Page 90 of Nikolay

The inside of Ironwood did not strike me all at once. It unfolded in layers—firelight first, then polished wood, then the living heat of wolves gathered in a room built to remind them who they were and to whom they belonged. Sage’s hand remained at the small of my back as though it had every right, warm and steady through my shirt, and I had the strange, immediate feeling that I had not been brought into a home so much as introduced to a system that breathed.

The room was enormous without feeling hollow. That alone took money and taste both. Heavy beams crossed the ceiling overhead, dark with age or stain or both, and the walls were paneled in wood that glowed amber under carefully placed lamps. The smell of smoke and cedar sat low in the air beneath richer things—meat, wine, butter, rosemary, wolves.

And there were a fair amount of wolves everywhere.

Not packed shoulder to shoulder. Not loud. That was what set my nerves pricking in interest almost immediately. A few stood or sat in arrangements that looked casual only if you didn’t know better. Some occupied deep chairs near the fire with the comfortable gravity of people accustomed to being listened to.

Nobody stared when I came in.

Everybody noticed.

I felt it along my skin the way a wolf always did in another pack house. Not hostility. Not exactly scrutiny either. More like an assessment carried out by a body larger than any one person in the room. I had been invited by Sage, and that mattered. It moved through the atmosphere around me like some quiet assurance. Guest. Welcome. Relevant.

A woman, one of the ones I’d met at Obsidian, the one with auburn hair; turned from a conversation near the fireplace almost the second we entered. She was just as lovely as I remembered in a warm, polished way, her smile arriving before the rest of her did, and there was no hesitation to her at all. She crossed the room straight toward us like she had every intention of claiming first greeting rights.

“Madelyn,” she said, and before I could decide whether we were at handshake distance or not, she opened both arms.

I barely had time to shift my weight before she hugged me.

Not a social little squeeze either. A real hug. Tight enough to register. Familiar enough to surprise me. The kind of touch women gave when they had either known you a long time or had already decided you belonged in a circle they guarded.

For one startled second, I just stood there in it.

Then instinct took over, and I hugged her back.

“Well, all right,” I said, laughing under my breath when she let me go. “That’s one hell of a welcome.”

“It should be.” Her eyes flicked once toward Sage, then back to me with a warmth that landed oddly deep. “Even the few times we’ve met before make you feel like an old friend, or family.”

Feel like family.

That sentence hooked somewhere in my mind and stayed there.

I cast a glance toward Sage. He only looked amused; one corner of his mouth barely moved, like the exact degree of my surprise pleased him.

“Loralee is a hugger,” he said smoothly, as though telling her to temper her welcome a bit.

“Noted. Nice to see you again,” I said.

“You too, honey.”

Honey. Not condescending. Just easy. Southern enough in spirit to make me like her on reflex, though I suspected she hadn’t come by it in Texas.

Sloan barreled around the corner and scooped me into her arms in a tight hug.

“You made it!”

I laughed again and looked up at Sage.

“Apparently hugging is not solely the habit of Loralee.”

Sloan feigned a sad face.

“Hey, I’m just excited to see my friend. There’s no harm in a tiny hug.”

I raised a brow.

“Wow. I’m thankful that was your tiny hug.”