Claws & Crochet

Part 92

ZOEY

Six months later ...

I trot down the steps of my front porch, heading toward Warner. He's got on his Dark Moon Riders vest and the helmet with a snarling wolf I painted for him all those months ago.

My man wears it with pride. In fact, a handful of other Dark Moon Riders have asked me to paint theirs.

My secret plot to keep all their heads safe is working.

"Hop on. It's time for us to ride off into the sunset. Leave all our worldly possessions behind and live life as true road warriors!" Warner holds my helmet out to me as he gifts me with a teasing grin.

"If you start calling me your old lady, I'm going to stab you in the leg," I inform him as I settle on the back of his bike. "With a crochet hook. Those things are blunt, which means it'll hurt more."

"I love it when you get violent," he growls through a grin and pulls me in for a hard kiss. But we have somewhere to be, so once I'm panting, he lets me go with a wicked grin. Soon we're out on the highway, roaring down the deserted stretch between Grandma Minnie's cabin and The Rabbit Hole.

Not Grandma Minnie's anymore. Mine.

Ours.

Warner moved in with me after a month. He was spending the night every night at my place anyway and living over his mother's shop was depressing him.

I've met some stubborn people in my life, but Rebecca Jameson puts every one of them to shame. Six months with no word from her.

Well, no word to the pack. Or to her older two children. Tanya lets us know that she's alive, and checking in.

Thoughts of Rebecca leave my insides feeling twisted and confused. Part of me is grateful to her for raising such a wonderful man. Part of me is pissed at her for hurting him now with her silence. Part of me feels sorry for her for losing her pack. Part of me feels guilty about being the catalyst for her lashing out.

Maybe I should be furious with her for the danger she put me in. But I think I understand her fear of me. I did almost leave Warner, and for no other reason than I was confused over what I wanted in life.

But my mind is clear now.

And I'm still here.

The bar comes into view up ahead, and my pulse quickens in anticipation.

Tonight, I finally, officially mate my werewolf.

Ninety-nine percent of me is choosing to take this step because I love Warner and want to spend forever with him.

But there's that teeny, tiny, one percent that is hoping word somehow reaches Rebecca.

I wait until the motor cuts off and the kickstand is down before dismounting.

"Do you have everything?" Warner asks as I rummage in his saddle bags.

"I think so. Not like I'd know if I'm missing something."

Roderick decreed that the mating ceremony ritual needed to be kept under wraps because we decided to wait a bit before going through with it. So, I'm in the dark.

"Did you bring the food?" Warner asks.

My hands pause. "You mean the snacks?"

"Not exactly. I mean the ceremonial food."

"What?" I clutch at the ziploc bag I packed. "I thought you meant something to eat afterwards. While we're drinking. I did not bring ceremonial food!"

Dating a werewolf, I've gotten in the habit of carrying snacks because Warner is always hungry, and he gets over-the-top-happy when I give him food. Or 'gift' it to him as he says.

When he asked me to bring food, I thought he just meant more of my usual.

Warner smiles as he asks, "What did you bring?"

"Nothing. I brought absolutely nothing, and we have to go back to the cabin so I can make something special. Something ceremony worthy." I'm already re-strapping the helmet on my head.

But Warner steps in close, grabbing my hands. There's a mischievous tilt to his too tempting lips.

"Nope. Then we'll be late. Besides, I want to know what snack you brought for us to share."

I glare up at him, when really, I want to scowl at myself.

How could I be so oblivious? This is a mating ceremony. Of course, it requires special things, like delicious dishes. This isn't a night out with the Sip 'N Stich gang, or playing pool with the pack.

This is a werewolf wedding, and I brought . . .

"No. I refuse. Mating you deserves a five-tiered cake."

Warner leans in, rubbing his nose over mine. "Tell me."

"I can't. You're a souffle. Or a caramel apple pie."

"Those do sound good, but I want to know what you brought."

Feeling like the guilty party on a witness stand, I do my best to mutter my answer so low even his wolf ears can't pick up on the word.

"Hmm, nope. Didn't catch that." His arms twine around my waist, and he leans down to nip at my neck. "Tell me. Tell your mate what you brought."

I groan, my forehead dropping to his shoulder.

"Goldfish crackers."