Hangover Quotes Wolfpack Novels & Stories

My reflection in the surface showed a stranger: blood-streaked, hair matted, eyes bright with stubborn fire I didn’t remember lighting. I tipped the cup back and winced as it burned my split lip. “Glamorous as ever.” My wolf huffed, unimpressed. You mock because you lived. “Correction,” I said, collapsing back onto the bed. “I mock because sarcasm requires less energy than crying.”

“Add it to Jack Hamilton’s tab.” They gave me an odd look but did as I asked, and I downed it the second he stopped pouring. “The person you’re pining for has a family trying to kill us,” I said quietly to my wolf. “Stop making this harder than it needs to be.” And slowly, I closed my eyes briefly as I let the alcohol wash over me, feeling as the wolf quietened inside once more. It wasn’t as good as the suppressors had once been, but it was enough.

I cursed. The Donovans had to be the greatest plague in the whole of Wolf Pack history.

He goes completely silent. Did I hit a nerve ? I was aiming for an artery . (Vampire pun intended ) " If you were a wolf , you'd understand what I mean . " He mutters . I stop breathing . " Well then , I'm sorry you got stuck with me . " I apologize sarcastically and get up from my seat . I consider dumping my drink over his head for a moment but that might be a bit too petty . I'm not that petty . Instead I chose to leave , seeming unbothered .

I didn’t even know if I’d be able to drive home in this state. I practically crawled my way over to Jack’s room—or what I had remembered was Jack’s room and knocked on the door. “Coming,” I heard Jack’s groggy voice on the other side of the door. Okay, so I had remembered his room correctly. He opened the door for me, and I went in, falling over on his couch. “Fuck, man, I thought werewolves weren’t supposed to get hangovers!” I moaned. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucking bad,” he agreed.

Stacey smiled as she entered the living room, walked over to the small kitchen, and started to warm a pot of coffee. “Oh, God! My head! What the hell happened?” The couch I was lying on was hard and uncomfortable. I tried to sit up, and the world spun. “You got piss drunk, so I had to bring you back here.” “Why does my head hurt?” She smiled at me mischievously. “I believe they call it a hangover.” “Werewolves don’t get drunk or get hangovers,” I snarled. The room spun slightly, and I grabbed my skull to try and stop it.

Training had started later than normal, I had given them the morning off to spend with their mom and or spouse. "How are they doing?" I asked Tyler. "Okay, but I think we have a couple slackers." He pointed to the three pups in the back of the yard. It was Charlie, Jason, and Eddie, three teenage wolves that all looked hungover, they were laying on the ground under the tree. It took a lot for wolves to get drunk, because of how fast we burned things off, so for them to be hungover proves that they must have drunk a lot of alcohol. Believe me, I know. Even when I use to spend all evenings at the bar, when it came to pack work I made sure no one knew and that I was completely sober.

They roared in unison, a powerful display of their determination and readiness to fight for the pack they cherished. Viggo nodded, acknowledging their fervor. "Let this unity guide us, let our bond as wolves protect us. Now, let us prepare and gather our strength. The time is near, and together, we shall ensure that our legacy lives on." The werewolves cheered once more, their voices echoing with loyalty and dedication. With renewed vigor, they dispersed, each taking up their role in this pivotal night. As they left the room, the energy in the air was palpable, a testament to their shared commitment to the pack and its survival.

The loss of so many pack members weighed heavily on everyone, but none more so than Hugo. He stood in the center of the pack’s clearing, drenched from the rain, his sea-green eyes dark with sorrow. Around him, the wolves gathered, their heads bowed, their spirits broken. The howls of mourning pierced the air, a haunting symphony of shared pain and loss. Each cry carried the weight of a name, a memory, a life taken too soon.

"But the coffee situation on this boat? It’s a tragedy. We fix the coffee, then we talk about your little revolution." I stared at him for a long moment, then I let out a laugh, the first one in a long time. It was a dry, hollow sound, but it felt good. We were wounded, we were outnumbered, and we had just recruited a gang of criminals who thought the war was a negotiation. "Fix the coffee," I said, turning away. "Then we’re going to tear Silas Vance’s empire down to the studs."