CONNOR POV
If anyone had ever told me that one day I would be standing barefoot in the yard, throwing a stick for a dog while my son tried to eat dirt with the enthusiasm of a starving raccoon, I would have laughed in their face.
And then probably threatened them.
Yet there I was.
The Highlands Pack yard was bathed in late-afternoon sun, that kind of golden light that made everything look deceptively peaceful, like the world hadn’t almost ended more than once on our watch. George sat in the grass a few feet away from me, chubby legs splayed out, hands full of something that was definitely not meant for human consumption.
“Hey,” I warned, pointing. “No. That’s not food.”
George stared at me.
Then immediately shoved it into his mouth.
Coffee barked like this was the best game he had
