Besides the product I have ready to sell now, I have maybe six or seven pounds drying in the shack behind Abertha’s. They’ll be ready for market in a month. If the deal with ShroomForager3000 works out, I might have a steady buyer. That’s another four or five hundred dollars. The girls and I could upgrade our phone plan to unlimited data. Or we could reinvest the profits.
The morels were a lucky find, but they’re going to run out. I want to cultivate them. You have to capture the spores in a slurry—which sounds foul and probably smells rancid—and then after you seed the right area, it takes a couple years for the mycelium to form, but then you’re golden. A cash crop with minimal upkeep. What else am I doing with my life? Beats the hell out of bees. The competition with honey is getting too fierce.
Suddenly, there’s a tan work boot in my path.
I dash left, quickly skirting the leg. While I was passing, Alfie stretched into the aisle with no warning. Inconsiderate dick. It was a close call.
What was I thinking about?
Mushrooms.
With the whole farm-to-table, slow food, locavore movements, there’s a growing market. I wish I could brand them as Quarry Pack morels. Shifters still have a mystique, even if it’s faded since the packs came out in the 50s. We get the occasional fanatic trying to sneak onto our territory, and Chapel Bell, the nearest town, has made a cottage industry out of wolf tchotchkes and New Age “moon power” crap—crystals and dream catchers and essential oils and tarot cards.
Why shouldn’t we cash in, too?
The elders go on and on about the dignity of the beast and pack pride and the mandate of destiny, but at the end of the day, the pack pays its bills by charging humans and rich shifters to watch our males maul each other and bet on the outcome. Dignity my ass.
The uptight elders don’t want females making our own money because then we’d have options, and they’d have less control. It’s about status. At the end of the day, everything in pack life is about status.
There are plenty of elders who see things differently, though. Nuala trades me berries from her garden for chocolate and liqueur from town—and I know she turns around and trades them to her friends for twice as much.
I’m feeling kind of cranky, so when I get back to the kitchen, I take a bathroom and phone break before I go back out with A-roster’s dinner. The great room is ringing with talk and laughter, and it feels normal. Everyone is shoveling food into their mouths except A-roster. As I pick my way to the front of the room, I’m very careful not to smirk.
When I approach the table, Haisley stands and glares at me with her arms folded. I figured she’d say something.
My wolf instinctively shrinks, but she doesn’t show her neck. That’s weird. I’d prepared myself for that. We did get owned. By all rights, my wolf should be sniffing Haisley’s butt, but she’s managed to hold onto a few scraps of pride. Good girl.
As for Haisley, I ignore her. I expect her to give me shit. That’s part and parcel of losing a challenge. You get to eat dirt until there’s a new loser.
As I start passing out dishes, she lifts her chin and gives me her back. That’s cool. Better than I expected, actually. I figured she’d run her mouth—take a few pot shots at my leg or how small my wolf is—but I guess I’m supposed to feel bad because I’m not even worth hassling.
Sweet.
I set the vegetables in front of Finn, and then I limp down to the other end of the table to unload the meat as far from him as possible. Haisley saunters past me, pats my shoulder, and struts over to the dais.
She pauses, smirking at me, making damn sure she has my attention, and then she licks her glossy lips. My wolf alerts, rigid from tail to ears, teeth bared. She’s indignant, but for some reason, she’s not trying to take our skin. I reach out to test the edges of my control, and they’re solid.
The place where the mate bond used to be is raw—like the pink flesh after the scab falls off a skinned knee—but it doesn’t throb or hurt or react at all.
Haisley props a high-heeled black leather boot on the single shallow step leading to Killian. She makes the pose work. Her apple bottom gets a lift, and so do her perky boobs. She tosses her loose blonde curls. It’s like a 90s music video to the soundtrack of shifters snarfing down brisket and talking with their mouths full.
I set the last dish on the table, intent on heading back to the kitchen, but my wolf can’t tear her eyes away. And I guess I can’t either. There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach. My wolf whimpers. There’s nothing we can do but watch.