Of Doms & Subs

At Least it Wasn't Twilight

Mickayla returned triumphant from the hunt, seemingly having gained the energy that the new wolf appeared to have lost. Ellie quickly fled to her room with several large, bulging shopping bags.

"How went the great experiment?" I asked far more calmly than I felt. Both halves of my nature wanted to follow her to check her over myself.

"Took it like a champ, boss," Shane answered while still untying his boots. "Lasted ninety minutes."

"I was ready to call it at an hour myself," muttered Matt. "Shrieking kids." We all winced in empathy. Perhaps it was best that we couldn't have children since they were rather hard on our enhanced hearing.

"I'm thinking that John was doing his best to keep her isolated," Mickayla frowned.

"Do you think he wanted her for a mate?" My wolf paced in agitation. He wanted to taste this John's blood under our fangs.

"Not quite The Hills Have Eyes, but barefoot and not-pregnant in the kitchen..." she grimaced. I felt my eyes shift to gold then back as I struggled to convince my wolf that there was nothing here for us to rend. "He told her about unmated females being under the protection of the Alpha, and led her to believe that it's exploitive in nature," she continued once I calmed.

"I see, thank you, Mickayla." I turned on my heel and retreated to my office to make a call. Once the door was shut, it was virtually soundproofed against werewolves. It's good to be the king of tech.

"I'm afraid that I don't have any news yet, Angus," Bran said with faint amusement by way of greeting.

"I'm afraid that I do," I said and conveyed Mickayla's impressions of the situation.

"And you can't question her directly without scaring her into running." I could readily picture him pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. I was tempted to do the same myself. "Thank you. Keep me apprised."

"Why are we watching An American Werewolf in Paris?" I asked, head tilted to one side that I belatedly recognized as a faintly canine gesture.

"It's sort of a tradition," Alan, the pack's current and sole submissive, answered. "When someone's newly Changed, we watch a werewolf movie just to talk all the way through it."

"There's no American Werewolf in Canada, but they got French Canadians, right? Close enough," Shane said. In response to the bad joke, someone threw a kernel of popcorn at him, which he deftly caught in his mouth.

"Could be worse," Mickayla said mournfully. "They made me watch Teen Wolf."

"I thought chicks were supposed to like that stuff!" Shane protested.

"Yeah, if you're thirteen," Mickayla and I said in unison.

"Do you have a teenage girl living with you, Shane?" Alan asked far too innocently. "Because I could have sworn you had every season on DVD."

The bickering that ensued masked the sounds of Angus entering the room, but not even the popcorn could hide his scent. My heart beat faster when he passed behind the couch to settle in the recliner within reach of my left arm. His de facto throne was the highest seat in the room and thus avoided any breach of protocol by anyone sitting higher than him. I was so painfully aware of his presence that any one of the already crowded couches looked good in comparison to my seat. I tried to tell myself that everyone who didn't have other obligations had come due to the holiday festivities and not to gawk at the new kid. I wasn't sure whether it was courtesy, by design, or on accident that I ended up sitting next to the fearless leader.

The movie, surprisingly, was a good teaching tool. They were quick to point out inaccuracies (take off your clothes, first, idiot!), many of which I already knew, as well as what laws both mundane and pack were broken. No to mention cultural differences. Such as: why don't we get crappy underground raves? The answer was: It's Seattle, why throw one when you can go find one?

Apparently, they also had a cage in the basement for injured wolves and those who had temporarily lost control, like newbies. When someone tried to imply that it was for kinky purposes, Angus quickly shut them down. No one even complained when Alan and I ranted about the medical inaccuracies for a good ten minutes. (They'd all be so much raspberry jam on the sidewalk because physics. Did they use packing tape on that bandage? What is it even for, anyway? Broken nose? Concussion? Hiding his funny looks?)

"Reason number two: we can have a little 'chat' with your ex," Mickayla continued her randomly numbered list of reasons why packs are awesome, when the Big Bad Evil Guy/love interest's ex was killed at the end.

"Uh, that's really not necessary," I stammered. She looked at me skeptically. The others quieted the banter to listen. The expectant silence intimidated me into stuttering out an explanation. "He wanted the perfect 1950's lifestyle, complete with a Suzy Homemaker waiting with dinner when he got home and a mistress on the side. He didn't try very hard to hide it because he thought I'd put up with it." There were several snorts of scornful laughter. "He'd signed a pre-nup thinking I'd never leave. I'll never forget the look on his face when I got everything, which was how I put myself through school. Now he's stuck with some nineteen-year-old he knocked up who can't cook any more than I can."

"I like her, can we keep her?" Alan asked of no one in particular, which elicited more good-natured jibes at his expense as well as general agreement. Or perhaps the latter was just wishful thinking. It was either that or their testosterone talking. Probably the testosterone because the conversation turned to the various methods of disposing of bodies.