Thane awoke to the strange sensation of silence.
Not the usual silence of a sleeping bus or backstage lounge, but the kind of plush, thick silence that only came with thick carpet, high thread-count sheets, and blackout curtains you could lose a crew member in. He sat up slowly, blinking at the ornate moldings overhead and the glint of morning sunlight trying to sneak through heavy drapes.
This wasn’t the den.
This… wasn’t even Edmond.
Across the suite, Mark was sprawled on the sofa in a white hotel robe, one paw slung over his eyes, the other clutching a paper coffee cup that had long since gone cold. Someone had tucked a souvenir Skirvin Hilton pillow under his head, and for once, he didn’t look grumpy—just quietly overwhelmed.
Thane groaned softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Where the hell are we?”
“You’re in the Presidential Suite,” came a dry voice from the adjoining room. “Compliments of Ivan. And possibly the State Department.”
Diesel stepped out in full uniform—well, technically his black jeans, tour staff hoodie, and an incredibly fluffy hotel towel wrapped like a turban on his head. He sipped orange juice straight from a champagne flute.
“Ivan said we needed to rest ‘like wolves of legend.’ So he booked out the top floor.”
Thane blinked. “All of it?”
Diesel nodded. “Even the governor’s suite. Apparently the governor is a fan.”
Down the hall, chaos had already awakened.
Gabriel had commandeered a breakfast cart and was racing it down the hallway barepaw, wearing only his hotel robe and a Feral Eclipse bandana like a sash. Rico was chasing him in mismatched socks, holding a shoe in one hand and a mimosa in the other, shouting something about insurance forms.
Cassie and Emily were on the floor of the lobby bar lounge, laughing uncontrollably while trying to read fan tweets from the night before.
“I swear to Luna,” Cassie gasped between laughs, “this fan says she named her baby Gabriel Thane Eclipse.”
Emily tilted her phone. “Wait, wait, here’s another — ‘THE RUSSIAN MOB KEPT US SAFE ALL NIGHT. #WolfBodyguards’”
Maya emerged from a room in full glam, perfectly eyelinered and calm as ever, sipping her espresso like none of this touched her.
Jonah wandered out of the elevator in a towel and crown from New Year’s Eve. “I’m royalty now,” he declared to no one in particular.
A bellhop passed him, nodded solemnly, and whispered, “Yes, your majesty,” before disappearing into the staff hallway.
The grand ballroom-turned-breakfast suite was already laid out by the time Thane and Mark made their way downstairs.
Long tables lined with linen cloths and silver trays offered an array of everything from smoked salmon to vegan tofu scrambles. Omelets. Pastries. Whole roast duck. Yes, duck.
At the center of it all sat Ivan, pristine in a velvet blazer and sipping from a porcelain teacup with two fingers in the air like some kind of Eastern European royalty.
“You made music for the world,” he said with a pleased smile. “So now the world makes omelets for you.”
Thane just stared at the table. “Is that caviar?”
Ivan nodded. “Black and red. For flavor balance.”
The entire pack, plus Trivium, Vandal Saints, and at least two Russian violinists, sat around the table in various stages of disbelief and hangover.
Mark picked at a croissant, quiet and warm-eyed. Cassie propped her head on Gabriel’s shoulder, still scrolling through viral posts.
“I think we broke TikTok,” she murmured.
Gabriel grinned sleepily. “Good.”
Jonah had stolen a room-service menu and was reading it like scripture. “Do we get everything on here?” he asked.
A server passed by with a silver tray. “Sir, you already did.”
Thane caught Mark’s eye over a plate of fruit and carbs.
“All of this,” he said softly, “do you think we deserve it?”
Mark didn’t answer right away. He looked around the table—at their chaotic, half-dressed crew, the glitter still stuck to Jonah’s hair, the robe-clad Trivium members quietly eating like it was just another morning, the city skyline visible through the tall historic windows. He glanced down at the engraved room key resting on the tablecloth.
“I don’t think it matters,” he said finally. “We earned it. And that’s better.”
Thane raised his coffee mug. “To what comes next.”
Mark clinked his own against it. “To what comes next.”
They stayed for hours, lounging, laughing, telling stories.
At one point, Ivan orchestrated a toast in Russian. No one understood it, but they all stood and drank anyway. A server played piano. Rico accidentally joined in on acoustic guitar, and before long, the whole pack was harmonizing a bluesy rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” like they’d been born to it.
The Skirvin Hilton belonged to them, just for the morning.
Just for a moment.
And when the wolves eventually checked out, bleary-eyed but smiling, they left behind only memories… and a suite full of bathrobes no one intended to return.