Kelley Armstrong - Otherworld Chills

Werewolves are, by nature, violent sons of bitches, as Clay would say. Clay had been bitten at the age of five, rescued and brought up by Jeremy. The first time Nick met him, Clay knocked him flying. His way of saying hello … and establishing dominance.

Nick didn’t have much use for dominance. He was happier obeying orders than giving them. Except now that his best friends led the Pack, he’d realized it was time for him to step up and do more. Hence offering to handle the hunt for Malcolm.

A hunt like this wasn’t Nick’s area of expertise. While he was a fine fighter, he didn’t feel the usual drive to hunt, to protect territory, to fight for his place. Elena teased he satisfied that urge in his romantic pursuits, yet the truth was that he didn’t really pursue there, either. Like hunting, he enjoyed it and he’d rarely turn down an opportunity, but it wasn’t a driving force in his life.

Malcolm was different. He’d always pursued fights and women with equal vigor. And with the same ferocity. Women were prizes to be conquered and then discarded. Or worse. Nick’s grandfather, Dominic, had believed Malcolm killed Jeremy’s mother. Not that the old Alpha had turned him out of the Pack for it. Malcolm was too good a fighter to lose over a dead woman. Another Pack, another time.

Now, Malcolm was back and very much alive. And finding him was Nick’s job.

Nick left his car in the drive, and stopped on the front porch to text Noah and ask if he was ready. He could just open the front door and holler, but these days, text messaging seemed the way to go, even within the walls of your own home. Given that the walls of that house encompassed ten thousand square feet of living space, Nick had to admit that hollering from the front door wasn’t practical, no matter how good a werewolf’s hearing.

It was a massive house, on a huge chunk of property, sixty miles north of New York City. And yes, an estate that size within commuting distance did bring the occasional enterprising real estate agent to the gate on behalf of some billionaire or other. You had to be a billionaire to afford property like this. Or you had to have family who’d bought it three hundred years ago when they emigrated from Italy. The house had been rebuilt twice in the interim, but it was an ancestral home. A communal home, too. That was how werewolves lived, all generations under one roof. For years it had been just Nick and his father, Antonio. Now there were the boys, Reese and Noah.

Reese and Noah were permanent residents. A third young werewolf—Morgan Walsh—made it his home base. Morgan was older than the other two, and even more skittish about settling in, particularly into someone else’s home. Morgan was on one of his walkabouts, this time staying with the Russian Pack for a few months. He’d be back, though, and was already hinting about finding work in New York and “renting” a room at the house. Rent wasn’t necessary. If it made him feel less awkward, though, they’d take it. Young werewolves needed a Pack, but they needed a family and a home, too.

When Nick opened the door, Reese greeted him. Coffee in hand, bleary-eyed, Reese looked as if he hadn’t gotten a moment’s sleep. He hadn’t. Reese would have just gotten in after a night shift at one of the family factories. His choice—Antonio would never make his dependents work for a living, as Nick well knew. Reese was studying for his MBA and in the meantime he wanted to learn the business from the ground up. Which included working night shift at a factory. Nick didn’t interfere, even if he would like to see the young man be a little less mature and responsible, enjoy his youth.

Nick plucked the coffee from Reese’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Uh, that was mine.”

“I know. But you should be heading to bed, which means you do not need caffeine. I do.” Nick leaned into the next room. “Noah!”

“He’s coming. Slowly, as usual. He said you stayed in the city. You should have texted me. I’d have given him a lift to school. No need to end your date early.”

“I had to come home and change anyway.”

Reese lifted one eyebrow. “Um, no. You keep a bag in your car.”

“I took it out last time we went to Stonehaven.”

“That was a month ago.”

Nick shrugged. “I forgot to put it back in.”

Reese stared as if Nick had left behind his cell phone for a month. As Nick walked into the kitchen, Noah came around the corner, running his hand through his hair. That, along with brushing his teeth, constituted his idea of proper grooming.

“Are we shaving today?” Nick asked as Noah grabbed an apple.

“You can. I can go another day.”

Nick couldn’t argue. Noah did only need it a few times a week. He didn’t look nineteen. Or eighteen, which was his official age, the Pack having aged his ID down a year when they’d taken him in, to help him catch up, academically and otherwise.

Nick could say Noah just took after his father. Joey Stillwell had grown up with Nick and Clay, and he’d always been small, always looked young, even for a werewolf. With Noah, though, there were other problems. Namely an alcoholic mother who hadn’t stopped drinking during her pregnancy. Add in a rough life with a brutal stepdad and Joey almost out of the picture, and you ended up with a whole slew of issues, not just delayed maturity but learning problems and a hair-trigger temper. The last two had much improved since Noah came to live with them, but there was nothing that could be done about the first. At least Noah had finally started his Changes a few months ago, which helped.

“So I guess your date went well,” Noah said, brows waggling as he took a bite of his apple.

“Do Nick’s dates ever not go well?” Reese said, reaching for a banana. “How about Russell? Did his date go well, too?”

Nick hesitated. He didn’t mean to—Reese wasn’t fishing—but it took him a second to think up an answer that wasn’t an actual lie. That second was all Reese needed.

“Ah,” Reese said. “Russell’s date went home alone.”

Again, Nick wasn’t nearly quick enough. Or maybe a flicker of guilt gave him away.

Reese burst out laughing. “Whoa, no, his date did not go home alone. Was it a trade-up? Or did you take double dating to a whole new level?”

“Noah?” Nick said. “Where’s your knapsack?”

“What?” Noah looked from Nick to Reese as Reese sputtered with laughter. “What do you mean, take double dating …?” His eyes widened. “No … You mean …?”

“I mean get your knapsack,” Nick said. “Reese needs his sleep. These night shifts are making him giggly.”

“So you …? Both? How …? I mean, how does that come up? You ask if they’re game?”

Nick could ignore the question. But that wasn’t his policy with the boys. Ask him anything. That was how Antonio raised Nick. It also meant never ignoring the opportunity to pass along a lesson or advice.

“No,” Nick said. “It has to be their idea. Otherwise there’s going to be hurt feelings afterward.”

“Uh-huh,” Noah said. “So you wait for women to offer you a threesome? Outside of porn flicks, in what world does that actually happen?”

“In Nick’s world,” Reese said. “Which can bear a marked resemblance to a porn flick. Kind of a James Bond high-end porn-flick crossover.”

“No kidding,” Noah muttered. “I bet if his car broke down, he’d knock on the nearest door and find sex-starved college girls having an orgy.”

“Of course not,” Reese said. “In the Nick version, it’s classy grown women holding a Tupperware party, which turns into an orgy after he arrives.”

“Okay, ha-ha,” Nick said. “Are you going to school today, Noah?”