Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
It doesn’t do any good, and it doesn’t make me feel any better, and ain’t that just like me these days?
Acting like I’ve got no sense.
Breaking things I’m responsible for tending.
Fucking things up past all possible hope of repair.
Chapter 4
4
FLORA
I
‘ve never visited the gray wolf’s den before, but I know where it is. Every pup has been warned to steer clear unless you want to end up filling her belly as she uses your bones as toothpicks.
I figured out she wasn’t what they say a while ago. Myra from the laundry was about to go into her fourth heat, and at the time, her mate was splitting his time equally between the bar, the ditch, and the back of the alpha’s garage where they lock up the males when they need to be put on ice for a while.
Myra was already getting shit from Brenda for bringing her youngest to work, but Myra’s dam wasn’t quick enough anymore to keep tabs on a pup that age.
Myra got more and more anxious until Shona Cameron came by on some pretext with word that the gray wolf was back. Myra slipped out that afternoon, and when she came back, she smiled for the first time in days.
After that, I noticed that while the males and pups are terrified of the gray wolf, and love to swap tales about claws like razors and spells that make your balls shrivel into prunes, a lot of the females are conspicuously quiet when her name comes up.
Her den is on a slope that rises parallel to the one that the village sprawls along, so you have to follow the river down mountain and then hike almost straight vertical for a half mile to travel as far as would take fifteen minutes as the crow flies.
By the time I reach the pebbly slope leading to the mouth of her cave, I’m drenched in sweat. I haven’t showered since yesterday, and shifting has left my skin feeling weird and rubbery. At least I’m wearing my own clothes again, although I wish I’d worn a T-shirt instead of a hoodie. The warmth rising inside me, coupled with the heat from exertion, is making me feel like one of those fireball candies that burn your mouth.
I hesitate at the bottom of the narrow path worn toward her door, fingering the wad of human cash and scrip in my pouch. The woods are strangely silent up here, no rustling in the underbrush or chittering critters, only wind rustling through the leaves.
Maybe this is a bad idea.
I glance over my shoulder. The way here is so steep that I’m looking down at nothing but treetops.
I came this far. My lungs are still burning. Am I really going to give up now? Just because I don’t know what I’m doing?
I know what’s behind me. Dirty looks, dirty laundry, and Alec Cameron glaring at me like I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.
I turn back around. Unblinking, depthless gray eyes stare at me from the shadows of the crack in the mountain side. My heart jumps into my throat.
The gray wolf strides out into the sunlight. She’s definitely an elder, but she doesn’t take gingerly steps. She strolls with the grace and confidence of a female in her prime. And she isn’t gray, either, not entirely. I’d call her silver.
A black cat trails behind her, the expression in her green marble eyes identical to the wolf’s. They’re judging me.
I stand very still, letting my arms fall to my sides. For a long moment, while the midday sun beats down on the crown of my head, we consider each other. The cat gets bored first, slinking off into the undergrowth.
A few seconds later, the wolf shifts, rising onto two legs, fur receding into weathered, tan skin, her long muzzle melting into a wily, sharp-boned face. Her long hair is the exact silver of her wolf’s coat. In the sunshine, it almost glitters.
“Flora Ritchie,” she says. “You’re right on time.”
She turns, disappearing into her den, and it’s a strange thing to think in a moment like this, but damn if the gray wolf doesn’t have an ass you could bounce a quarter off.
I follow her into her den. It seems like the thing to do.
As soon as I clear the narrow corridor leading into a wide, low-ceilinged space, my jaw drops. Whatever I imagined, it’s not this. The gray wolf’s den is cozy and way nicer than anything in the village.
She’s got electricity, for one. The space is lit with these quaint floor lamps shaped like shepherd’s crooks with exposed globe light bulbs hanging from the ends, giving off the softest white glow. The furniture is mismatched and worn, but sturdy and well-constructed in a way that most furniture around Salt Mountain isn’t.
The centerpiece of the space is a huge, roughhewn worktable strewn with jars and vials and bottles and flasks, stacked on racks like a library of dusty glass and dented tin. Herbs dangle overhead, clipped to a string run from wall to wall. The damp air has a crisp to it, like after a lightning strike.
My wolf wants to slowly back away and bolt as soon as she’s clear of the entrance.
The gray wolf smirks and wraps herself in a white cotton robe, tugging the belt tight around her taut waist, and lowers herself regally into a rocking chair. She gestures toward a low couch. She should look like a grandmother, but with the fluidity and elegance of her movements, it feels like she should be in a cocktail dress with a martini in one hand and a slim cigarette in the other.
I take a seat, sinking into the plush cushion to the point that my feet dangle an inch above the floor.
She raises her thin, arched brows expectantly. I fumble in my pocket for my wad of money, raising it like it’s a ticket.
“Put it there,” she says, gesturing to a coffee table made of a slab of wood set on two overturned apple crates. I awkwardly bend forward to drop it. How did she even get the furniture in here? I scan the space, but I can’t find another entrance.
“So you want to get the heck out of Dodge, eh?”
I’m not sure exactly what she means, but I get the gist. I nod. “How did you know?”
She cackles. “Who wouldn’t want to get out of here?”
She’s so right, but at the same time, it never occurred to me until now. “Miss Nola says you can tell me where to go.”
“She does?” The gray wolf lifts a bony shoulder. “I suppose I do get around.”
She sinks back so her face is hidden by the shadow cast by the cave’s wall, but her bright eyes gleam, glinting like silver dollars. I feel like I’m supposed to be afraid of her, but my wolf has calmed, reassured by the scent of fur and cave, so there’s no rush of adrenaline.
I let my body sink deeper into the cushions.
“So what are you looking for, Flora Ritchie?”
I don’t know. I’ve never looked forward to anything really, except Alec’s nods. Well, I guess there are the normal, everyday things. Tea with Miss Nola. Snuggling Harriet. Making little things for around the house. Window gardens and birdbaths and the like. Fine summer weather. First snows. Those sorts of things.
That doesn’t sound like it’d be the answer she’s looking for, though, so I say, “I don’t know.”
The gray wolf leans forward so the shadow falls away from her face. Her angular face is hard, unforgiving, but her eyes have become less flinty, smoother. “Of course you do, Flora.”
And for the first time, I actually ask myself the question. If I could want a future for myself, what would it be?
It’s so strange, the entire idea of looking for something. That’s not how life operates. You hope. Hope you can overstuff the machines just enough without unbalancing the loads so you can finish early and steal some time back for yourself. Hope everyone decides to ignore you. Hope that they’ll content themselves with nasty words and not feel the need to defend their rank by dealing you a casual shove or pinch.
Hope it’s a day that Alec Cameron wants you to sneak away.
You count your blessings when things break your way, and when they don’t, you tell yourself that whatever it is, it’ll be over soon enough. Nothing lasts forever.
So why should this life?
I sit a little straighter.
What am I looking for?
I know what I would’ve said yesterday. For Alec to say—when we’re done, and he’s tucking himself away, and I’m brushing my knees off—for him to just say, “Wait. Go back with me.” And for him to walk me home, holding my hand, by my side, as unconcerned with everyone’s opinion as he always is.
To not be alone. To be as good as anyone else. For once.
But today isn’t yesterday.
“I want a new pack. I want to belong. I don’t want to be at the bottom. I don’t want anyone to be at the bottom.” I didn’t know it was in me, but now it’s tumbling out. “I want to do good work, and for people to notice and care, and I don’t want to sit alone. If someone doesn’t like me, I want them to have a reason, and if they don’t, I want them to just leave me alone.” My eyes are burning. I scrub at them, but there aren’t any tears. “Is that too much to ask?”
I look to the female across from me. She’s bent even further forward, listening intently, and there’s no pity in her expression, not a trace.
“No, it’s not. It’s not enough.” Her lips curve, and her eyes sparkle. “Keep going.”
“I don’t want to do laundry all day. I can do other things. I can paint. Build things. Grow things.”
“Go on.” She’s smiling with her teeth now. A rush of exhilaration fills my chest.
“I want a home of my own, and I want it to be done up all pretty, exactly the way I want. And I want a mate. And pups.”