Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
I want to cry.
It can’t be.
I cannot be going into heat, and Cadoc Collins absolutely, positively cannot be my mate. It would never be allowed. Not in a million years.
Fat, hot tears trickle down my cheek. My heart hurts and a wave of pure panic surges higher and higher, looming, about to break. I can’t breathe. My lungs won’t expand.
And then, out of nowhere, music floods my ears. I startle, almost whacking my head on the ceiling as I pluck the earbuds out and fling them down beside me on the bed.
The music still plays, faint and tinny. Guitar. Harmonica.
A human sings. He has a nasally voice, but it’s kind. Cheerful. There’s another instrument, the strange one that makes a spooky squawk. A theremin.
I lay my head back down, my ears next to the buds.
A hi-hat begins, and then it’s joined by the steady thud of a bass drum. A sweet female’s voice chimes in on the chorus.
It’s a pretty tune, lovely and simple.
I don’t know how I started the music—I don’t think I tapped anything—but it’s comforting.
I tuck the buds back in my ears. The trailer noise disappears again, replaced by humans singing about early May—wrens and bulbs and chirping birds at daybreak.
If I could pick, it’s the song I would’ve chosen. By the end, I’m humming along.
The song is followed by another, a different singer, different instruments, but similar to the first. Happy and sweet and about growing things.
I listen for hours, not thinking, not dreading the future, hot and sweaty but not minding it so much, sewing the zipper back on my bag, and then just lying on my back, head resting on my folded arms, staring at the stickers on the ceiling.
Eventually, my nieces come to bed, and when they burst in, the slightest hint of a breeze makes its way in from the front door where Uncle Dewey must still be propping the screen open with his hind quarters.
It carries the scent of the woods in the first rush of spring.
It must be my imagination. It’s fall, and we’re surrounded by reeds and marsh grasses and the murky shallows of the Bogs.
But all the same, it’s a wonderful smell. It soothes me as I drift off to sleep.
I wake up the next morning slick with sweat, the flat sheet soaked and stuck to my skin. My brain is thick, and I’m late. Little Prince Danny’s already in the bathroom, so I have no chance of getting in there before I have to leave.
I wash my face and brush my teeth in the kitchen sink, twisting my hair up in a high bun to get it off my neck. I throw on an old T-shirt and hand-me-down jeans, checking my reflection in the window before I go. I look pink, but fine. I just slept wrong.
The nip in the early morning air feels amazing. My breath puffs clouds as I trot down the boards. Frost glitters on blades of marsh grass. I was right.
Nia and Bevan meet me at our usual spot. The cut on Bevan’s cheek is gone, and his eye isn’t swollen shut anymore.
“Your face looks good,” I tell him.
“Whoa, Rosie.” He waggles his messy eyebrows. “We’re related.”
I swat him. “Don’t be gross.”
“You look like shit,” he says. “Rough night?”
“I guess.” I didn’t dream. I slept deep.
“You gonna lift the alpha’s car or anything today?” Bevan’s really enjoying himself. I don’t know how anyone can be this awake this early. Nia won’t talk until after first period.
“Too soon,” I say. That’s another one from Human Linguistics.
We join the Goffs and a random assortment of Scurlocks, Kembles, Wogans, and Nevitts until we’re a boisterous pack of wolves and hungover, crusty misfits, dragging our feet and paws down the path toward the Academy.
We lose a few along the way like we always do. Someone inevitably sees a squirrel, shifts, and bolts. Newly mated couples trot off to the woods to bang or run as their wolves.
I consider taking the day off to forage. My body wants the outside today. It also wants—
I shut down the train of thought, and before I know it, I’m passing the statue of the Great Alpha Broderick Moore. The older males flash him the traditional middle-fingered show of respect.
I trudge up the plaza stairs, schlep my carcass across the lawn, and slump into my seat in General Numeracy seconds before the bell. It’s an easy class for scavengers only, and the instructor lets us play cards or nap. I rest a flaming cheek on my desk, switching spots when my face warms the wood too much.
I don’t feel any better as the day goes on. I shuffle to second and then third period, getting crankier and crankier. My skin flushes hot and then cold, clammy and then goose-bumpy, back and forth.
My heart pounds like I’ve run a race, my adrenaline surging, never quite receding before it spikes again. My wolf paces her confines. She’s pumped and ready.
I’m not.
Oh, Fate, I’m not.
I can’t ignore what’s happening anymore.
I’ve heard Drona’s first heat story a hundred times—and Nia’s and Arly’s and Rae’s and Auntie Madwen’s.
I don’t want to go into heat.
I’m sure as hell not prepared for pups. Nia says you can use condoms, but with the knot, it’s nowhere near foolproof, and not all males will go along with using protection. Geralt Powell sure won’t wrap his package.
Drona’s voice rings in my head.
He your mate
?
No. Please. I don’t deserve that kind of trouble. I keep my head down. Fate cannot be that much of a bitch.
Of course she can.
By Human Linguistics, there’s a barbed wire ball of panic gathering inside me and a sheen of sweat covering every inch of my skin. I’d ask to go to the nurse and get the hell out of here, but I can’t pull myself together enough to speak to an instructor. All I can do is huddle in my chair and shake.
Nia’s freaking out. She keeps flicking her gaze toward the emergency exit. If I give her the nod, she’ll create a distraction. I just don’t think my limbs would cooperate. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but even my lips feel weird and disconnected.
My mate can’t be Cadoc Collins, but even if it’s not, there’s still no good choice.
A nob would be hell. I’ve watched Drona and Geralt. He gets bigger year after year, and she gets dimmer.
A scavenger male might be worse. Who has it tougher? Drona’s pups or Uncle Dewey’s? At least Avalon can speak to her sire on the rare occasions he comes by when the pups are still awake. I can’t remember the last time Uncle Dewey spoke.
Besides, too many scavenger males go for a walk. My father did, and he took my dam with him. Or whatever took him, took my dam, too.
I don’t want my pup to end up alone, stowed away in the bunk I once slept in, wearing my old clothes, hustling for buttons I once touched.
I can’t let that happen, but there’s no way out of it.
Fate decides. Biology is destiny.
By lunch, I’m a complete wreck. My T-shirt is sopping wet. I borrowed Nia’s worn red hoodie to cover up, and already, the pits are soaked through. I can’t cool down—the heat is coming from inside of me.
My wolf strides along the border between us, patient and watching. She’s not freaking out. She’s brimming with anticipation.
I hope she knows something I don’t—like our mate is some amazing, cool male who I’ve never noticed before, but who’s perfect for me.
There is no male like that. What would perfect even be?
Not Cadoc Collins. Definitely not him.
As we walk to the Commons, I can’t do much more than follow Nia. She steers me into the lunch line, shoving a tray into my hands.