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Logan

"Are those Saffron's?" Father demands, gesturing at the white underwear that's half-hidden in the bush.

I'll check. Beta steps forward, his nose twitching as his face moves closer and closer to Saf's panties. For a few seconds, I stay frozen in place, watching him in horror, and then I rush him from the side. My hand intercepts his muzzle while my shoulder connects with his side, sending Beta flying. He yelps in surprise and lands on his side before sliding across the grass. When he finally comes to a stop a few feet away, he looks up at me in surprise. What the Goddess?

"Explain yourself, Logan," Father demands, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I'm not letting him smell my mate's panties." I block them from view.

You know, you could have just said so, Beta chuckles, getting to his feet. He shakes dust and loose pieces of grass off his brown fur and sits down on his haunches. There was no need to attack me.

"I didn't attack you." I mutter.

"What my son means to say is 'sorry'," Father stares at me pointedly. Then he crosses his arms and growls. "Well, go on. We don't have all day."

"Oh." My cheeks flush as he gestures at the panties and I realize he expects me to smell them. I take a step toward the bush and tentatively reach forward. My fingers almost graze the scrap of white fabric peeking out from the bushes before I stop. I can't do it. I'm not some creep who smells girls' panties, not even if that girl is my mate.

"Well?" Father snaps. "Logan, either you smell the evidence, or I will."

I gasp. Then, I cringe as I try to get the mental image of my father smelling my mate's panties out of my head.

"Stop embarrassing him, James." Mother clicks her tongue at Father. Kaitlyn snorts and covers her mouth with her hand, while Beta's chuckle echoes in my head.

"It has to be done, Anna," Father tells Mother softly.

"Then I'm sure either Kaitlyn or I would be happy to do it."

"No," I cry as my mind conjures up the mental image of Mother burying her nose in Saf's panties, too. Next thing you know, they'll be suggesting we all pass the panties around so we can take turns smelling them. "I'll do it."

I square my shoulders and turn my back on the others, blocking their view of the scrap of fabric. It feels soft and silky against my thumb and index finger, and I give it a gentle tug. It starts to dislodge from the bush, but before I can figure out what shape the fabric forms—and whether or not my mate wears a thong—I spot something else near the ground.

"What are you doing now?" Father demands as I abandon the panties and squat down to take a look.

"It's a sneaker," I cry in relief. I let out a whoosh of breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and grab it. I hold it up like a trophy, while I search for evidence of its twin.

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