Nearing the end of the corridor, Sammy heard movement ahead—the shuffle of footsteps, soft rustling, and the low hum of conversation. He slowed, his courage faltering.
His reluctance didn’t go unnoticed.
“It’s just some of the pack,” Dominic told him. “They already know you’re here.”
Sammy didn’t move. “Do they know why?”
“They do. I’ll need their help tracking down your mom, and besides, we don’t have secrets here.”
He had expected as much, but Dominic misunderstood. He wasn’t concerned about what the pack thought of his situation.
“Do they know what I am?”
Dominic hesitated briefly before nodding.
“And they’re okay with it?”
“Yes.” Then he turned to continue toward the kitchen.
Sammy wasn’t convinced. Without thinking, he reached out, grabbing Dominic’s wrist to stop him.
“One more question.”
“You know they can hear us, right?” Dominic glanced down at the hand on his arm, but he didn’t pull away. “Go ahead.”
Leaning in, he lowered his voice and asked in a soft whisper, “Do they know about us?”
In answer, Dominic grunted, reversed their positions so he now held Sammy’s wrist, and dragged him down the remainder of the corridor and through an arched doorway.
Brightly lit by three rustic chandeliers, the kitchen boasted polished white oak floors and sparkling stainless-steel appliances that all seemed to be supersized. The vaulted ceiling showcased exposed rafters, and the curving wall of windows made the space feel even more vast.
Well, it would have, if not for the six hulking werewolves currently gathered around a mountain of pizza boxes at the kitchen island. Even the females dwarfed him, with thick, powerful thighs and hard, defined shoulders.
And one of the wolves, he recognized.
“You were at the bakery earlier.”
Dressed in the same baggy sweatshirt and loose-fit jeans, the male slid off his barstool and strode over to him with a winsome smile.
“Santiago Rivas,” he said, offering his hand. “You can call me Saint.”
“Rivas?” he repeated, taking Saint’s hand but looking to Dominic.
“My brother,” his mate grumbled. “I wanted a puppy.”
A bark of surprised laughter burst from his lips before he could stop it, but thankfully, neither of the brothers looked offended. Saint actually winked at him.
The rest of the pack had gone silent at their entrance, and they had turned their complete focus to him. None of them approached.
Sammy fidgeted under the weight of their stares and inched closer to Dominic’s side. He wouldn’t consider their attention hostile, just intense, but it made his stomach flutter and his pulse jump.
“Stop staring, assholes,” Saint told them as he strode back to the island. “You act like you’ve never seen a changeling before.”
“We’ve never seen Dom with a mate before.” Dressed in a soft pink tank top that complemented her golden brown complexion, the female brushed a dark, corkscrew curl out of her face and extended her middle finger. “Don’t be a dick.”
Dropping onto one of the barstools, Saint stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not the one staring, am I?” Then he turned back to Sammy and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Chapel Bridger. Ignore her. The rest of us do.”
A playful growl vibrated in her throat as she plucked a black olive from her pizza slice and chucked it at him. It hit him right in the middle of the forehead—top scores for aim—and bounced off to land on the floor.