Wolf Bonded (Wolfish 1)

Werewolves are real.

Rory, Marlowe, Kaleb … who knows how many others.

That alone is so much to wrap my head around, that I end up turning down their invite to drive me back home at the end of the day. I need the time to think on my own … and more importantly, think of how to come up with a good explanation for my mother.

Because of course I can’t tell her anything about the fact that the guys are some kind of mythological creature.

I’m not entirely certain I’ll ever be able to find a way to tell her that.

It’s all I can do to find a way to tell her I accepted the invite to the mansion this weekend, and even then, she nearly falls over at the sink.

“You … you what?”

A pan slips from her fingers and cla

tters noisily into the basin.

“It’s just a small birthday party,” I say as I see a wide grin form on her face. “It’s really not a big deal.”

Her mouth works silently for a moment, leaving me to flounder for my own.

“You … you could come if you want. If you’re not sure …”

As soon as the invite is out of my mouth, I could kick myself. Shit. Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. If she comes, this whole thing is going to turn into an elaborate charade. If she comes, I won’t be getting any of my promised answers.

But luckily for me, she quickly shakes her head.

“Oh no, no need for that. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” She finally takes a step away from the sink to face me, giving me a close once-over from top to bottom. “So that’s what you were doing this morning. Something to do with those three Gray boys?”

My reddened face gives me away.

“What do you …”

She waves her hand at me. “Please, I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew something was up when that lady from school called me back … I just wondered what it was. Until now.”

The corners of her mouth turn up a bit. “Already meeting the family?”

“Mom, stop,” I say, dragging out the word as I flop down onto the worn sofa and bury my face into a cushion.

“So,” she continues, her voice taking on that sing-song quality that makes me want to run and hide and never show my face again, “which one do you like?”

“Mom,” I say, finally popping my head up in exasperation. “They’re just friends from school.”

I knew that question was going to come around eventually, but I’ve decided I’m going to skirt around it for as long as I can. Maybe if I keep her guessing long enough, she’ll come to realize my dilemma—that I’d never be able to choose between the three of them.

After all, who in their right mind could?

“Like I was saying,” she continues anyway, “you don’t usually make friends. I think this is a good thing, honey. It’s a sign that you might finally want to settle down somewhere for more than a few months.”

There it is again. Her silent plea.

Please let us stop running.

For the first time, I want to agree with her. I want to believe that we can.

So also for the first time, I give her hope.

I kick my feet against the bottom of the seat and coyishly avoid her gaze for a second. “It’s starting to look like a real possibility.”