“Move out!” Dee yelled, her team falling in behind her. The grizzly grabbed the full-human Dee was dragging and tossed him over his shoulder. The bear leaped at the elevator cables, his gloved hands and booted feet taking him down to the first floor in seconds. Dee and the rest of the team followed, hitting the exit moments later.

“Go! Go!” she ordered, her team charging for the three trucks waiting for them. Once her team shut the truck doors and rumbled off down the street, Dee motioned with her hand to a dark corner. The first giggle was followed by several others, and the hyenas charged out of the darkness and into the building. Two clans. One spotted, the other striped. They tore into the building, and when the last one ran inside, still laughing, she let the door close and limped over to the Maserati waiting for her at the corner.

She slipped inside and closed the door.

“Hyenas?” Van Holtz asked. “Really?”

“By morning there won’t be anything left but an empty building.” She leaned her head back, closed her eyes. “Besides, I call them in for a little late-night snacking and they leave my cousin’s Pack alone. It’s called tit-for-tat.”

“Sounds like a deal with the devil to me.” Van Holtz pulled onto the street and headed away from where the trucks were going.

“Wait. I need to talk to—”

“Uncle Van will handle that. You’re going to the hospital. And don’t argue with me,” he growled when she started to do just that.

“Fine.”

“Yeah. Fine.”

She glanced around the car. “What about some American muscle?”

“Now you’re complaining about my car?”

“Pansy car for rich foreigners. Like yourself.”

And when he shifted that pansy car, ripping paint off buildings as they shot by, Dee didn’t say anything but . . . okay. She was impressed. If a man could handle a car like this . . . well, maybe he could handle something that many had considered too fast.

Maybe.

With enough liquor, even bears will dance.

And yet, Grigori Novikov never thought that would include his nephew. Who, as a matter of fact, was stone-cold sober. Of course, Blayne had begged to have that sixties psychedelic crap Bo liked put on and the dance floor was so packed that there wasn’t much moving going on, so it wasn’t like anyone could really break out any fancy moves. But still. His nephew. Dancing. With his girlfriend. Who he kept calling his girlfriend. And his girlfriend who still hadn’t caught on yet. Too cute and smart to be that dumb, but there ya go.

Marci dropped down next to him. Unlike Blayne and Bo—Marci had been drinking. A lot. He knew this even before she started singing along with The Supremes’ version of “(Love Is Like A) Heat Wave.” Thankfully, most of the gossips were drunk off their ass, too. So hopefully he wouldn’t have to hear tomorrow how “this wasa mistake” and “we should have never” or “I should have never” or whatever else she insisted on saying anytime they were nearly “caught.”

Caught? He got his AARP card the other day in the mail, weren’t they too old to be “caught” in a relationship? He knew she worried about what her cubs would say. They’d adored their dad and with good reason. But they were all adults with cubs of their own.

That’s when he remembered that Rebecca Luntz-Peters hadn’t left the bar and as was her way, had been nursing one lone beer all night. He glanced over and, yep. She was gaping, her mouth open. Then she was scrambling for her cell phone. Probably to call her older sister in Boston and her younger sister in Nevada.

Awkward.

Not sure what else to do, Grigori said, “Let’s dance.”

He grabbed Marci’s hand and hauled her drunk ass out away from the table and to the dance floor. He pulled her into his arms and held her against him in an attempt to keep her under control.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” he told her.

“Blayne said I should go for what I want. So I went.”

Figures it was that damn wolfdog. In town less than four days and all hell was breaking loose! Wasn’t it bad enough she had a dog living under his couch?

“Maybe you should have made that decision while sober.”

“I’m not drunk. I’m just fortified. Blayne, however—”

“Has been drinking Shirley Temples all night.”

“Yeah. Which are full of sugar.”

“So?”

When his black bear only giggled, he had a bad feeling.

Bo watched his uncle close his truck door and walk around it.

“You’ll be all right?” he asked Grigori.

“Yeah. I’m just going to drive Marci home.”

“I don’t need you to drive me home, ya bastid. I’m fine.”

Bo would have believed that more if Dr. Luntz was sitting in the passenger seat rather than on the truck floor, and if she had her eyes open rather than closed. And if she weren’t slurring her words a bit and calling his uncle “bastid.”

“Yeah. Right.” Grigori rolled his eyes at his nephew. “I’m gonna make sure she gets settled. So, uh . . .”

Rather than get an explanation that would just freak him out, Bo cut in, “No problem. Take your time.”

Grigori nodded at him, got in his truck, and drove off. Bo turned and headed through the woods back to his uncle’s house. He stopped, though, when the burden he carried on his left shoulder slid out of his old hockey pants—that were shorts on him when he was twelve but ski pants on Blayne—and hit the ground. Letting out an annoyed sigh, Bo reached down to grab her, but she’d already taken off running.