Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
“What do you mean?”
“‘Heir Apparent’ is just a title my parents made up when I was born. It’s not a real thing.”
“I don’t get it.”
He dumps the can in the pot with a grunt of victory and fishes out the lid. “The alpha of Moon Lake is the oldest male offspring of the last alpha. That’s me.” He frowns at the pot. “I need a spoon.”
He trots back into the trailer, emerging more quickly this time. He’s getting familiar with the kitchen. My stomach wobbles uneasily.
“So that means you’re the alpha of Moon Lake?” I’m not dropping the conversation. It feels important.
“A pup can’t lead. Broderick Moore died before I was born. The pack was in limbo, so my mother mated my father, and he ‘held’ Alpha for me.”
Does Cadoc know Abertha’s story about his parents’ mating? It doesn’t feel like my place to tell.
“So all my life, I’ve been alpha, but who have I led? What have I done?” He peers into the fire, and the orange sparks glint off the silver swirls. “It’s been drilled into me from day one—sacrifice for the pack. The pack is the only important thing. Be the best for the pack. Be better than the best. No mistakes. Everything rides on my shoulders.” His voice takes on the cadence of another male. Madog Collins.
Cadoc glances up at me. “But what really depended on me? Nothing. Except you.” He holds my gaze. “You’re my pack. You’re the only important thing.”
He blinks and lowers his head to stir the stew. “I’ll be better. For you. And the pup.”
He coughs to clear his throat, grabs a bowl he brought out with the spoon, and ladles it full.
“Here.” He walks it over. I’m supposed to say something, but the cat’s got my tongue—thanks Human Linguistics—so I take the stew. The instant the scent hits my nose and I see the pale bits bobbling in the reddish goo, the gurgle in my stomach morphs into a gag. I shove it back at him.
“What?” He sniffs it.
“That’s not beef.”
“Sure it is.”
“It’s in perfect cubes.”
“That’s how they make it.”
“Cows aren’t made in pink cubes.”
“Well, the humans, you know,mold them.”
“Yeah, it smells like mold.”
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s good for camping. It’s nonperishable.” He wanders back to where he left the can and examines the label again. “It doesn’t expire for two years.”
I had no idea that expiration dates were a scam both ways—there’s no doubt in my mind that stew has been rancid since a machine shit it into that can.
“What do you want to eat then?” he asks.
“Can you shift and get us a rabbit or something?” I haven’t had fresh meat in a week.
“I’m not going to leave you.”
The disappointment hits too hard. I think I’m tired and overwrought. I rise to my feet, and Cadoc tenses.
“I’m just getting some jerky from the trailer.”
He settles and starts in on his cubed cow. We eat in silence as the sun finishes setting and the moon comes out. He’s much quieter company than Nia and Bevan or Drona, Arly, and Rae, but I don’t mind. It’s not a difficult silence. The bond is streaming steadily, and I get the sense that he’s tuning in to the same things I am—the barred owl asking ‘who-cooks-for you,’ the crack of a twig, the whistling wind.
Alone like this, I realize we kind of operate on the same register. We’re observers. Listeners. Is that why Fate chose us as mates? It doesn’t seem like nearly enough.
When I’ve eaten enough jerky to ward off the nausea I get with an empty stomach, I tell Cadoc I’m going to bed. I’m not tired, but I need to regroup.
I use my makeshift latrine, straighten a few things around camp, and brush my teeth at the ‘sink’ I set up on the hood of the Land Rover. It’s an old crock pot filled with water.
Cadoc sits by the fire and flips through his notebook, jotting notes, his gaze flying up every so often to track me for a few seconds before he goes back to what he’s doing. Every time he does, my stomach swooshes, but not in an unpleasant way.
Finally, I kick my boots off at the door to the trailer and slip inside.
The stale air has a hint of wood in it. I don’t mind. It’s a nice smell.
I wait for a bad memory to rear up, but I have to summon them. Cadoc’s stone cold rejection in the Commons. The shove the night we mated. His silence beside the track.
The hurt isn’t gone. It comes when bidden. It doesn’t come alone, though. Neither do the painful memories.
I remember his palm on my bare belly. His wolf waiting for me on the path outside of Abertha’s shack. His music in my ears.
I’ve never really thought about trust before. Experience taught me that people—even those with the best of intentions—can’t help but let you down. We’re all ultimately powerless. I guess if Cadoc’s being honest, it’s true for everyone.
We can make promises, and mean them with all our hearts, but when it comes down to it, we can’t keep them. That’s life.
I crawl into bed, tug my quilt to my chin, and stare at the ceiling. I let my thoughts wander over the day, the month, the years. I let what comes come. The trailer grows colder. I roll to my side and tuck my legs to my chest so I can stretch my thermal shirt over my knees.
I don’t have to trust Cadoc. I don’t have to forgive him.
I don’t. And I’m not.
But I pad to the door, open it a crack, and peek out. I don’t see him at first, not until he clambers onto four legs. He was lying by the fire.
Cadoc’s wolf trots over. He bumps my shin with his black nose.
“Cozy by the fire, eh?”
He whines in the back of his throat and tries to wedge his snout in between me and the doorframe.
“You want to come in?”
He’s got both front paws up on the doorframe, crowding me backwards.
“All right. I guess you’re okay.” I stop blocking his way, scurry back to the bed, climb in, and sit at the foot cross-legged. Cadoc’s wolf leaps inside and proceeds to sniff every nook, cranny, corner, and crack. He’s especially interested in the cabinet where I keep the food.
He saves the bed for last, and when he approaches, he sidles over, playing it real cool. I’d buy the act if his eyes weren’t swirling. He runs his nose along the sheets, brushing my calves and knees. He’s very interested, but he’s cautious. He’s not making any sudden moves.
Eventually, he rubs his scent on the edge of the mattress and retreats to lay in front of the closed door and watch me.
I swing to lay on my belly, heels in the air, and I watch him back. He yawns, his pink tongue unrolling. I rest my chin on my folded arms.
We consider each other.
My wolf is pleased that he’s here. She circles once, twice, flops down, and promptly falls asleep.
My body’s tired, but my brain’s still chugging.
“What are you doing here, eh?”
He lowers his muzzle to his front paws.
“We’re going to have a pup, you know. If you’re not in, you should go now.”
His tail lazily thwaps the linoleum and then curls in a C shape.
“We’re going to need a better set up. Running water. Pups make a huge mess. You’re gonna have to hunt for us. I won’t be able to shift, and the pup needs fresh meat.”
His ears perk. In one fluid motion, he rises and jumps his front paws up to the kitchen counter, nosing open the cabinet and emerging with his fangs sunk into a bag of jerky. He walks it over to me.
“No, I meant—” I sigh, yank the plastic free from his teeth, and pop a strip in my mouth. He goes back to his station blocking the door.