“God, yes,” he replied, still mournful over the Tribe’s lack of tooth-rotting breakfast cereal. Something told him that some of the others were probably hoarding their own little stashes of sweets. Faust didn’t really blame them. Anything left in the kitchen was usually gone in an evening or two: Werewolves had big appetites. And though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, Faust had a little tin he kept under a loose board in his room. It was usually filled to the brim with everything from Fruit Roll-Ups to Reese cups, but it was currently running on empty.

The alpha grabbed one of the last sodas (which was, sadly, a generic Dr. Pepper knock off by the name of Dr. Fizz – They really needed to go on a night raid) from the fridge and sat down on the couch beside of Hannibal. He punched the pull tab in and fizz frothed over the top of the can, spilling onto his jeans. Faust ignored it and turned his full attention to Hannibal. “Sleep well?” he asked, downing half of his drink in one gulp.

The alpha’s expression immediately brightened when Sol entered the room. “Whatcha got?!”

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