Chapter 13
MAISIE
Thursday morning is a full-blown military food operation.
By six o’clock, the kitchen smells like sage, roasting poultry, melted butter, and spiced cider.
Three twenty-five-pound turkeys occupy two different ovens and a massive outdoor smoker on the patio.
A twenty-pound brown-sugar-glazed ham sits on the sideboard, and Thomas is currently carving up a whole smoked venison haunch on a butcher block near the sink.
I stand by the coffee pot in my oversized sweater, staring at the sheer mountain of protein in utter disbelief.
“Linda,” I say slowly, watching her stir a pot of turkey giblet gravy the size of a laundry basin. “There are sixty pounds of poultry on your counter.”
Linda doesn’t even look up as she cracks fresh black pepper into the pot. “Wolves, sweetheart.”
“Right. Forgot the metabolic burn rate.”
“If we don’t cook three turkeys, the boys start eyeing each other’s biceps by four in the afternoon,” she says cheerfully, wiping her brow with the back of her forearm. “Grab that bowl of cranberries and mix in the orange zest, will you?”
“On it.”
While I stir the cranberries, I keep an eye on Boone, who’s been acting like a complete lunatic since he woke up.
He isn’t hovering over me like usual. Instead, he’s pacing the perimeter of the kitchen like a caged tiger, jumping slightly every time someone drops a spoon. Every four minutes, his right hand twitches, sliding down to pat the front pocket of his heavy wool trousers.
He checks the pocket. Pulls his hand out. Looks at me, clears his throat, and looks away.
“Boone,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him over the cranberry bowl.
He snaps his head toward me. “Yeah?”
“Are you smuggling live animals in your pants, or are you having a neurological episode?”
“Neither,” he says quickly, his voice an octave too high. “Just... checking my keys.”
“You don’t need keys in your parents’ kitchen.”
“You never know,” he mutters, immediately turning around to inspect a loaf of cornbread with intense, scholarly interest.
Linda walks past him carrying a wooden bowl of mashed potatoes. She catches him checking his pocket again, stops dead in her tracks, and suddenly her hazel eyes fill with massive, shimmering tears.
I freeze, the wooden spoon halfway out of the cranberries. “Linda? Are you okay?”
Linda sniffs loudly, waving a hand in front of her face. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just... the onions.”
I glance around the spotless, polished granite island. “Linda, there isn’t an onion within ten feet of you.”
“The microscopic aerosols linger in the air, Maisie,” Linda says with a watery, triumphant sniff, giving Boone a look of pure, fierce maternal pride that makes his entire neck flush bright crimson. “Carry these potatoes to the dining room, Boone. Now.”
Boone grabs the bowl and practically sprints out of the kitchen.
By noon, the front door bangs open every five minutes as the house fills with thirty-six people, three dogs, and enough noise to rattle the windowpanes.
And it isn’t just pack werewolves, either.
The Kinkaid Thanksgiving is Creature University’s integration charter brought to life in a single living room.
Uncle Dennis arrives with Marcus, his mated partner—a centuries-old vampire who brings three bottles of chilled vintage blood wine and politely compliments Linda’s linen napkins.
Cousin Sarah shows up with her human husband and three toddlers who spend the afternoon shifting between fluffy wolf pups and shrieking, juice-stained kids chasing a tennis ball across the heated wool rug.
There’s a witch named Evelyn who keeps the pie crusts from getting soggy with a tiny flick of wandless magic, and two gargoyle brothers from the neighboring ridge who sit near the fireplace discussing timber prices in low, gravelly rumbles.
Nobody treats me like an outsider. Nobody looks at my round, human ears with pity or skepticism.
When I sit on the couch with a glass of spiced cider, Aunt Claire settles beside me to ask about my veterinary classes, genuinely fascinated by how human surgical techniques compare to shifter tissue regeneration.
Cousin Sarah hands me a chubby, sleeping four-year-old in a dinosaur onesie, trusting me completely to hold him while she grabs a plate.
By four o’clock, the entire crowd squeezes around the massive redwood dining table, with three folding tables lined up to accommodate the overflow.
The feast is glorious. Platters of turkey, ham, venison, sweet potato casserole, buttery stuffing, and sourdough rolls pass from hand to hand in an endless, laughing conveyor belt of food.
Boone sits beside me, his thigh pressed flush against mine under the table, his hand resting warm and heavy on my knee between bites.
When the plates are mostly cleared and the room settles into a warm, wine-and-tryptophan hum, Thomas Kinkaid stands at the head of the table.
He taps his water glass with the handle of a butter knife. The low chime cuts through the noise, and the room falls into respectful, attentive silence.
Thomas looks around the long table, his dark eyes shining with quiet, steady pride.
“Another year,” Thomas begins, his deep baritone rumbling through the room. “Our pack is healthy. The ridge is quiet. We’ve got good food, good timber, and the best people on this earth sitting under our roof.”
A chorus of murmured agreements and raised glasses ripples down the table.
“Ninety years ago,” Thomas continues, his gaze sweeping over the mix of wolves, humans, vampires, and witches crowded together, “Nathaniel and Margaret proved that strength doesn’t come from closing our borders or hiding in the dark.
It comes from choosing the people who make us better. It comes from family.”
Thomas turns his head, looking directly down the length of the table at me.
“To the ancestors who built this house,” he says, raising his glass high. “And to the new blood, the brilliant minds, and the strong women who join our table. Welcome home, Maisie.”
“To Maisie!” thirty-six voices roar in unison, glasses clinking together.
My throat tightens so hard I can barely swallow. I look down at my plate, blinking rapidly against the sudden sting of tears, my heart swelling until it feels bruised against my ribs. I don’t just feel accepted. I feel claimed. I feel loved.
Beside me, Boone goes completely, terrifyingly still.
The subtle shift in his posture sends a ripple through the room. The chatter dies in an instant. Werewolves down the table pause, their noses twitching as they catch the sudden, massive spike of pure, raw adrenaline rolling off Boone’s skin.
Boone sets his napkin on the table.
He turns in his chair to face me, his amber eyes glowing with a terrifying, beautiful intensity that makes my breath catch. His hands are trembling slightly—a tiny, impossible fracture in his usual unbreakable composure.
“Boone?” I whisper.
He reaches into his trouser pocket, pulls out a worn, dark-blue velvet box, and drops down onto one knee on the hardwood floor beside my chair.
The entire dining room erupts in a collective, gasping shriek. Linda slaps both hands over her mouth, tears instantly spilling down her cheeks.
My brain completely short-circuits. “Boone. What are you doing?”
“Maisie,” he says, his voice thick, rough, and vibrating with emotion.
He flips the velvet box open.
Nestled inside the silk is an antique ring—a deep, luminous blue sapphire cut in an elegant oval, flanked by two sparkling trillion-cut diamonds and set in intricately engraved platinum. It looks ancient, timeless, and utterly breathtaking.
“This was Margaret’s ring,” Boone says, his eyes locked on mine, completely ignoring the thirty-six people holding their breath around us. “Nathaniel gave it to her after they graduated, back in CU’s earliest years. It’s been in our family all these years, waiting for the right woman.”
He takes my left hand in his. His palm is hot, his fingers trembling as he cradles mine.
“You gave me the choice to be yours, Maisie,” Boone says, his voice ringing clear and steady through the quiet room.
“You didn’t let fate decide for you. You looked at all that history, you looked at me, and you chose me anyway.
You made me earn your trust, and you taught me what love actually looks like outside of instincts and biology. ”
A tear escapes, sliding hot down my cheek.
“I love your brain,” Boone continues, his thumb stroking over my knuckles. “I love your stubbornness, your terrible jokes, and the way you fight like hell for your dreams. Wherever you go, I’ll find a way to build our life there. That’s where my pack is. That’s where my home is.”
He swallows hard, his amber eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Marry me, Maisie. Let me build a life with you.”
The silence in the room is deafening. You could hear a pin drop on the rug.
I stare down at the massive, stubborn, beautiful werewolf kneeling at my feet, holding my hand like it’s the most precious thing in the universe.
“You are an absolute asshole,” I choke out through a breathless, tearful laugh, wiping my face with my sleeve. “Doing this in front of thirty-six members of your terrifying extended family so I can’t even yell at you for making me ugly-cry.”
Boone lets out a ragged, hopeful laugh. “Is that a yes, Pope?”
“Yes,” I say, leaning down and throwing my arms around his neck. “Yes, obviously. A thousand times yes.”
The house erupts.
Thirty-six people erupt into roaring cheers, table thumping, and deafening wolf howls that rattle the timber beams overhead.
Boone stands, lifting me completely out of my chair and spinning me in a tight circle while his mouth crashes into mine in a fierce, breathless kiss. When he sets me down, his hands shake as he slides Margaret’s sapphire onto my left ring finger. It fits perfectly.