The barn smells like sawdust and sweat and a tornado of wolf scents that I'm still teasing out. Beau's pine and sunshine is mixed with the lavender and clover and honey and spice of the younger members of the pack listening to him as they stretch and joke on the padded floor. From the beams and stalls, it feels like the barn must have once been a working stable, but now the open interior has been converted into something between a boxing gym and a dojo. Gym mats. A padded ring. Half-rusted weights. A punching bag repaired with duct tape.

I stand just inside the entrance, leaning against the worn doorframe. It's cooler in here than it is in the summer morning, but the motion of all the bodies and the rising excitement makes me think it won't stay this way for long.

Beau is calm and firm with Owen and Leo and Lilah and Nadine and Wren, the older of the group. And he's steady and patient with Lacey and Millie, the children.

He wouldn't usually have Lacey and Mille, who both have years in the single digits, join sparring at such a young age, but after our lakeside conversation, Beau confided his fears about the Lunar Pack stalking the border. He wants everyone to be prepared. Even me. Maybe especially me. So I'm here too. If only to pick up some pointers by watching.

Because I haven't shifted, Beau doesn't want me too close to the younger wolves. Apparently there's always risk of a sore loser shifting and he doesn't want to risk my safety. And I haven't told him that my wolf is impatient, trying to break through my skin... but I haven't figured out how to let her out. I haven't figured out how to shift despite everyone's assertions that it's natural. Intuitive.

It's not intuitive. Not for me, at least.

So I'm stuck watching from the outside.

Not that I can really complain. Watching Beau is a sort of delicious torture. He's wearing gym shorts and a tank top that fits like a second skin, barefoot on the mat. It's got to be this magical bond between us, because I never imagined that I would find a man's feet attractive. But Beau's are.

The slap of Owen's back against the mat is sharper than I expect and it rips me out of daydreaming. I flinch. Not because the impact hurt him, but because while the wind is clearly knocked out of him, a low growl rumbles out of Owen's chest. The air grows tight with that just-before-a-lightening-strike tautness.

But it fades. Owen accepts Leo's hand. Let's him pull him to his feet once he's caught his breath.

Beau's face is unreadable, but his voice is perfectly calm. "Better," he says. "But you're still overcommitting. You're letting Leo get you off balance."

Owen groans but nods, swiping his arm across his face. "Wouldn't be a problem if I could just shift, like in a real fight," he says. "My wolf could take Leo's any day."

Leo's mouth twists into something that almost looks like a snarl. The air around him shudders, but no one loses their skin to fur.

Beau just shifts back to the center of the mat, eyes scanning. He doesn't call out any commands, doesn't need to. With the briefest raise of his hand, he directs the next pair to step up. Wren and Nadine move into position, circling each other warily, more disciplined than Owen and Leo, but more hesitant. Even so, the shudder of feral energy seems to vibrate under their skin.

"Discipline over the body is discipline over the wolf," Beau says. "If you lose control here—" he gestures to the mat "—you lose control when it matters. I don't care how strong your wolf is. A wolf lost to instinct is easily tricked, easily defeated."

Owen blushes. As do a few of the others.

And then Beau gestures for the girls to start. Wren lunges immediately. Nadine counters. The others watch closely, even little Millie, absorbing the lesson. Learning from the mistakes.

And I just watch Beau, mostly.

I like him in this space. Not just his strength, though that's obvious in the taut lines of his arms and the easy confidence of his stance—but his control. His focus. Every movement of his body seems calibrated. Every word is weighted just enough to guide, never crush. When he puts himself against them, he pulls his strikes, takes hits. He doesn't need to show them how strong he is. He's showing them how to be strong themselves.

My wolf enjoys watching more than I do. She's alert, very close to the surface. She wants me in the ring too. She wants to show off her strength and speed. And she wants to draw out Beau's wolf, run with him, tussle with him. I'm not sure if that's just wolfish instinct, but I can't disagree with her: there's something very attractive about the idea of play wresting with Beau.

Especially since Beau's promise is contingent on my shifting.

A part of me is still shocked I told him that I want to do this. That I want forever.

When I'm close to Beau, the idea of binding myself to him seems obvious, but I can't deny that the idea still makes my feet a little cold. Do we really know each other? Our conversation was a huge step in getting closer, in understanding him. Sure, I like how he makes me feel, and I know how he drinks his coffee, but shouldn't there be more to it than that? It seems like there is for humans—dating and fights and break ups and make ups—but maybe things are simpler with werewolves. And I can't help but wonder if I'm just fighting this because I spent half my life never growing roots and the other half isolating myself so I'd never be hurt.

But I can't really ignore the fact that we still haven't discussed what our life would look like. We haven't discussed kids and finances and all the minutiae that you're supposed to check off before jumping head first into happily ever after. It makes me wonder if werewolves just ignore the tough details and figure it out as they go.

I'm drawn back to the sparring when I hear Wren cheering, Owen calling bets. Some of the older wolves, the betas and protectors, into the barn. From their panting and exhilarated smiles, it's clear they've just finished their run and are eager to get to their own training.

The younger wolves demand a demonstration, calling out the names of who they want to see fight. Caleb and a group of the other betas start grinning and pushing each other's shoulders, teasing about previous matches.

From Nora's eye roll, I get the impression that this is a common event. I remember Owen talking about alcohol-fueled sparring matches and I can't help but think about tussling puppies. Mixed with the happy anticipation in my chest, I figure this is just a wolf thing. Because despite the shadow of the Lunar Pack hovering over us, the wolves are excited to "play."

Watching the older wolves spar is riveting. They're faster than humans, stronger. The impact of their blows would be enough to send a regular person to the ER, but they brush off each hit, readjust, strike again. I struggle to remember all their names, but I recognize Celia's mate, the broad-shouldered Grant, and the siblings Jesse and Rory. After a few matches, Owen and Leo start begging for Beau to join, to do more than point out the foot placement and strikes.

"Not today," Beau says, eyes eyes flicking toward me for the barest second. A chorus of groans rises from the group of young wolves sitting around the edge of the mat.

"Getting soft already?" Jesse teases. "I hear a mate will do that to you."

"Or up too late?" One of Nora's friends adds. Rowan, I think. She's built just like her—all muscle and tough-girl attitude—but Rowan's grinning instead of wearing Nora's scowl. "Never thought I'd see Beau tired out from—"

Beau can't hide that flash of gold, that eagerness of his wolf to join the fun. He sighs. "Fine."

He moves to the center of the ring, crossing his arms. Caleb pushes Jesse down and lopes over to challenge his alpha. With the cheers and wagers rising with the barn's coiling heat, Beau and Caleb tap fists. My wolf feels very close to the surface, like she's stretching out into my limbs, looking out from my eyes. Though I feel a thread of human nerves watching Beau and Caleb circle each other, she is perfectly and happily engrossed.

The tall and silent Caleb smiles in a little half-smirk, like he's already won.

"Ready?" Beau's voice is low, almost conversational.

Caleb nods, flexing his fingers. His knuckles whiten.

They move. If I'd have blinked, I would have missed it. Caleb feints left. Beau shifts his weight with Caleb's second strike. Then Caleb presses forward. First step smooth, second foot cutting narrow, shoulders pulled in for power. He throws a punch aimed at Beau's ribs. I flinch, even though I know it's just sparing.

Beau catches Caleb's wrist, guiding Caleb into a pivot. Caleb's blue eyes flash yellow, but he shakes it off, twisting out of Beau's grip without losing an inch of ground. He adjusts his weight and grins.

"Nice," Caleb rumbles, his voice a little more growl than it is human. "Almost had you."

Beau gives a small nod. "Again," he says.

And I realize that he's still teaching. He's still tempered, perfectly in control. When Caleb shoots forward, throwing an underhanded strike meant to unbalance Beau's stance, Beau steps inside. He lets the blow glance across his shoulder, pivots on his heel, uses Caleb's own momentum to send him skidding toward the edge of the ring.

Caleb stops himself, regains his balance. He returns with a series of strikes, guard arm tucked close, eyes narrow. For all Caleb's brute force, Beau is precise and efficient and fluid. He moves like he's already anticipated every encounter.

He suddenly leans hard to avoid a blow. It almost looks like Caleb has pushed him too far off center to recover. Yellow glowing out of Caleb's eyes, he strikes again, reaching with kick.

But I realize Beau isn't off balance at all.

He ducks under Caleb's strike, pushes the hip of the planted leg.

Caleb goes down hard.

And a ripple of groans and cheers rise from the spectators.

Even from here, I can feel the electricity of Caleb's wolf trying to break out. The air is taut, and his skin almost seems to shimmer in the slanted light. But Caleb keeps the wolf under control, accepts Beau's hand up. Beau says something low to Caleb. I can't hear it over the chatter, but Caleb nods in agreement. Smiles.

"Impressive, isn't he?"

I was so focused on watching Beau that I didn't realize Marcus had joined my little corner of the barn.

"Terrifying," I say, deadpan.

"That too." Marcus laughs. "No one can match Beau. Even as a kid he had alpha written all over him."

He shifts his weight. "Control," he says, "that's Beau's real strength. No one can match his discipline."

I nod slowly.

"Funny thing is, I don't think the pack has shown such good control for a long time. Usually a sparring match like this will lead to one or two of the younger wolves getting too excited and losing their skin." He chuckles quietly. "Can't tell you how many pairs of gym shorts Owen has split in this barn. "

I don't laugh. I'm too focused on the undercurrent of his words, on the memory of that first night here. "You think it's because of me," I say.

Marcus dips his chin in agreement. He leans a little closer, voice lowered so only I can hear it. "You notice how nobody's been slipping? No unintended shifts? No fangs popping out during arguments? Things are usually a little hairier around here. There's something about having you here that's helping people keep their heads."

I consider it, but I don't have any frame of reference. Besides Beau on the mountainside, I haven't seen anyone shift. Owen's had a couple close calls, and Caleb seemed just about read to burst, but everyone has kept their very human-appearing forms. The hint of mystery chafes—I'm getting sick of the half-answers and slow-drip of explanation from the pack, from Beau.

"Why do you think that is?" I ask, keeping my voice cool despite my flare of irritation. "You clearly have something you want to say."