The little wolf made of stone.
I was confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Ox,” he said in a choked voice. I looked down. His hands were curling into the desk, leaving little claw marks, scoring the wood. His eyes flashed orange and I said, “Hey.” I put my hand on his shoulder and it was there again, that warmth, like it’d been with Gordo. But if Gordo had felt like a warm fire, then the pulse, the pull with Joe felt like the sun.
He sighed and the claws pulled back and away.
“I like your room,” he said quietly. “It’s just like I thought it would be. Cluttered and clean.”
“Pinecones and candy canes?” I asked him.
He smiled. “And epic and awesome.”
He touched the stone wolf once. Just the tip of his finger to its head and that sun between us burned so very, very bright.
a wolf thing/we’re alone
THEY TRAINED. The werewolves. The pack.
They moved in and out of the trees quickly and quietly.
They tracked me through the woods while I attempted to throw them off my trail.
Thomas said, “Attack,” and their claws would come out and he would feint left and right and up and down.
I asked him once why we trained like we did.
“We have to be ready,” he said.
“For what?”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “To protect what’s ours.”
“From what?”
“Anything that could take our pack or territory away.” His eyes flashed red.
A chill went down my spine.
I TRAINED harder.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS, Ox.” Joe grinned when I hugged him close, my chin on the top of his head.
“YOU’RE DIFFERENT,” Gordo said, taking a drag from his cigarette.
“Oh?”
“You move differently,” he clarified.
“Maybe I’m just growing up.”
“It’s more… confidence. You hold yourself higher.”
“It’s a wolf thing.”
“You’re not a wolf.”
“Close enough.”