"What? I kicked his ass!" Conan scowled up at me as I gently pressed the ice pack to his black eye. His voice was rough, swollen lip split just enough to sting every time he moved his mouth.
"Damn right you did!" Charlie said, grinning like he just watched a summer blockbuster. "Highlight of my week."
"I quite enjoyed the show," my father added coolly, arms crossed, clearly in a good mood. Of course he was—his honor had been defended in front of four other packs, and the rogues were humiliated. Meanwhile, Conan sat there looking like a wreck—black eye, busted lip, bruised ribs, probably running on sheer adrenaline and stubborn pride.
