Chapter 21
The bookstore smelled like new wood and old paper.
Wendy stood in the doorway of Callahan's Books, breathing it in—the particular scent of fresh-cut lumber mixing with the dusty perfume of secondhand paperbacks. It was different from before, but not worse. Just... evolved.
"You going to stand there all day, or you going to help?"
Blizzard's voice came from somewhere in the back, followed by the thump of a heavy box being set down. He'd been here since dawn, working alongside Stockyard and Lakeshore to finish what they'd started three days ago.
The shelves were rebuilt. New wood, sturdy construction, positioned exactly where Wendy had drawn them on the floor plan she'd sketched during sleepless nights at the compound. The front window had been replaced. The counter was sanded smooth, the gouges erased.
It looked like her store again. Or the start of one.
"I'm admiring," she said, stepping inside. "There's a difference."
"There's no difference. You're stalling."
"I'm savoring."
Blizzard emerged from the back room, dust on his shirt and a paperback in his hand. He held it up—a military history she didn't recognize.
"This was in one of the estate sale boxes. Good condition." He turned it over. "First edition."
"Then it goes in your section."
"My section?"
Wendy crossed to the nearest stack of boxes—replacement inventory she'd spent a week sourcing from estate sales, library closures, and one very enthusiastic collector in Pilsen who'd been downsizing. She pulled out a romance novel and held it up.
"You're in charge of military history. Because it's the only section you're qualified to curate." She tossed him the romance. "This goes in mine."
"You're giving me homework."
"I'm giving you responsibility. There's a difference."
That almost-smile flickered across his face. "There's no difference."
"There absolutely is." She handed him another box. "Now stop arguing and start shelving."
They worked through the morning.
Wendy had forgotten how physical this job could be—lugging boxes, climbing ladders, arranging spines so they faced outward at exactly the right angle. Her shoulders ached. Her fingers were dusty. And she hadn't felt this happy in weeks.
Blizzard moved through the store with the same patient efficiency he brought to everything. He didn't talk much—he never did—but his presence filled the space in a way that felt comfortable rather than crowded.
"Military history's done," he reported around noon. "Alphabetized by author. Like you wanted."
Wendy looked up from the romance section. "Did you organize by conflict period within each author?"
"Was I supposed to?"
"It helps customers find what they're looking for."
"So does asking you." But he was already pulling books back off the shelf to reorganize. "This is more complicated than combat."
"Most things are."
Hemingway had arrived with them that morning, transported in his carrier like visiting royalty.
He'd spent the first hour inspecting every corner of the rebuilt space, tail swishing with feline judgment.
Eventually, he'd claimed his old spot on the mystery shelf—rebuilt exactly as it had been, at his exact preferred height.
Now he was watching them work, green eyes tracking their movements like a supervisor who wasn't impressed with the help.
"Your cat is judging me," Blizzard observed.
"He judges everyone. Don't take it personally."
"He's been staring for twenty minutes."
"That means he's interested." Wendy climbed down from her ladder and stretched. "If he wasn't watching, that's when you should worry."
The reading chair had been rebuilt too—new cushions, solid frame, positioned in the corner where afternoon light would fall just right. Wendy had been eyeing it since she arrived.
"We should test it," she said.
"Test it."
"Make sure it's sturdy." She crossed to the chair and settled into the cushions. "Come here."
Blizzard raised an eyebrow but crossed the room. "There's not enough space for two people."
"There's enough space if we're creative."
He sat—or tried to. The chair groaned. Their elbows collided. Wendy ended up half in his lap, her legs tangled with his, both of them wedged into cushions designed for one.
"This doesn't work," Blizzard said.
"It works fine."
"I can't feel my left arm."
"That's because you're sitting on it."
He shifted. She shifted. The chair groaned again, threatening structural failure.
Wendy started laughing.
It hit her all at once—the absurdity of two adults crammed into a reading chair, the domesticity of arguing about shelving organization, the sheer normalcy of a morning spent rebuilding instead of running.
She laughed until tears streamed down her face, until her stomach ached, until Hemingway startled off the mystery shelf with an indignant yowl.
"You scared the cat," Blizzard said.
"We scared the cat." She wiped her eyes. "This chair is for one person."
"That's what I said."
"I'll buy another one." She extracted herself from his lap, still giggling. "We'll need two anyway. For the apartment upstairs."
The apartment. They'd walked through it yesterday—empty rooms above the store, dusty windows looking out over Bridgeport's streets. It needed work. Paint, furniture, probably new flooring. But it was theirs. Or would be, once the paperwork went through.
"About that." Blizzard stood, brushing off his jeans. "Alpha wants to do a ceremony."
Wendy's laughter faded. "A ceremony?"
"Claiming ceremony. Makes it official." He met her eyes, that flat gray gaze softening into something warmer. "You'd be my old lady. Formally. In front of the pack."
Old lady. The term had seemed foreign when she first heard it, back when the compound was terrifying and the brothers were strangers. Now it felt like something she'd been waiting for without knowing it.
"This weekend," Blizzard continued. "If you're ready."
"If I'm ready." Wendy closed the distance between them, putting her hands on his chest. "Victor. I've been ready since Hemingway sat in your lap and I trusted the cat's judgment."
"You're basing a life decision on the opinion of a cat."
"I'm basing a life decision on the opinion of a cat who hates everyone and chose to trust you." She rose on her toes to kiss him. "That's all the evidence I need."
His arms came around her, pulling her close. For a long moment, they stood in the middle of the rebuilt store—surrounded by boxes and sawdust and the particular chaos of something being born.
"This weekend," she said against his lips.
"This weekend."
"Hemingway gets to attend."
"Hemingway would show up whether we invited him or not."
"True." She pulled back, grinning. "Now finish your section. We've got inventory to shelve."
The afternoon passed in comfortable rhythm.
Wendy organized romance, mystery, and literature while Blizzard handled military history, biography, and the small section of westerns she'd started after discovering Stockyard's secret reading habits.
They argued about where to put the used cookbooks (near the front for impulse purchases, Wendy insisted) and whether graphic novels counted as literature (they did, she won).
Around four, Lakeshore showed up with sandwiches from the deli down the street.
"Figured you'd forget to eat," he said, dropping the bag on the counter. "Blizzard gets focused, stops noticing time."
"Blizzard is standing right here," Blizzard said.
"Blizzard can acknowledge I'm right." Lakeshore looked around the store, nodding approval. "Place looks good. Different, but good."
"Different how?" Wendy asked.
"Brighter. More..." He searched for the word. "Lived in. Before it felt like a museum. Now it feels like somewhere people actually hang out."
"That's the reading chairs." Wendy gestured to the corner. "More places to sit. More reasons to stay."
"Smart." Lakeshore grabbed a sandwich and headed for the door. "See you at the ceremony this weekend. Tess is bringing something from the shop—says it's a housewarming gift."
After he left, Wendy turned to Blizzard.
"Housewarming gift?"
"Tess owns a bait and tackle shop. Could be anything."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's probably not live bait."
"Probably?"
That almost-smile again. "I'll tell her to wrap it."
They finished shelving as the sun began to set, orange light streaming through the new front window. The store looked full now—not crowded, but alive. Books on every shelf. The reading corner arranged with two chairs side by side. Hemingway back on his throne in the mystery section.
Wendy stood at the counter, taking it all in.
"It's better," she said.
"Better than before?"
"Better than I imagined." She ran her fingers along the smooth wood. "When I saw the destruction—all those books on the floor, everything I'd built torn apart—I thought I'd never feel this way again. But this..." She looked at Blizzard. "This feels like a beginning."
"Because it is." He crossed to stand beside her. "Old life's done. New one starts here."
"With you."
"With me." He took her hand. "And the demon cat. And the pack. And whatever else comes."
Wendy leaned into his shoulder, watching the last light fade through her rebuilt window.
Tomorrow there would be more boxes. More shelving. More arguments about organization and debates about where the cookbooks belonged.
But tonight, she'd go home to the compound with the man she loved, knowing that in a few days she'd stand in front of his family and become his old lady.
This weekend.
She couldn't wait.