Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
Communicate.
“What are you doing?” she gasps.
I drag her pants down and off the one leg and throw her thigh over my shoulder. “Telling you that I love you,” I say. “Now be quiet and listen.”
Volume 5
1
ANNIE, AGE EIGHTEEN
There’s something wrong with me.
Beyond the usual.
It’s November, and I’m sweating through my long jean skirt.
The yellow school bus bumps along, winding back to Quarry Pack territory from Moon Lake Academy, and I slide back and forth on the plastic bench, leaving streaks of sweat on the dark green seats. I scrub the dampness away with the cuff of my flannel shirt, but then the bus takes another hairpin turn, and I’ve got another streak to swipe.
What if it’s wasting sickness?
A memory flashes into my head—the stink of camphor, Ma’s rattling lungs, the white sheet almost flat on the mattress except for the knobs of her knees and ridges of her hips.
But it can’t be wasting sickness. The big brains at Moon Lake cured that years ago. Besides, sweating isn’t a symptom.
The sharp, pecking voice that lives in the back of my head pipes up. It can never be silent for long.
You know what causes sweating.
The bus barrels around a curve. I brace my knees against the seat in front of me and press my spine into the back so I don’t slide.
It’s heat.
If I ignore the voice, it’ll get louder and more insistent until I melt down. If I listen to it, I’ll work myself into a panic attack. I don’t know which is worse. I’ve tried to experiment, but I don’t make a good scientist when I’m balled up in a corner, rocking and digging my nails into my forearms.
Sometimes I hate myself. I want to unzip myself like a pair of footie pajamas, step out of my skin, and walk away.
I want to cut the nagging, beaky voice out of my brain with a pair of scissors. I know the voice is me, but I hate it because it’s always full of doom and gloom, and it’s always right.
Heat causes sweating. And it makes unmated males stink. What’s that smell, Annie? You smell it. I know you do.
It’s three dozen kids at the end of a long day, crammed into a metal can with windows that only open halfway.
No, it isn’t. It’s different. Mustier. Nastier.
My stomach gurgles queasily. I switch to breathing through my mouth.
I’d give anything for a knob that would turn the voice off. Or down. I’d take down.
You’re in heat. You know it. Your mate is here. Time’s up.
If the voice had a body, I’d take a tire iron to the back of its head. In this pack, I’m the shyest and quietest female my age, the scaredy cat who wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouth full of it—but if the voice were a person, I’d crack its skull open.
Your mate could be any one of these males. You don’t get to pick. Fate decides, and you have to take it. And then he can do whatever he wants to you.
The pecking voice throws up images of the worst males I know—Lochlan Byrne, smirking as he slinks out of a broom closet, tucking himself back into his gym shorts while a female with raccoon eyes follows in his wake, head high and defiant, her face sickly white and her hands shaking.
Alfie Doyle, shoving little Frankie Duffy down the steep bus steps, laughing when the poor guy sprawls in the asphalt.
Brody Hughes, leaning on the fence beside the track while we run past during human sport class, jeering at us to pick up our feet while he ogles our chests.
Somehow, my innards twist tighter. I wouldn’t have figured that was possible. My stomach already hurts worse than it usually does at the end of the day. I’m too scared to use the bathroom at the Academy—not around females from other packs—so I’m always bloated and crampy after lunch. If I poke my lower belly, it’ll be rock hard.
I need privacy and a shower. Then I’ll feel better. Maybe I’m making myself hot. I do sweat when I freak out.
Not this hot. Not this much sweat. And what about that smell?
My wolf whines and trots her worn path inside me, back and forth, deepening the rut with her pacing. The beaky, pecking voice drowns her out, but I know what my wolf grumbles low in her throat—run and hide, run and hide, run and hide. That’s all my wolf ever says. But run from what, though? And where? And hide from whom? How?
You can’t stop heat. It’s a greased metal chute into the unknown. Like life.
I stretch my neck and peek over the seat in front of me at the back of my classmates’ heads, many of them male. None of them seem special or different. I glance up at the rear-facing mirror over the driver, and I can see a few more males behind me, laughing and messing around, chewing food with their mouths open, propping themselves up with a knee on their seats, as close as they can get to standing without getting hollered at to sit down.
I sink as low in my seat as I can without looking weird. None of the males make me feel anything except scared and uncomfortable, and I always feel that way.
It’s going to be worse when one of them owns you. It’s going to be hell. You need a plan. Now.
My wolf adds her standard two cents—run and hide, run and hide, run and hide.
I blot my slick forehead with a damp sleeve as we careen around the last bend before rumbling through the Quarry Pack gates. As we pull into the commons, I gather my bag so I can bolt as soon as the bus rolls to a halt.
Mari and I have this part of the ride choreographed. She sits in the seat in front of me. As soon as the bus’s brakes screech and the door opens with a whoosh, she pops into the aisle, and I slip in behind her. She leads us down the steep steps and away from the crowd that spills out behind us.
We used to be permanent seatmates, but during one of our honest, late-night conversations between fellow insomniacs, Mari admitted that my fear stench was a little overpowering by the end of the day. Now we sit together on the ride to the Academy, but we split for the ride home.
It’s fine. I get it. I can’t stand my own smell, either.
Mari glances back at me. “Ready?” she mouths.
I nod.
The brakes screech, and the door whooshes. Mari hops up. I fall in behind her, stumbling forward when a male’s swinging gym bag whacks me in the back.
Run. Run. Run!
The pecking voice joins my wolf and becomes a blaring alarm in my brain. I ball my fists. My muscles tense, preparing to bolt. I slam my foot on my own internal brakes.
No.
I am not under attack.
It was an accident.
I force my balled hands to relax. I’m okay. Nothing is wrong except this bus is a freaking oven, and it smells like everyone has a piece of rotten fruit in their lunch box that’s been in there since the first day of school.
I take another second, and as soon as I’m confident that I’m not going to freak out and try to fight my way off the bus because I got bumped by a duffel bag, I hustle down the aisle.
As soon as my boot hits the ground, I scurry clear of the crowd spilling from the bus and drag in a lungful of fresh air, lifting my flushed face toward the late afternoon breeze rolling down from the hills.
It’s fresh. Heavenly. There’s an odd note in it, and it’s not bad at all. An earthiness. My cheeks cool, and my stomach muscles relax.
Mari grabs my hand and takes off toward home. I let her drag me along.
What is that scent? It’s not a usual November smell, not dry leaves or waterlogged wood. It’s closer to freshly tilled garden, but it’s also rich and spicy like the inside of the crone Abertha’s trunk or the cabinet where she keeps her oils and unguents.
“Do you smell something?” I ask Mari.
“Yeah,” she says, grimacing. “Don’t worry. You can have first shower.”
My cheeks heat again, and I pick up the pace.
Our cabin isn’t far, but it’s past the commons and up a fairly steep hill. Killian, our alpha, doesn’t want us lone females living close enough to the unmated males to tempt them into doing something they shouldn’t. That’s why we have to dress modestly and serve at meals instead of sitting at tables with the rest of the pack.
In my opinion, the rules are mostly in place to give Killian a false sense of security. Clothes aren’t armor, and if a male wants to hurt you, he’s not going to decide against it because he’s got to hike an extra quarter mile uphill. I don’t chafe against the rules as much as my roommates Mari, Kennedy, and Una do, though.