“No broken magic,” I said when Connor joined me.

“Could be on the other side of the resort,” he said. “Or maybe it didn’t come back here, whatever it is.” We walked to the front door, and Connor pulled off his boots. “I want a shower.”

“Okay. Do I need to do anything for dinner? Prepare anything?”

He smiled in amusement as he unlocked and opened the door. “Like whip up some steaks?”

“Or whatever.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. “I’ve actually taken care of that,” he said. Then he walked to the duffel bag he’d left near the kitchen, pulled out a growler of thick, dark liquid. “I brought this.”

I stared at the bottle and the dark brew that sloshed inside it. “Do you hate your family?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t bad,” I agreed. “It was just . . . a lot. But maybe they’ll have more of a taste for it.”

Connor put the growler on the table, headed down the hallway, pulling his shirt over his head. “We’re beginning Scotch trials when we get back. And you might need a drink after hanging with the family.”

* * *

* * *

While he showered, I checked my screen for messages from Petra. There weren’t any, so I toed off my shoes and sat down on the floor. My monster had handled the initiation just fine, but past results didn’t guarantee future success, as my father enjoyed saying in his not infrequent pep talks about mental toughness.

But Georgia had looked at me and seen . . . something. My eyes hadn’t changed color, and I hadn’t gone berserker. Maybe she’d only detected the magic, had felt the otherness about me. Either way, that was the most awareness I was willing to grant her.

So I crossed my legs, put my hands on my knees, and closed my eyes. I focused on my breath—in, hold, out. In, hold, out, until I could feel the remaining tension slip away, and the monster no longer peeked over my shoulder, looking for a way out.

I opened my eyes when I heard the water turn off, and half-expected to see Alexei staring at me again, but the room was still empty. Just me and the monster.

Feeling chill, if not exactly more energized, I stood up and stretched out, pulled a colored lip balm from my backpack, reapplied, then flipped over my hair, finger-fluffed it, and flipped it back again. I checked myself in the mirror that hung over the couch—the frame made of birch logs—and decided I was presentable.

“Best I can do,” I said, and prepared to sup with the family.

* * *

* * *

Georgia’s home was four cabins away from ours, so it was only a short walk. But I still made him carry the growler.

“Door’s open,” Georgia called out before Connor had even put a hand on the knob.

“I suppose I shouldn’t mention the importance of security,” I said.

He snorted. “No, vampire. You should not.”

“Welcome,” Georgia called out when he opened the door and amazing smells spilled through the doorway. She stood in front of a kitchen island, mixing something in a blue ceramic bowl with an enormous red spoon. She’d added a red apron to her ensemble, and switched out the formal shoes for furry house slippers.

There was food everywhere. Stacks of meat on plates, bowls of vegetables in various stages of preparation, two cakes—one pink, one covered in coconut—on a nearby table.

Like vampires, wolves could eat. That was a vote in their favor.

The scent of food was matched in strength only by the variety of magic in the room. Layers of it, probably because Georgia’s home had been a meeting place for shifters, a place where her family gathered and their magic had lingered.

“Georgia,” Connor said, pressing a kiss to her cheek, “thank you for having us.”

“You’re family,” she said. “And you’re welcome. What’s in the bottle?”

“NAC Industries’ first stout,” he said. “We call it the Alpha Stout.”

Of course they did.

Georgia arched a narrow painted eyebrow. “Is it good?”

“It’s . . . distinguished,” he decided. I couldn’t disagree with that, so I didn’t challenge him. But then she looked at me, and I had to work hard not to look away.

“Is it good?” she asked again, gaze narrowed.

“It’s complex.”

Her mouth twitched. “Put in the fridge, or in the deep freezer down the hall if it needs to get cold fast. Cassie is upstairs with the baby. You should go find Wes. He needs help with the Triumph. Something about the starter, I think.”

“Okay,” he said, but glanced at me.

I recognized that gleam in his eyes. He was seeing oil and bolts and steel, and hearing the purr of a well-running antique. I also knew the division of labor in shifter houses tended to fall along traditional gender lines: Ladies did the cooking; men did the mechanics.

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

Connor pressed a kiss to my lips. “Be good. I’ll be outside if you need me. Take care of her,” he told Georgia with a grin, then walked toward the door.

He hadn’t been fazed by kissing me in front of his family, or leaving me alone with them. For the first time, I realized we hadn’t just “met” his family on this trip. He’d presented me to them—to his best friend, his relatives, his (theoretical) allies. He’d introduced me to shifter families whose lives didn’t seem all that different from humans, to a clan of shifters who’d never feel comfortable inside the Pack. He’d told them who I was, stood for me, and allowed me to stand for myself.

This trip hadn’t been entirely—maybe not even mostly—about an initiation or a monster.

He’d been introducing me to the Pack.

This was . . . a beginning.

Surprise and pleasure made my heart beat a little faster.

“So,” Georgia said, “you can entertain me with stories of big-city life while I slave over this damn dough.”

I had to blink my way back to the kitchen and the conversation. “I could help you,” I said.

She looked at me, brows winged up in surprise. “Vampires can be helpful?”

“Yes, at least as often as shifters are open-minded.”

Georgia chortled. “Touché.”

I smiled at her, liking her already. She was up-front, unbowed, and straightforward. I walked toward her, glanced in the bowl. There was a mass of shaggy dough, combined but in need of some work.

“I can knead that if you want to move on to something else.”

She looked down at the dough, then up at me with suspicion. “You know how?”

“I went to college in France. I can’t bake, but learning the mechanics was, let’s say, not optional.”

“Oh là là,” she intoned, then put down the spoon, walked away from the bowl. “Get to work.”

I glanced back, found Connor still standing in the doorway, arms crossed and head tilted as he watched us, amusement on his face. “Go,” I told him, and he gave me a wink, disappeared.

I made room on the counter and looked around, found a scoop buried in a crock of flour, and sprinkled some on the countertop. Then I tipped the bowl so the dough slid onto flour and began to work, just as I’d been taught. Fold the dough in half, push to stretch, fold it again. Turn, repeat until the dough was smooth and the gluten stretchy.

“I take it you aren’t ready to run away from us quite yet,” Georgia said as she moved to the stove, pulled out a silver baking dish that sizzled and sent out the ambrosia smell of roasting meat.

“I grew up with vampires,” I said. “My standards are low.”

“Clever,” Georgia said, and moved the chicken—two birds with cracklingly crisp skin that was nearly translucent over herbs tucked beneath it—onto a large white platter. I had to work not to reach out and grab a bite.

And realized I hadn’t been the only one interested in the surroundings. Maybe because of the food, maybe because of the magic that permeated the cabin, the monster had awoken.

It wanted to move through the rooms, feeling out the magic, caressing the inchoate power. Not now, I said silently, willing it to stay down. The first rule of the monster was not letting the monster be seen by strangers, especially since Georgia had already seen something.

But the monster believed it had been pushed down enough this trip, and it didn’t want to retreat again. Not when the magic was so enticing. It fought me for access, trying to shove my consciousness down so it could stand in my place.

“Tell me about yourself,” Georgia said while I fought in silence and couldn’t spare the strength to form words.

I stared down at the dough, pushing the bread, folding, folding, folding, like every pleat and turn would diminish the monster.

I’d let it breathe, I thought, anger rising. I’d given it space. And this was the thanks I got.

Silence was stretching between me and Georgia, and I was growing desperate. How long ago had she asked me about myself? How long had I been staring at this dough, trying not to let the claws push through?

I promise, I told the monster. I’ll give you room. I’ll let you breathe. I’ll let you run and fight. But not now, please.

Push. Fold. Fold.

Finally, it relented and loosened its grip. I’d been tense—my legs and torso braced in the battle—and its release nearly had me pitching forward.

Push. Fold. Fold.

The second rule of the monster was not discussing the monster with strangers. So I forced myself to smile, made a production of stretching a ball of dough to stretch the gluten. Not ready yet.

“Sorry,” I said, the only word I could manage, and hoping my voice was casual, but still not meeting her eyes. “Did you say something? I think I got a little carried away with the kneading. It’s not ready yet.”

“Apparently,” she said, her tone careful and very unconvinced. “I was just saying you should tell me about yourself.”

Push. Fold. Fold.