gently. “Remember what we talked about? Practice time is special time, with Daddy or the pack.”

Her lower lip protruded in disappointment. “But Papa didn’t see.”

“I’ll see next time,” I promised, kissing her forehead. “During proper practice time.”

She considered this, then nodded solemnly. “Kay. Grandma made cookies!”

And just like that, the moment passed—the attention span of a two-year-old being mercifully short, even one with supernatural heritage.

My mother appeared in the doorway, looking remarkably relaxed for someone who’d just spent three days with a toddler who could partially transform into a wolf.

“Welcome home,” she called, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “How was the lecture circuit?”

“Exhausting but productive,” I replied, carrying Abigail up the steps. “Thank you for staying with her.”

“My pleasure.” She accepted Rafferty’s kiss on her cheek with the comfort of long familiarity. “Though I think we need to revisit the ‘appropriate times for paws’ conversation. She tried to show the mail carrier yesterday.”

I nearly choked. “Please tell me she didn’t succeed.”

“Fortunately, no. I distracted her with ice cream.” My mother’s expression was serene, but I could see the lingering wonder in her eyes—the same wonder I still felt after five years of living with the impossible. “She’s remarkably controlled for her age, according to Rafferty.”

“O’Sullivan genes,” Rafferty said with unmistakable pride. “Strong but disciplined.”

“Combined with Byrne intellect,” my mother added. “Heaven help us all.”

Abigail, oblivious to the adult conversation, wriggled to be put down. “Cookies now?”

“One cookie,” I specified, setting her on her feet. “It’s almost dinner time, and we have Aunt Siobhan’s party tonight.”

“With cake!” she exclaimed, already darting toward the kitchen. “And presents!”