Chapter 20: Meat Bun Attack

Chapter 20: Chapter 20: Meat Bun Attack

Caesar let out a sigh so heavy it could have deflated a hot air balloon, then turned on his heel and trudged back toward the bed like a man accepting his fate at the DMV.

"Fine. Fine! Maybe this IS fate." He threw his hands up in theatrical defeat. "You know what? Our main goal in sneaking into this pack was to kidnap our new stepsister anyway. So if our stepsister turns out to be our fated mate? That’s not a problem—that’s efficiency! That’s killing two birds with one stone! That’s a BUY ONE GET ONE FREE deal from the Moon Goddess herself!"

Caelian, still rubbing his sore ribs, snorted. "Great. Glad you’ve made peace with it. Now HURRY UP and grab her. We’ve been here so long that Oliver is probably turning into an owl on a tree outside. And not a cool owl—a judgmental one. He’ll stare at us with those big creepy eyes and say nothing, and we’ll all feel bad about ourselves."

The threat of Oliver’s silent judgment was apparently enough to kick Caesar’s feet into gear. He lunged forward, hand outstretched—only to freeze mid-reach.

Because Azura was lying there. In a towel. A LOOSE towel. A towel that was currently doing a heroic job of covering her, but a job that was clearly one wrong move away from retirement.

Caesar’s brain short-circuited. He could not, in good conscience, carry a half-naked woman through a window.

I can’t carry her like this. She’s half-naked. Actually, she’s more than half-naked. She’s 90% naked. The towel is doing the work of a single overworked employee at a busy restaurant.

Normally, he wouldn’t care—everyone shifted from wolf to human all the time, and nudity was just part of the package. But this was different. Even if he didn’t feel the mate bond yet, even if he currently thought this woman was a chaotic gremlin wrapped in terrycloth, some deep, primal Alpha instinct stirred in his chest.

Mine. Even if she’s crazy. Even if she punches dreams. Ours. No one else sees.

So, like a reasonable man, he grabbed the blanket bunched near her feet.

Plan: wrap her up like a burrito. A human burrito. A mate burrito. Carry her out. Done. Simple. Easy.

But of course—of course—the universe had other plans.

Because from the moment they’d entered Azura’s room, every single action had been like stepping on a rake that launched them into a second rake that launched them into a third rake. This was a domino effect of disaster.

Just as Caesar placed the blanket over Azura’s body and began the delicate operation of rolling her up like a human sushi roll—

Azura’s sleeping face scrunched up like she’d just smelled something offensive.

Her hand shot out with the speed of a striking viper, snatched the blanket from his grasp, and—

WHIP

The blanket flew across the room like a disgruntled ghost and landed directly on Caelus’s head.

"HAH! Cora, you bully wolf! You think you can use your tail to attack ME?! TAKE THIS! DUMPLING TORNADO! BEAUTIFUL MEAT BUN GODDESS BLOOMING FLOWER—HYAHHH!"

Azura struck a dramatic sleeping pose, arm extended, fingers spread like she was casting a spell.

The triplets stared.

But the problem wasn’t the ridiculous skill name.

The problem was that when Azura yanked the blanket, she had also yanked the towel.

And now the towel was on the floor.

And the blanket was on Caelus’s head.

And Azura was lying there, completely, utterly, gloriously naked. Like a newborn baby. Like the first day of creation. Like a Renaissance painting titled "Chaos Incarnate: The Aftermath."

The blanket slid off Caelus’s head with all the dignity of a man who had just been defeated by a piece of bedding. His silver hair was mussed, sticking up in three different directions, and his expression was something between murder and existential crisis.

Caelian, mid-stride toward the bed, had frozen with one foot in the air like a flamingo having a stroke.

But neither of them had time to react.

Because Caesar—bless his reactive, impulsive, tragedy-bound heart—reacted first. Again. As always.

It’s just that his "reaction" this time was less "alpha wolf" and more "hentai protagonist who has tripped into a boob seven episodes in a row."

At the sight of his supposed mate’s naked body, Caesar’s brain short-circuited so hard that smoke practically poured out of his ears. His face turned the shade of a ripe tomato.

And then—because the universe has a sick sense of humor—as he tried to step back, his foot landed on a discarded towel. One of the items Azura had yeeted earlier in her magical girl rampage.

His foot slipped.

His body lurched forward.

And, in what could only be described as the most cliché, rom-com, god-awful timing imaginable—

His face landed squarely—no, perfectly—between Azura’s bare breasts.

THWUMP!!

Silence.

Not the normal silence. Not the "awkward pause" silence. This was the silence of three men whose souls had collectively left their bodies to attend a conference in another dimension.

Caesar lay there, motionless. Face buried in softness. Brain offline. Soul ascending to the moon.

"..."

"..."

"..."

For a long, agonizing moment, none of them moved. Caelian’s hand was frozen mid-reach. Caelus had stopped breathing. Caesar had stopped existing.

Meanwhile, deep in her dream, Azura was locked in an epic battle with Cora. The wolf had just headbutted her chest—a cheap move, clearly—and Azura was FURIOUS.

Her sleeping hand shot out like a viper and clamped onto Caesar’s head.

"Take THIS! MEAT BUN SUFFOCATION ATTACK!"

She shoved his face deeper into her chest.

Caesar’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t breathe. He was being smothered. By boobs. This was both the best and worst way to die.

She squeezed.

Caesar’s muffled scream was swallowed by cleavage.

"MMMPH—BROTHERS—I CAN’T—BREATHE—"

His legs kicked uselessly in the air like an overturned beetle. His hands flailed, grabbing at the bedsheet, at duck plushie, at nothing.

Caelus and Caelian snapped out of their daze at the same time, both lunging toward the bed like firefighters responding to a four-alarm fire.

"LET GO OF HIM!" Caelus grabbed one of Azura’s wrists, prying with all his strength.

"HOW DOES SHE HAVE THIS MUCH GRIP STRENGTH IN HER SLEEP?!"

Caelian grabbed the other, pulling Caesar’s head back like he was extracting a stubborn cork from a wine bottle.

"Naked boob attack! It’s a NAKED BOOB ATTACK!" Caelian shouted, half-panicked, half-hysterical. "She knew exactly which one of us to target! She went for the VIRGIN! She knew the virgin would be paralyzed by the sight of boobs! YOU CAN’T DIE LIKE THIS, CAESAR! NOT BY BOOBS! NOT WHEN YOU’RE STILL A VIRGIN! THAT’S THE MOST EMBARRASSING DEATH IN WEREWOLF HISTORY!"

Among the triplets, the hierarchy of experience was a well-known joke:

Caelian slept around more than he slept alone. He had a contact list that could crash a phone.

Caelus only gave in during the full moon, when his rut demanded it, and even then it was clinical, efficient, and over as soon as possible.

But Caesar? Oh, unique Caesar. Special Caesar. Even during his full moon rut—when most Alphas would tear through walls to find a partner—Caesar would lock himself in the training room, punch sandbags until his knuckles bled, and scream into towels until the urge passed. Because he believed that only weak-willed men surrendered to base desires.

And now that virgin face was buried in his possibly-fated-mate’s chest, being squeezed like a stress ball.

The Moon Goddess definitely had a favorite, and it wasn’t Caesar.

"BROTHERS—" Caesar’s muffled voice came again, weaker this time.

"I’M PULLING!" Caelian yelled.

"PULL HARDER!" Caelus commanded.

"I’M PULLING AS HARD AS I CAN!"

"THEN WHY ISN’T HE MOVING?!"

"BECAUSE HER GRIP IS LIKE A PYTHON WITH EMOTIONAL ISSUES!"

*

*

Meanwhile, perched on a tree branch like a discount gargoyle, Oliver—the green-haired beta currently having a full-blown identity crisis—had officially become an owl.

Not literally. But spiritually.

His eyes were wide. His head was swiveling. He was blinking slowly, judgmentally, at the window of Azura’s bedroom, where his alphas had entered what felt like three lifetimes ago.

Why are they taking so long to kidnap ONE woman?

He scratched his head, tufts of green hair catching the moonlight.

They’re triple Alpha wolves. Strongest in the region. Feared by enemies. Respected by allies. And they can’t handle one small, unarmed she-wolf? Is she secretly a demon in pajamas? Did she trap them in a conversation about feelings?

Then the shouts started.

Oliver’s ears perked up. His head tilted.

Then came the groans.

His eyes bulged. His brain screeched to a halt like a car hitting a wall.

...Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Aren’t they supposed to be KIDNAPPING their stepsister?

He stared at the window. The muffled shouts continued. Followed by what sounded like a grown man yelling "BOOBS—I CAN’T—THE BOOBS—"

Oliver’s jaw dropped so fast it nearly unhinged.

His brain, which had been running on standard "guard duty" logic, immediately derailed and crashed into a ditch labeled "WHAT IN THE ACTUAL MOON GODDESS’ NAME IS GOING ON THERE?"

He stared at the window. His mouth opened. No sound came out.

Were they... were his Alphas... were they having sex with their stepsister?!

But they had just felt the mate pull! Earlier tonight! Somewhere in this very territory! They had literally stopped mid-conversation, clutching their chests like they’d been shot by Cupid’s more aggressive cousin! They had a FATED MATE out there! A destined partner chosen by the Moon Goddess herself!

And they chose NOW to rawdog their step-sibling?!

A million questions exploded in Oliver’s skull like fireworks at a mental asylum.

Are they just going to cheat on their fated mate before they even meet her? Is this a new Alpha strategy I’m not aware of? Do I need to start carrying condoms in my pack supplies? Is stepsister on the list of acceptable pre-mate stress relief? Did I miss a memo? WAS THERE A MEETING?

The misunderstanding grew roots, sprouted leaves, and bloomed into a full garden of confusion in his mind.

However—

His ears caught something else. A low hum. An engine. Headlights cutting through the dark road in the distance.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. He had already scouted the area yesterday, before the triplets’ grand arrival. And he recognized that car.

A sleek black sedan. Silver rims. Custom plates.

Behind the wheel, a man with silver hair and an expression that could curdle milk from fifty meters away.

Jonathan.

Azura’s older brother.

Oliver’s hair stood on end.

He slammed a mind link open so fast his brain nearly popped a blood vessel.

’ALPHAS. GET OUT. NOW. THE BROTHER IS BACK. I REPEAT—THE BROTHER. ABORT MISSION. ABANDON BOOBS. RUN. ALSO, PLEASE TELL ME YOU WERE NOT DOING WHAT IT SOUNDED LIKE YOU WERE DOING. BECAUSE IF YOU WERE, I AM QUITTING. I WILL GO LIVE WITH THE SQUIRRELS. I WILL BECOME A NUT ACCOUNTANT.’