Page 17 of Shared With The Pack

He peels off his boots, lining them up along the wall by the door.

"I'm sorry. What um -- how did she die?"

"Hunters," Ridge says, shaking his head. He looks down at his burned palm. "Took a few silver bullets...too many to live through. She went out alone on a supply run."

He clears his throat and nods toward the fireplace.

"But we found her, bought Sage home. She's in there still."

Oh, it's not a box. That's a cremation urn. I look back at it with newfound respect. Her name was Sage. This was home...and they were her pack before me.

"Was she your...?"

"No, not mine," Ridge answers with wide and shiny eyes. "Or Heath's, for that matter. She was Griff's mate."

Well, that certainly explains a lot. Griff isn't a grump, not really. He's in mourning. No wonder he's been so disgruntled about my unexpected arrival. Everything makes a lot more sense.

"What was Sage like?"

"Strong. And stubborn. Never backed down and always spoke her mind. Kind too, but in a tough love sort of way. You ever hear the phrase do no harm, but take no shit? That was her daily creed." Ridge's smile turns happy as he speaks about Sage. "She was really special...but so are you, Wren."

Ridge walks over to pull me into a hug. He plants a kiss on top of my head.

"More special than you'll ever know. What have you been up to?" Ridge breathes in deeply. "Smells nice, but doesn't smell edible."

"I made something for your burn," I say, excitedly taking his unharmed hand in mine and leading him into the kitchen. I make Ridge sit down on the table and bring the cooled concoction to him. "It's for the burn," I explain, "this will fix it."

"You didn't need to do that."

"I want to help you. Just like you all have helped me."

Ridge places his knuckles down on the table, his burned palm pointed toward the ceiling. Carefully, I dab the balm all along the injury, working it into his skin. Within moments, the magic sparks to life. The brightly colored balm buzzes with a faint glow as the power of the bees awakens.

And just like that, the burn is gone.

Ridge's mouth stretches into a wide grin. "It doesn't hurt at all," he marvels.

The stomp of boots in the doorway breaks the moment. "You doing magic?"

I turn to Griff and smile. "Just a little."

He grunts, scratching the side of his neck. "Well, we gotta talk. Pack meeting. C'mon, everybody out on the porch."

Chapter 16

Wren

The meeting doesn't start until Ridge has finished making a pot of coffee on the stove. I sit in a rocking chair out on the porch, my feet curled underneath me and cradling a cup. I take a small sip, grateful for the splash of honey and sugar Ridge added to mine. Everybody else takes it black. Except for Heath, who declines to shift at all and lays in front of my chair. I'm careful not to crush his bushy tail underneath the rocker's legs.

Ridge settles down with his cup, and we both watch as Griff makes a quick trip back to the shed. We wait in comfortable silence, and I take a moment to appreciate the view. If I squint, I can see the faint, misty outline of St. Salem's clock tower nestled between the mountain slopes. The sun has lost its strength with the waning noon; the air feels crisper as a smattering of blue tinted clouds overtake the sky.

Griff returns carrying something behind his back. Color trails down his neck. A strangely shy gesture from him. I sit up straighter, setting down my cup. "Is that...?"

"Yeah," Griff grunts, his mouth fixed into a firm, thin line, but that blush still creeps down to his chest. The top button of his flannel shirt is undone, dark chest hair peeking up. "It's your damn broom."

He's fixed it. Somehow. The magic is exceptionally weak, but he's repaired the wood well enough that the enchantment clings on. Griff has even added new bristles to the end.

"You're our mate, Wren." Griff's words are awkward, and he holds the broom like it's a snake already rearing to bite him, but he pushes on. "Always will be. Nothing ain't ever gonna change that, but...I don't want you feeling obligated to stay here."