Chapter 10
TEN
WYATT
Wyatt had been avoiding Wolf Moon Brewery for days.
Several days of taking alternate routes through town. Days of ignoring group texts and dodging phone calls. Days of telling himself he had paperwork, reports, anything more pressing than sitting in that back booth and pretending his entire world hadn’t shifted on its axis.
He knew the guys gathered there. Knew they’d notice his agitation. Knew he couldn’t hide from shifter senses—not from Theo’s wolf, not from Leo’s lion, and definitely not from a damn dragon.
But Aero needed to discuss the surge investigation.
Had sent three increasingly formal messages about “developments that require your attention, Sheriff.” And Wyatt couldn’t avoid his responsibilities forever, no matter how much his panther snarled at the idea of sitting in a room full of mated males who would smell exactly what he was trying to deny.
So, here he was. Standing outside the brewery like a coward, staring at the weathered wooden sign, trying to convince himself to walk through the door.
Wolf Moon Brewery occupied a converted warehouse at the edge of the commercial district—dark wood, exposed brick, the permanent smell of hops and oak barrels.
Beck Driscoll’s family had run the place for three generations, and it had become the unofficial headquarters for Haven Shores’s male leadership.
The back booth was permanently reserved for alphas, betas, and anyone else who needed to discuss pack business over craft beer and pretend they weren’t talking about feelings.
Wyatt had been coming here for years. Had sat in that booth through territorial disputes, rogue shifter hunts, and the occasional supernatural crisis. He knew every crack in the leather seats, every water stain on the ceiling.
Tonight, the familiar space felt like a trap.
Just go in. Have a beer. Answer Aero’s questions about the surge. Leave.
His panther laughed at him. The moment Wyatt stepped through that door, every nose in the place would catch the change in his scent—the new layer that had been clinging to him since the festival, no matter how many times he showered or how thoroughly he scrubbed.
Her scent. Honey and herbs and warm wax, threaded through his skin at a molecular level.
Marking him as hers, whether he wanted it or not.
“You planning to stand out here all night, or are you actually going to come inside?”
Wyatt’s head snapped up.
Beck Driscoll leaned against the brewery’s back door, arms crossed, the easy grin of a wolf who’d finally gotten his happy ending.
He’d changed since Rosemary had chosen to stay—less restless, less hungry, more settled into his own skin.
The look he gave Wyatt was knowing in a way that made Wyatt’s teeth clench.
“I was about to come in.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been standing in the parking lot for ten minutes.” Beck pushed off the door frame. “Everyone’s already here. Theo, Leo, Aero. All the mates.”
Wyatt didn’t respond. His panther had frozen at the word mates, and the last thing he needed was to have this conversation in a parking lot.
“Hux is in there too,” Beck continued, falling into step beside Wyatt as they headed for the door. “Fair warning—he’s been in a mood since the candle thing. Apparently he lit one and saw… nothing.”
“I heard.”
“He won’t talk about it. But he’s been hitting the whiskey pretty hard, so maybe don’t bring it up.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Beck shot him a sideways look. “You okay? You’ve been weird the last few days. More silent than usual, and that’s saying something.”
“I’m fine.”
“Right.” Beck didn’t sound convinced. “Well, whatever it is, the guys are going to notice. Fair warning.”
They reached the door. Beck pulled it open, and the noise of the brewery washed over them—laughter, clinking glasses, the low thrum of conversation. The main room was crowded with the usual evening crowd, but Wyatt’s attention went immediately to the back booth.
Where too many pairs of eyes turned to watch him enter.
Fuck.