The bite and claw marks faded into scars, but the muscles never knit together properly again. My hip bone mended wrong, too, but I walked again in time.
When Ma passed, I moved in with the Malones and then the Butlers and then the Campbells. They were all kind, but back during Declan’s reign, you ate if you won fights, and eventually, every male would have a string of bad luck, and I became one too many mouths to feed. That’s why I learned to do for myself. Hunt mushrooms, gather berries. Trade for meat.
I get knocked down a lot. I always get back up.
So what if this feels unbearably heavy?
No one promised me an easy go of it. No one’s ever promised me anything.
I swing my good leg over the side of the bed. My shoes are long gone. In the thicket? No, they’re in pieces back at the lodge.
At least I have clothes for my walk of shame.
I force myself to stand and take the first step to the door.
I used to dream about running away. I’d go to Moon Lake with their sparkling mansions on the lakefront. Or I’d run all the way to North Border and live with the elk and bear. But a shifter can’t run. You need the pack. Lone wolves go feral, kill innocents, and destroy themselves.
Long ago, I came to terms with the fact that running was a child’s fantasy. I make sure to close Abertha’s door firmly behind me.
There’s nowhere to go but home.
Besides, my girls are there. They’re worried. And we’ve got business. I might have gone off my rocker, but the mushroom deal is still on. I hope someone remembered to get my phone from behind the crockpot.
I take my time walking back. The sun is still rising, and there’s dew on the grass. It’s quiet. Peaceful. It feels like a fever has passed, and I’m shaken, but gaining strength by the minute. The place where the bond was is raw, but not painful.
The closer I get to camp, the stronger the sweet scent of toffee. It’s nice, but it’s not what I crave. My stomach growls. I need meat.
My wolf prances, sniffing the breeze. She seems oddly unaffected by recent events. She’s super excited to go back to camp. I want to let her out, but I wince thinking about shifting again so soon. Maybe this evening. That puts a spring in my step.
I skirt the commons and follow the ridge, approaching my cabin from behind. Only elders are up this early, and I really don’t want to see them after yesterday’s naked mortification. Or was it the day before? Time’s a little fuzzy.
I round the cabin, and I’m almost to my front steps when a throat clears. I jump and whirl. Thankfully, I’ve already grabbed the banister, so I keep my balance.
It’s Killian, leaning against the outbuilding across the path. He’s wearing a gray sweatshirt, hood up, and his customary faded jeans that cling to his thighs. My heart beats faster, but in the way it always does around him. He’s built and scary and objectively hot. It’s a normal female reaction.
I scan my body. No sign of heat.
I exhale and stare at his boots. It’s as close to a bent neck as he’s getting today.
“Where were you?” His voice is brusque but even.
He doesn’t come closer. He’s propped one heel on the wall, and with another male, it’d look casual, but with his air of raw power, it’s menacing as hell. I hug my arms to my chest.
“Abertha’s.”
Where I go is none of his damn business—and now it never will be—but I’m not stupid. He’s alpha, and I have too much riding on my freedom of movement to antagonize him. The sooner I go back to being invisible to him, the better.
“For two days?” He lowers his leg and takes a measured step toward me. It’s a dominance thing. I’m supposed to get nervous and back away.
I mean, I am nervous, but he’s also transparent as hell.
I shrug a shoulder. It’s an old wives’ tale that shifters can taste lies, but—I’m as superstitious as the next wolf. I’m not risking it.
I keep my mouth shut and let him assume what he wants while I stare at his feet. They’re huge, but proportional. Not like a clown’s or anything.
That would be ridiculous.
So now I’m picturing him in oversized shoes and a red nose. All of the stress of the past forty-eight hours is balling up into one self-destructive, manic urge to bust out laughing.
I chomp down on the inside of my cheek.
There is nothing funny about this.
If I laugh, I’ll look insane. When Killian’s father was alpha, they exiled wolves with moon madness. A few still live in the foothills. You can hear them at night.
“Why are you smiling?” He stalks closer, but not too close. Maybe three clown feet away.