Ivy
Thane's driving me into the woods.
Not in a murdery way. More in a… well, okay, the road is a single narrow lane through old-growth pines that tunnel over the car in absolute darkness, and there are no streetlights, and the only hint of a phone signal I have right now is a little satellite icon instead of bars.
So… maybe a little murdery.
But I trust Thane. It's kind of exciting, actually.
"How much further?" I ask.
"Almost there."
"You've said that twice."
"And I'll say it again." His mouth twitches. "Almost there."
The trees thin and the road opens up into a clearing so perfectly round it looks like someone stamped it out of the forest floor.
The grass is pressed flat by tire tracks that spiral out from a central gravel lot, leading to cars parked in loose rows in front of a massive white screen mounted at the far edge of the clearing between two poles.
A drive-in.
An actual, old-school drive-in theater in a forest clearing in the middle of nowhere, late at night.
I crane toward the windshield, scanning the fairy lights strung along the edges of the lot, just enough glow to see without affecting the screen. Above us, every single star in the night sky is out in full force. Not a cloud to be seen.
"Thane," I breathe.
"Too much?"
"Are you kidding me?"
He pulls into a spot near the back row, angled slightly so the screen fills the windshield. I catch silhouettes of the others in their cars. Couples, mostly. It's impossible to see much in the cars.
Nobody gives a shit about us.
Nobody even looks.
We're just another car in a forest full of strangers.
"How did you even find this place?" I ask, still staring.
"My dad used to bring my mom here before I was born." He kills the engine and leans back, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's been around since the seventies. The owner's son runs it now. It's a well-kept secret. Mostly locals, no press, no social media presence."
He reaches into the backseat and produces a canvas tote bag stuffed to bursting. Gummy bears. Sour straws. A family-size bag of white cheddar popcorn, the kind where the powder cakes on and mummifies your fingers. Two glass bottles of root beer.
"You are so fucking sweet," I say, staring at him. "How did you know this is my favorite?"
He ducks his head, grinning. "I, uh, overheard you arguing with Whiskey about brands," he admits, hooking the portable speaker unit onto the cracked window.
"You eavesdrop on my soda arguments?" I twist in the passenger seat to face him fully, my knees pulled up, bare feet tucked under me. The green dress pools around my thighs. "What else have you been secretly paying attention to?"
"Everything." He says it without hesitation. "That's kind of my job."
"Your job?"
"Being the pack alpha means knowing what my people need.
" He cracks open one of the root beers and hands it to me, condensation already beading on the glass.
"You need root beer. And gummy bears. And—" He digs in the bag.
"—sour straws. The rainbow ones. I saw you pick all those out of the bag Whiskey bought last week. "
I stare at him.
He stares back, then his confidence wavers and he rubs the back of his neck. "Too much?"
"No, Thane. That's…" I take a sip of root beer to buy myself a second because my throat just got tight. "That's really thoughtful."
The screen at the front of the clearing flickers to life and a cheer rises up from the cars around us. The opening shot of a cheesy retro horror movie, dark neighborhood with an ominously hooting owl and all, pans across the screen.
"A slasher flick?" I ask, grinning. "How did you know? Have you been stalking me?"
"I'm not stalking you," he says quickly, already panicking. The tips of his ears flame red and he fumbles the bag of gummy bears, spilling a handful across the center console. "Shit. I just… Whiskey mentioned you liked horror, and I thought—I mean, I asked him, but casually, not in a weird way—"
He's picking up gummy bears one by one frantically.
"Thane."
He stops and his worried dark eyes find mine.
"It's perfect," I tell him. "All of it. The restaurant, this place, the snacks, the horror movie. You."
His mouth opens, and he rakes a hand through his hair.
"I'm glad," he says finally.
He says it so earnestly that I want to climb across the console and devour him, but the movie's starting and the popcorn's not open yet and I want to enjoy every minute of this because I earned it. We earned it.
I'm already climbing over the console. I'm far from graceful. My knee catches on the gearshift and I nearly headbutt him in the jaw, but his hands find my waist and guide me into his lap like I weigh absolutely nothing, and I guess compared to a giant alpha, I do.
Suddenly I'm straddling an alpha in a charcoal suit in the front seat of a car at a drive-in theater while zombies shuffle and growl across the forest screen.
Best. Date. Ever.
"Hi," I say, settling against his chest.
His hands hover at my hips and I realize he's not sure where the boundaries are, even though I just crawled into his lap. "Um. Hi."
I twist around so my back is against his chest, pull his arms around my waist, and tuck my head under his chin. He's so warm, his heartbeat thudding quickly but steadily against my spine.
"This okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble near my ear.
"This is extremely okay."
His arms tighten. Just a fraction. Enough that I feel the strength coiled in them, the restraint of an alpha who could crush me without trying but is just as gentle and careful as his feral brother.
The movie's actually pretty fun. Low budget, laughably bad CGI, and a soundtrack that sounds like it was recorded in someone's garage. Every time a zombie lurches out of a cornfield, half the cars in the lot honk their horns and someone in the row ahead of us throws popcorn at their windshield.
It really is perfect.
"Whiskey would make short work of these zombies," I say, pointing at the screen with a sour straw as the heroes shoot like they're blindfolded. "The movie would last all of five minutes."
Thane snorts. "He does have a shotgun, just in case."
"No fucking way."
His laugh vibrates through my whole body. "Well, it's empty. I don't know if Whiskey knows it's empty, but it is. Plague took the slugs out after the Milwaukee incident."
"The what?"
"I'll tell you later. Much later. When we're old and it's funny."
I tip my head back against his shoulder and grin up at him, and he bends his head down to nuzzle my face. His shaggy dark hair brushes my forehead, soft and smelling like woody shampoo.
The sour straw in my hand is forgotten.
So is the movie.
Because Thane is looking down at me with those dark, steady eyes, his hands on my lap. and the way the blue light from the projector lights his strong features makes him look regal yet gentle, like a lion.
He swallows. The motion travels down the thick column of his throat and I track it with interest that has nothing to do with zombies.
"You're staring," he murmurs.
"I'm allowed." I reach up and trace my finger along his jawline. His stubble rasps against my fingertip. "You're really fucking hot, you know that?"
His expression shifts into something between flattered and bewildered. "I'm… what?"
"Hot. Attractive. Devastatingly handsome in this suit." I tug at his lapel, the one he's been tugging at all night. "Especially since this doesn't quite fit anymore."
He groans and drops his head back against the headrest. "You noticed? It fit three months ago."
"Stress eating?"
"Stress everything. Stress eating, stress lifting, stress not sleeping.
" He drags a hand down his face. "I've been holding this pack together with my bare hands and apparently my body decided to hold onto every carb in existence while I did it.
It thinks we're in danger. Gotta prepare for a fucking famine, apparently. I'll cut when I get a chance to—"
I twist in his lap to face him properly, my knees bracketing his hips, and he stops talking. His hands land on my waist again, instinctive, steadying me. His thighs beneath me are enormous, thick and solid enough that straddling him stretches my legs wide.
He's a fucking fortress.
I never want to leave this lap.
"I like it." I slide my hands down his broad ribs. His heart thuds like crazy beneath my palms. "You feel sturdy. Safe. Like you could pick me up and carry me through a wall. Maybe even a few walls."
His pupils are blown wide, the dark nearly swallowing the brown entirely.
His fingers flex on my waist. "You… do? I mean, I know you like it on Whiskey, but it works for his…
rabid teddy bear thing he has going on. He called me a thicc king the other day.
With two c's. In text. With a fucking crown emoji. "
I laugh so hard I nearly slide off his lap and have to grip his shoulders to stay upright. The word thicc coming out of Thane Belmont's mouth in that deadpan baritone is the funniest shit I've heard since Whiskey tried to pronounce croissant and Plague disowned him for six hours.
Thane's fighting a smile and losing badly, the corners pulling up despite the furrow between his brows that says he's genuinely been worrying about this.
This beautiful, impossible alpha.
I get a grip and cup his face in both hands, his dark eyes locking on mine. "You are perfect," I tell him sincerely, slowly, making sure he absorbs every word.
He swallows hard.
"And for the record," I continue, running my palms down the broad planes of his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the charcoal fabric, "I don't compare you to anyone.
Not Whiskey, not Plague, not Wraith, not Valek.
You're you. You're my pack alpha. And you're the man who drove me to a secret drive-in in the middle of the woods with my favorite rainbow sour straws. "
His lips part slightly.