Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
Smells slap me in the face. Chemicals in the meat. Bleach and tomato soup and all the human perfumes, vanilla and bergamot and cedarwood—all combined without regard for what makes sense, what grows together in nature.
It’s all wrong.
I get pizza because at least it smells like freezer burn and oven, not garbage. The milk is a few hours from turning. I gag. Nia holds out a big wad of brown paper napkins.
“I’m good,” I say as I grab them.
“Just aim away from me, Rosie-cakes. That’s all I ask.”
Yeah, I am definitely going to puke. Then the janitor is going to come with that powder and the rancid mop bucket water, and I’m going to hurl again and never stop.
And this is supposed to be sexy? I’m going to joke about this one day with the ladies and be all vague and smug? Bullshit.
I wish I could burst out of my own skin and run like hell.
I limp after Nia to our usual table.
My wolf lowers herself to her haunches with great dignity, surveying the room. The pups eat in the cafeteria in the lower schools, but upperclassmen and post-grads have the Commons. It’s nice enough. There are the tables in the back where the scavengers sit, and a big dining area lined with booths for the nobs.
There’s a bar that’s only for show, and widescreen TVs hung above tuned to human sports and the business channels.
The humans sit by the vending machines. Everyone has a territory. The members of the five high-ranking families sit in booths on a one-step rise along the wall facing the bar. It’s kind of like a dais.
Cadoc sits in the very middle, facing the entire room, and way over here on the other side, by the exit that leads to the Dumpsters, the scavengers muck around and carry on.
There are already chunks of food on the floor, and a Goff has shifted, lapping up the crumbs that look good to him. A monitor keeps glancing over in disgust, but we’re not causing enough of a disruption for her to actually do something.
Bevan saved our seats by manspreading—thanks again, Human Linguistics—and Nia and I crowd in. I immediately shove my tray at him.
“Cheers,” he says, shoveling my pizza into his mouth.
“You don’t have the wasting sickness, do you?” Nia asks, feeling my forehead.
“I wish.” I drop my head in my hands.
“Shit. Heat.” Nia smooths a damp tendril behind my ear. There’s sympathy in her voice.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.” She wraps an arm around my waist. Even though it’s hot as hell, I don’t shrug her off.
“Damn it all to hell,” I groan.
“Son of a bitch,” she agrees.
“Motherfucker,” Bevan pipes in. “What are we cursing about? Or who? Whatever, I’m down. Fuck ’em all.”
“Rosie’s in heat.”
“Shit.” He deflates, offering me a sad, gold smile.
I smile back. “That’s what I said.”
We’re quiet for a minute. The Commons buzzes around us. My wolf waits, watchful and sure, a hint of disdain in the curl of her lip.
She disapproves of this place. It’s all wrong to her. The air is canned, the textures plastic, the light artificial. There is no great distance here. No profound silence, no swelling chorus of living things.
I stand.
She’s right. I shouldn’t be here. None of us should. You can’t run in this place. Not far or fast.
“Oh, shit,” Nia exhales. She grabs my hand and tries to pull me back down. I snatch it away.
“No.” I blink at her with blurry eyes. “I’ve got this.”
I don’t, but my wolf is here. She prowls forward, victory in her proud stance. And joy. She knows what to do. She’s certain.
There.
Him.
Mate.
Fuck.
No.
She’s claiming Cadoc Collins.
He’s sitting like a king on his throne, face unreadable as his packmates jockey for his attention, surveying his domain, above everyone and everything.
No. Not him.
Yes.
My wolf nudges me with her snout.
Ours.
There is no doubt in her.
He must recognize what we are to him, but he’s not flushed and sweaty and shaking. His gaze doesn’t even venture back to the scavenger tables. It’s like there’s a force field around me, deflecting his attention. No one would notice—no one seems to—but it’s as obvious to my wolf and me as the nose on his face.
What do I do?
Shift. I’ll bite him.
My wolf delivers the image into my brain, fully wrought, even the tang of copper on my tongue.
I spear my fingers into my hair, pulling chunks of my bun loose. I realize what I’m doing and try to shove it back together, but it’s no good.
Go to him.
My wolf nudges harder.
I don’t want to—I want to hide under the table with the Goff snarfing scraps—but there’s something in me demanding that I go to him. It’s not my wolf, although she’s in complete accord. It’s an urgency in my blood.
But he’s ignoring me.
Didn’t he rescue me when we were pups, though? He handed me down that bottle cap when he could have moved along.
The memory backs up the compulsion.
I have to go to him, and it will all unfold as it should, as is right.
Fate doesn’t make mistakes. Leap, and she’ll catch you. Have faith. Everything happens the way it’s supposed to.
That is not at all my experience, but the voice is strong and pure. I have to listen.
I wipe my palms on my thighs, swallow, and start the trek across the dining room, between crowded tables, past the disapproving monitor with her glasses perched on the tip of her nose and the gray trashcans lined up next to the fountain soda machines.
I’m aware of Nia and Bevan staring at my back in shocked dismay and my wolf’s rumble of satisfaction. She’s raring to burst free. I want that, too. I want to run. We just need to do this first.
I wind through tables of Rossers and Powells and Lewises and Floyds. As I pass, some packmates fall silent. Others mutter at my audacity. Scavengers stay in the back by the fire exit. No exceptions.