The wolves howled. Outside, wispy clouds scattered away from the full moon, and Finn trembled. Couldn’t help pressing his nose to the window, watching the bright, silvery coin in the sky.

Pack, the Topanga wolves howled. Run with us.

“Are you gonna shift?” Dante asked, nuzzling Finn’s shoulder from behind. His nails had grown into claws, gray fur scattered across his hands.

Finn shivered. Dante rocked against him, all bare chest and naked thighs, trailing his teeth against Finn’s shoulder. He was so warm, and strong, and Finn almost tumbled back into bed with him.

“I want to go out,” Finn blurted. Then he stopped. Looked down at his bad leg, the red, ugly scars that had eaten into his thigh.

“You can run with the pack,” Dante murmured, dragging his furred hands down Finn’s chest. He touched Finn’s nipples. “I’ll be wherever you want me to be.”

Finn hid his bad leg with his good one. “I can’t run. You know that.”

“Your ankle’s healed.”

Finn rubbed his ankle. He’d removed the bandages a few days ago; the sprain had healed. But he couldn’t run fast enough, couldn’t keep up as the pack tore through the canyon.

“‘Sides, Old Bill’s out there somewhere,” Dante said.

“Bill stays home on Moon Night.” The older wolves usually did, and so did those with newborn pups. Finn hadn’t joined the pack on Moon Night since five years ago, when he’d gotten home, his leg badly healed. Couldn’t bear to wobble while the rest of the pack ran.

Dante pressed him against the bedroom window, dragging his hands down Finn’s belly, where the pups were. “Then stay with me. Gonna love you all night.”

Finn gulped, swaying.

They had both felt the moon’s pull since sunset. Dante had pressed against Finn all evening, on the edge of shifting. Then they’d fucked twice, and it had gotten late.

Right now, the pack ran in the canyon, through the forest and up the canyon trails, gathering at the canyon’s peak to howl at the moon.

Pack, they howled again. Pack runs together.

“What’re they saying?” Dante murmured, his breath hot on Finn’s shoulder.

Finn translated the howls. “I guess you won’t understand unless you join the pack,” he said, stroking Dante’s paw.

Dante snuffled, licking the bite scar on Finn’s neck. Then he reached lower, his claws pricking Finn’s thighs. “Ride on me.”

Finn snorted, his hole squeezing damply. “A third time?”

Dante laughed. “No, on my back. I’ll carry you through the canyon.”

Finn hesitated. Didn’t know if the pack would turn on them. But with Finn’s scent all over Dante, they should be safe tonight. “I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?” Dante pressed soft kisses to Finn’s nape, fitting his strong, hard body against Finn’s side.

Finn trembled, his wolf bristling just beneath his skin. More than mating, he wanted to run. Wanted to feel the damp earth beneath his paws, and howl at the moon.

It had been painful, shutting himself in the cabin all these years, too embarrassed by his bad leg to join the pack. Especially when the drums began.

“You love the drums,” Dante said, rubbing Finn’s sac.

“Yeah.” Finn leaned against him. “Shh.”

Dante fell silent, pressing his nose to Finn’s throat. Gradually, the sound of drums filtered through the cabin walls.

They started off slowly, the higher-pitched notes of small drums, wooden sticks cracking on the hard drum edges. Then the beats grew stronger, faster, lower as the larger drums joined in.

It was a rhythm Finn knew by heart. Seven sharp taps, three lower beats, the back-and-forth of a fast-paced conversation.

The pack wolves howled to the Topanga drum song. In the forest, at the clearing with the other wolves, you’d howl to the moon, until every drum beat reverberated in your ribs.

Finn pressed his face against the window, his heart thumping along to the rhythm. Needed to be there. Needed to feel the drum notes in his bones.

I’ll carry you there, Dante said in his mind.

Finn shivered, fur bristling across his skin. Could no longer fight the shift. His bones shrank, his muscles pulled tight. His tail pushed out, flicking through the air.

When the shift was over, Finn found his alpha by his side, a handsome gray wolf with golden eyes, black fur brushed across his head. He was half a head taller than Finn, strong, powerful.

Finn bowed for his alpha, pressing his jaw to the floorboards. Yours.

Dante growled. Mine.

He leaned in, nuzzling Finn’s snout. Sniffed down Finn’s body, then nudged Finn’s forelegs. So Finn stood, and Dante nosed Finn’s bad leg. Finn whined, tucking it away.

Walk? Dante asked, stepping over to the bedroom door. Finn joined him, limping a little. The muscles in that leg pulled taut whenever Finn tried to run, so he never did.

He followed Dante to the front door, watching as Dante worked the door handle with his paw. Crumpet yipped at them from a corner; Finn yipped back.

Then he followed his alpha out onto the front porch. Breathed in the crisp night air, his entire body quivering.

The drum beats were louder now that he was wolf. Everything was sharper—the grains of dirt between the floorboards, the call of the owls in the forest, the loamy scent of wolf on the breeze.

Dante pulled the door shut behind them, then turned his back to Finn, lowering his haunches. Ride?

Finn shook his head. Not yet.

He padded gingerly down the front steps, growling when his paws sank into damp ground. It felt good, having the earth against his toes. Dante followed him, nuzzling his flank. Run?

I try, Finn said. Felt the swell of Dante’s pride as Dante followed him, tail wagging.

He started out at a walk. His bad leg twinged a little, but it wasn’t so bad. So Finn increased his speed slowly, watching as the ground skated by beneath him.

It was exhilarating, running on four legs. He didn’t limp quite so much, and he was moving, the breeze riffling through his fur. Finn began to trot, picking his way over stray branches, heading into the forest.

Good? Dante asked.

Very good, Finn said, running a little faster.

Dante stayed by his shoulder, his eyes gleaming, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Proud of mate.

Finn shivered all over. He stretched his legs, yipping when he cleared a fallen log. Dante landed beside him, the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile.

Maybe Finn could run. Maybe Finn’s bad leg wasn’t so bad, after all.

He ducked through the undergrowth, crossing tiny creeks and fallen branches, taking comfort in Dante’s presence beside him. His alpha was near. He was safe.

Dante followed Finn toward the drums. The pack was gathered where they always were—at the highest peak of the canyon, where there was a flat stretch of land. Finn brought Dante there, slowing down when he glimpsed firelight flickering between the trees.

They had never come here together, when Finn had tried so hard to keep Dante away.

Now, he loped through the trees. Dante matched his steps, golden eyes gleaming. It made Finn’s heart soar to run with him. To fly across the ground, the world at his feet.

Finn’s leg twinged suddenly. It caught on a fallen log. He lurched toward the ground, yelping as he hit a hard patch of dirt. Rolled to a stop, mud and leaves matting his fur.

Finn! Dante skidded to a stop and whirled around, his worry thrumming through Finn’s mind.

Am fine, Finn said. Leg hurts.

His bad leg throbbed. Finn whined, his heart sinking. It had been going so well, too, running with Dante, ignoring that twinge in his muscles. Thinking maybe he’d been ashamed for nothing.

And now, lines of fire ran down his tendons. His scar tissue hurt. Finn curled up, nosing at his leg.

In the shadows of the trees, the furless splotches on his hind leg weren’t obvious. Dante nudged Finn away to lick the scars himself. Finn looked away, embarrassed. Stupid leg.

Not stupid. Dante pressed down on Finn’s leg with his paw, gently testing it. Hurts here?

Lower. Finn gritted his teeth when Dante found the worst of it, whining.

Slowly, Dante massaged Finn’s leg with his paws, finding the sore spots, rubbing them until the pain faded somewhat.

Finn closed his eyes, listening to the faraway drum beats, his heart pounding.

Home? Dante asked.

Finn hesitated. Despite the firelight visible through the trees, they weren’t close enough to the drums. He’d wanted to show Dante the ritual, let Dante feel those same vibrations in his chest. It seemed terrible to give up now, when they’d made it halfway.

I’ll carry you, Dante said. He licked at Finn’s hind leg, then sat, offering Finn his back.

We’ll try, Finn said, guilty.

Carefully, he clambered onto Dante’s back, biting into the scruff of his neck. Finn wrapped his paws around Dante’s shoulders as best as he could, slipping a little when Dante stood.

Okay? Dante asked.

Okay, Finn said.

Dante set off at a brisk trot. He rounded trees and boulders, climbing up the canyon trail, until the drums grew louder, each beat ringing in their ears.

And now every booming thump rocked through their bones.

Pack, pack, pack, the wolves howled.

Finn’s excitement built as Dante drew closer. It soaked into Dante, too—beneath the drums, Finn heard the thump of Dante’s heart, felt the spark of interest from his mate.

Together, they made their way closer to the pack, staying downwind.

Fifty yards away, the wolves sat in concentric circles around the drums. Flaming torches surrounded them; Arnold watched over them all, perched on a rock outcrop above the pack.

At the base of the rock, Rhett and his brothers were surrounded by drums. They were half-shifted, their human bodies covered with fur. Rhett brought sturdy batons down upon the largest drum; it bellowed, and the sound trembled through Finn’s ribs.

This, Finn said to Dante as the pack howled to the rhythm. This is pack.

Dante shivered beneath him, awed.

Then the drum beats ebbed, and Arnold howled. The pack followed.

Finn’s wolf took over; he tipped his head back and sang at the top of his lungs. Beneath him, Dante howled, too.

Their voices mingled with the pack into a single song, rising up toward the moon. In that moment, Finn felt as though he was part of the pack again, as though he and Dante had a chance with the family he’d grown up with.

Maybe Mercy would hear them. Maybe the goddess would help Finn remain with the pack he loved.

When the wolfsong faded, Finn nuzzled Dante’s ear. The pack wolves hadn’t seen them, but Arnold had. Arnold didn’t call the pack’s attention toward them, though; Finn bowed his head in gratitude.

Let’s go, he said to Dante. This is enough.

Even Dante seemed reluctant to leave.

They lingered at the gathering for another minute, listening to the drums, the wolves yipping, howling at the moon. Then they turned, and Dante picked his way carefully through the canyon, taking the dirt trails back to Finn’s cabin.

Leg still hurt? Dante asked after a while.

Finn nodded. Not so bad.

Dante growled. What about pups?

Pups are safe.

Good. Dante wound around fallen trees and leaped across creeks, pausing sometimes to nuzzle at Finn. Finn watched as their surroundings flew by, Dante’s muscles sinewy beneath him, his fur slightly damp with sweat.

You like pack, Finn said.

Dante hesitated on his answer. Pack is good.

Stay longer there? Finn asked. Singing to moon?

Instead of words, Dante’s answer came as a feeling—yearning, a wish to belong. And Finn understood. Even though the pack had thrown stones at them, even though they weren’t welcome in the canyon, they’d both gotten the same feeling when they’d watched the pack howl.

By themselves, wolves weren’t strong, couldn’t fend for themselves against a larger enemy. But as a pack, they had protection and safety. They helped, and were helped in turn.

If they weren’t who they were, if they hadn’t made mistakes, then the pack might have accepted them with open arms.

Dante slowed down when they approached the cabin. Finn nipped at his ear, slipping off his back. I walk.

Dante growled. Get you home first.

Home is here. Finn nuzzled Dante’s throat, dragging his teeth through Dante’s fur. Home is with you.

Dante rumbled, tackling Finn into the soft earth. He rolled Finn onto his back, nosed down Finn’s throat. Finn’s heart skipped. Then Dante nuzzled down Finn’s chest, and further yet.

In his wolf form, Finn’s blue pregnancy lines were hidden beneath his fur. Dante nudged at Finn’s belly with his nose. Home, Dante thought. With pups too.

Finn’s heart swelled. He flipped back onto his front, lowered himself close to the ground. Yours. Your omega.

Dante bared his teeth, his eyes gleaming. He nosed down Finn’s flank, sniffing under his tail. Pressed their bodies together, biting into Finn’s shoulder where the bonding mark was. Mine.

Finn trembled against his alpha.

Dante nipped at Finn’s throat, his teeth gentle. Then he stepped away, nudging Finn toward the cabin. Inside. Make you mine.

Finn shivered from his nose to the tip of his tail. Inside.

Dante grinned, his smile wolfish. Finn didn’t even remember to protest when Dante offered Finn his back, so he could carry Finn up the porch stairs.

Under the star-speckled sky, the forest filled with wolfsong, everything felt right.