Chapter 24 #3
He stared at it, then slowly turned his gaze to Willow while attempting to look stern. “I spank butts and pull nipples, too.”
She grinned, “I know, Sir. Isn’t it grand?!”
He looked at the mug again. “The pack is going to love this on the mornings after a full moon run.”
Boone leaned over to read it and cracked up.
Kenny told him, “You can’t say it isn’t true.”
Silas shook his head, pulled his travel mug out of the bag, and snorted when he read: MY GIRL LOVES MY MEAT.
He mock glared at her, then smiled. “Yeah, this one’s definitely going to work with me.”
Kenny snorted. “You better keep it in the back kitchen or somebody’s grandmother is gonna faint.”
He shrugged. “I mean, if they’re in the restaurant, one would assume they love my meat, too.”
Boone laughed. “You’re saying everyone loves your meat?”
Silas shook his head, suddenly serious. “The vegetarians think I am evil incarnate.”
Willow laughed. “I mean, you do have your moments, Sir.”
He raised his brows. “You know, I’m beginning to see a theme.”
Willow beamed. “I stand by all statements.”
“There’s one more,” she said, and he dove into the tissue paper like a bloodhound.
Out came the t-shirt — bold red letters on soft black cotton: LOW HEAT. LONG COOK. JUICY RESULTS.
Boone barked out a laugh. “That’s it. That’s your new motto.”
“Printed truth,” Kenny agreed.
Silas looked at Willow, mock horror in his voice. “You gave me a slogan. I have a slogan now.”
Willow felt pretty pleased with herself. “You’re welcome.”
She went for the last box, larger than the others and wrapped in thick, deep red craft paper with hunter green twine.
She brought it to Boone and set it on the ottoman she’d sat on earlier.
He opened it and froze.
Inside lay a custom-balanced compound hunting bow, sleek and deadly, fitted with a hand-tooled leather sling dyed in charcoal gray and rich russet brown.
He picked it up, turned it, tested the grip.
“It’s a ninety-pound draw,” she said softly. “The quiver’s leather. It should wear in perfectly.”
Boone didn’t say anything, just ran his thumb along the grain and then looked at her like he was trying to understand something far deeper than the weapon. Finally, he said, “It’s perfect. I can’t wait to try it out later. Thank you.”
He kissed her, and she grinned against his lips, looking forward to watching him read his mugs and shirt. When he pulled away, she handed him the final bag.
Boone pulled the mug out first, gave it one look, and snorted: YOUR HOLE IS MY GOAL printed under a giant yellow excavator.
“You did not,” he muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
Kenny leaned forward, deadpan. “She really leans into your profession.”
Silas raised a brow. “The thing is, we can use all of our naughty mugs in public. Accuse other people of being dirty-minded if they get something else out of it.”
Boone set it on the table, still chuckling. “That one’s absolutely coming out after full moon runs.”
He reached back into the bag and pulled out the travel mug. Black stainless steel with bold white lettering. I RUN HOES FOR MONEY printed above a yellow backhoe.
He lost it. Full-body laugh, loud and unapologetic. “Fuck if I don’t.”
He laughed again, shaking his head at it.
Willow did her best to look innocent. “I saw it and thought of you, Sir.”
“Damned right you did,” he said with a smile.
“There’s one more, Sir.”
Boone arched a brow and pulled out the t-shirt. A massive excavator graphic stretched across the chest, and beneath it:
BEEN THERE. DUG THAT.
Silas groaned. “Okay, that one’s genuinely funny.”
Kenny shook his head. “Every female in the pack’s gonna need a cold shower.”
Willow just grinned, watching Boone laugh as he folded the it. “Best shirt I’ve ever owned.”
Willow sat back on the ottoman, breathless and flushed, and looked at her men, each wearing matching expressions of amusement and affection.
“Just wait until it’s my night to dig around in your holes again,” Boone said.
Her entire lower body ignited at the promise in his words, and something caught her attention outside the window. It wasn’t full light outside, but daybreak was beginning, and it was barely flurrying.
She pointed, and the men turned to look.
“Oh, wow. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve had flurries on Christmas,” Kenny said.
“There was a ten percent chance,” Boone said. “Didn’t figure it’d happen.”
“A few more gifts,” Kenny said. He went to the tree and lifted a rectangular package. He handed it to Willow with a faint smile, something softer than his usual expression.
“This one’s from me.”
The paper came away easily, she opened the box, and found a soft, garnet-red leather book with gold-embossed lettering she had to blink twice to process.
Lessons in Discipline — Volume One
A Record of Obedience
Her breath caught.
She opened it — and just inside the cover, in Kenny’s steady, deliberate handwriting, was a simple inscription:
For Willow.
May these words remind you who you are, who you serve, and who is making you into the good girl you almost always are.
Emotion punched through her — throat tight, eyes stinging. She turned the page, and froze.
Her lines. Her handwriting. She flipped through the pages. All of them, from the very first time she had to write them.
She looked up, eyes wide. “You… you kept them, Sir?”
Kenny’s gaze held hers, steady and sure. “Every one. You put in the time, you did the work. It mattered. Still does.”
She blinked fast, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Thank you, Sir. Not just for the gift, but for acknowledging the time it took me to write them.”
His voice softened even more, pitched just for her. “That’s why I kept them. It was never purely about punishment, little hawk. It’s about growth. You earned every page. And I wanted you to have something to show for it, to hold in your hands and remember.”
He caressed her cheek. “It’s not just a record of obedience. It’s a record of becoming.”
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, and he held her tight.
Silas and Boone stayed quiet while she pulled herself back together, but their presence grounded her just the same.
When she finally pulled away, her voice was thick but sure. “I love it. I love you. Thank you, Sir.”
Kenny smiled. “Most of the time, you really are my good girl.”
She let out a watery laugh. “Almost always, Sir.”
“Close enough,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “Now, come on. Two more gifts.”
He helped her stand, and they led her to the back door. When she opened it and stepped out onto the porch, her breath caught again, and not from the cold.
The new armoire stood just outside the door, easily four times the size of her current one, but narrow enough to fit in the hall. The dark wood gleamed under the porch light, the hardware subtle and sleek.
“You wanted more space,” Boone said, rubbing the back of his neck like he hadn’t just given her the best gift of all. “Drawers on the bottom and sides. Hanging rods in layers. The saleslady said over thirty outfits, easy.”
“Plenty to choose from,” Silas added. “So you can express your style for the day.”
“Within the rules,” Kenny said.
Tears welled again, but this time she didn’t try to stop them. “It’s perfect, Sirs.”
“Let’s get it inside, so the moisture in the air doesn’t mess with it,” Kenny said.
And her three strong wolves carried it into the house and up the stairs like it was doll furniture.
“One last thing. Back to the tree.” Kenny said.
Once she was seated again, Kenny handed her a package wrapped in bright red paper with white polka dots. “This one’s for the playroom.”
That got all three men grinning.
She narrowed her eyes. “Should I be scared?”
“Not scared,” Kenny said. “Just… prepared.”
She opened it and burst out laughing.
A heavy-duty water bottle, the kind with a built-in straw, and across the front in big block letters:
I FEEL VIOLATED. And then beneath it, in elegant, flowing script: Do it again.
Silas grinned. “Well?”
She giggled. “I totally deserve this, Sirs. It’s perfectly horrible, so of course it belongs in the playroom.”
She held the bottle up in both hands like it was sacred. “Best. Christmas. Ever.”
Kenny turned to the window, and the rest followed his gaze.
The snow was thicker now. Real flakes. She could barely see across the yard.
Boone opened the door, and Willow stepped out first in her white fuzzy slippers, off the porch and onto the sidewalk, laughing as the flakes dusted her outstretched arms. The men followed, barefoot and bare-chested, jeans catching snow.
She spun in a slow circle and then looked at them. “Can we shift, Sirs?”
“Are you going to annihilate more bunnies?” Silas asked.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe.” Waited a beat before adding, “Sir.”
“Then yes,” Kenny said.
Willow stepped back onto the porch, pulled her dress over her head, and draped it over the rocker behind her. The cold bit at her skin, but before it could settle in, she relaxed the hold she keeps on her hawk and let her inner bird burst forth.
A flash of feathers and light, and she pushed off into the air, launching herself off the porch, skyward, wings slicing through the morning hush, beating the air into submission as three wolves leapt off the porch all around her.
She flew upward, rising fast, screaming her freedom into the open air, and three others catapulted forward, all muscle and power, tearing through the snow with wild joy.
Paws pounded the frozen earth, and above them, the hawk circled — wings wide, riding the wind like it belonged to her while snowflakes swirled around her in delicate spirals.
And then the sun cleared the horizon and split the sky wide open, light flaring across the horizon in golds and pinks, fire bleeding through the clouds like a promise.
Wolf legs pounded the snow. Hawk wings owned the sky.
A new day forming, and their beautiful, fierce, extraordinary family all charging full speed ahead into the rest of their lives.
Together.