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“Well…” He paused. “The council technically requires more paperwork.”

I froze. He was joking, right? Would there be paperwork at the pack reunion? Surely not.

“But for reunions, Grandma has final authority.”

Just then, Grandma Ruth called from across the lawn. “Trevor! Stop putting labels on people!”

“They need identification!”

“We know who they are, child!”

Grandma Ruth motioned for us to come over. Grandpa Alfonse sat in a wooden chair on the porch, holding a paper plate piled high with food despite dinner not officially starting for another hour.

Grandma Ruth took my hand and walked me over to him. “Alfonse, look who’s here.”

Grandpa paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and studied me with sharp, pale eyes. I prepared for immediate exposure.

“You washed the red right out of your hair,” he stated, his voice raspy but steady. “Preferred it red. Made you look like you had some fire in you. Last time I saw you, you were running off to France or New Mexico or wherever it was Ruth claimed you went.”

“It used to be red,” I managed, blinking at the sudden wall of words. “And I’ve been traveling around.”

He gestured with his fork toward the kitchen. “Ruth said you brought those vanilla cupcakes with the rich frosting. Tell me you didn’t skimp on the butter like Julie does when she tries to make things ‘healthy.’” He said the word healthy with such disdain that I couldn’t help but grin.

“No, sir. I definitely didn’t skimp on the butter,” I promised.

“Good girl.” He took a bite of his potato salad and gestured toward the lawn. “Go on then, before Hudson wears a hole in the grass pacing around waiting to talk to you.”

My face warmed. Was Hudson really that anxious to speak to me? And had everyone noticed?

As I stepped away, I watched Hilary adjust Grandpa Alfonse’s cushion with deference. The pieces clicked into place. Alfonse wasn’t just the family patriarch—he was the former alpha who’d handed the reins down to his daughter. It made total sense why the entire pack treated a man eating potato salad with the same reverence usually reserved for retired mob bosses.

The afternoon melted into a blur of pure, heart-hammering survival. My palms were so slick with nervous sweat that I had to keep wiping them down on my jeans, terrified that a firm, pack-style handshake would send me slipping right out of their grip.

Every conversation felt perilous, a high-wire act over a pit of very large, very literal predators. The terrifying possibility of uttering a sentence that would expose me as a fraud consumed me so much that my inner monologue had devolved into a loop of frantic screaming.

When Ellen, one of the cousins, casually asked if I’d been spending much time building up my pads during the spring thaw, my throat tightened. Pads? Like… knee pads? An iPad? Paws? My brain short-circuited trying to figure out if she meant my actual feet or a piece of tech. I forced a rigid nod, offering a safe, generic response. “Honestly, I usually just stay indoors when the ground gets muddy.”

Ellen blinked, her brow furrowing. “Inside?”

Patty materialized out of nowhere with a platter of rolls, snorting loudly. “Don’t mind her, Ellen. Sloane’s been living in the city so long her idea of roughing it is walking to the coffee shop without a portable heating pad.”

Ellen’s attention shifted instantly.

I didn’t stick around for any more questions. I moved to the safety of the buffet, my mind occupied by the desperate need to find a napkin for my hands.

Ten minutes later, I hit another wall while hovering near the grills. An older Carpenter uncle with a thick gray beard looked at my arms and asked where my markers were hiding. My brain misfired entirely, and I blurted out that I hid them with heavy-duty concealer because it was more effective for professional settings.

The uncle blinked, his expression completely blank as he processed the idea of covering scent glands with cosmetics. A fresh wave of panic broke out down my spine as I braced for the exact moment the jig would be up. Patty suddenly let out a loud, theatrical cackle right next to us, depositing yet another platter of rolls onto the table.

“Oh my God, Uncle Dave, don’t mind her,” Patty said, shaking her head. “Sloane’s been around humans for so long, her sense of humor has gone completely dry. She loves saying unhinged things just to see if people are paying attention. Come, help me grab the brisket before the teenagers hoard it all.” She nudged me along the line, and I breathed a massive sigh of relief.

I thanked my lucky stars that Patty had chalked my absolute stupidity up to city sarcasm.

The entire afternoon continued in that hyper-focused haze of self-preservation. I was so busy managing my own near-misses—such as picking the most thoroughly burnt chicken breast because the raw, bloody venison option made my stomach roll—that I completely missed the underlying rhythm of the room.

When a group of cousins invited me to go catch the wind before dinner, I completely blanked. “Did you need me to check the weather app?” I asked.

The cousins exchanged a look of pure bewilderment.