A few nights later, they were supposed to have the night off. It was supposed to be simple. A little blanket, a few lanterns, a chilled bottle of something vaguely fruity that Hunter wouldn’t admit he liked, and no one yelling “Alpha!” for at least three hours.

But this was Lunar Fang territory. “Simple” had a funny way of unraveling.

“Did you pack the strawberries?” Celeste asked, adjusting her grip on the picnic basket as they walked up the hill.

“I thought you were packing ...