Alpha Blake's Broken Luna
I say, and the word sits right.
We come in quietly again, with just the grind of tires over our own gravel and the way the pack straightens as the gates swing wide. People pour out of doorways and off porches without thinking, warriors I’ve watched grow up, Omegas who’ve fed me more than I deserve and kids who want to hear how many went out, and how many came back.
“Faces,” I tell Allie. “Then food and bed.”
“In that order,” she says, and kisses my jaw in front of everybody because she figured out a long time ago that pretending we’re not human is how bad men keep their jobs.
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