My charm and jokes don’t work on either of these females, and that is new. And I don’t like it. Life hasn’t been exactly easy, but I usually deal with people better than this. I’m officially out of my depth. My wolf knows it, and so do I.
I drop the wipes and say goodbye as awkwardly as ever, and then curse myself all the way to Connor’s truck.
The roads out to the perimeter are barely more than logging trails, but Connor drives like they’re I-90, cranking the heat and the radio until the cab is a weird blend of classic rock and warm breeze. We don’t talk for the first ten minutes. I’m not sure if it’s because he knows I need to decompress or just that he’s low on words before noon, but I’m grateful either way. The sky is that brittle, untrustworthy blue you only get in the tail end of November, where it looks clear but promises nothing.
We take the north boundary, making a slow loop where the new fence runs up against the old Cheslem property line. There’s a spot up here that always makes my hackles lift: a sloping patch of pines cut through by a game trail, where thesnow never seems to melt even in high summer. I know exactly how many minutes it takes to cross, and I count them off every time, like an idiot, as if the trials will ever really feel safe.
Connor checks the scent markers, mutters about how the rogues are getting bold again, and then pulls off at the old hunting blind to light another smoke. “You running today or just along for the ride?”
“Running,” I say before I even think about it, my wolf already clawing at my ribs from the effort of dealing with more Cheslem mess. I strip down to my boxers, toss my jeans on the truck bed, and shift. There’s a pleasure in it, a burn-and-freeze sensation as my skin gives way, my vision fracturing and then sharpening into something that makes the world make more sense. The colors invert, every sound becomes a vibration in my chest, and the air is more alive than ever.
Connor follows, his wolf a shade darker than mine, and together we drop into the snow and run through the trees. For a while, I lose myself. There’s freedom in the run, a kind of simplicity that I never got as a kid and only half-remember from the wild, ugly days after I left Cheslem. Every stride burns off a little of the rawness, the loneliness, until all that’s left is motion and the burn of my muscles.
We circle back after three miles, fur slick with snowmelt and tongues lolling. I shake it off, shift back, and pull on my shirt, only to find Connor already dressed, looking at me with that annoying, lopsided smirk.
“You’re getting slow, Blackwood,” he says.
“Yeah, well, you try running on two hours of sleep and see how you do,” I shoot back. I pull on my boots and stomp the snow from them. My hands are shaking, but it’s a good, honest shake. For the first time in days, my head is clear.
We drive south, cutting past the old quarry, then loop back to the pack’s main road. At every checkpoint, there’s someone waiting to trade gossip or give Connor a list of what needs fixing. The guys on duty are mostly Silvercreek born; there are very few outsiders, and I know I’m lucky to have been given a chance to settle here. Anyone from Cheslem would be. There’s still distance, but I talk enough that I don’t think they notice.
Some days, I wonder if there’s a word for the feeling you get when you’ve finally earned a little normalcy, and you’re terrified the universe will yank it away just to see what you do. That’s what I feel every time the truck hits the ruts on the drive home, the pine trees flickering past in a blur of grey and green. Connor doesn’t say much on the way back; he flips through radio static, sometimes pausing when he finds something with a good baseline, but usually just lets the hum fill the space between us. I guess we both need time to let the cold seep out of our bones.
As we drive away from the old boundary lines, I can’t help but glance at the run-down fencing and beyond past the hill toward Cheslem. Alora will never know that place, not if I have anything to say about it. She’ll grow up soft and safe and bored out of her mind, and that’s a damn miracle.
Connor slows the truck as we hit the last stretch of gravel. He glances my way, voice flat. “You’re doing better than you think, you know.”
I shrug, not trusting myself to answer. He means the baby, the job, the whole attempt at being a functioning adult. But I hear the subtext: you’re not your old pack, and you never were. I want to believe it, but I’ve seen enough of myself in the mirror at 3 a.m. to know the difference is thinner than I’d like.
He parks by the woodpile and kills the engine. The silence is total for a second, and we sit in it, decompressing from abusy patrol. I step out into the cold, and Connor doesn’t follow. He just gives me a lazy half-wave and calls out, “Don’t forget to check your comms once in a while.” Then he’s gone, tires spitting up mud as he barrels back toward the main road.
Inside the cabin, the world is softer. The lights are on, and I can see Dina through the window, rocking Alora in a slow figure-eight that somehow manages to look both mechanical and tender. She’s humming something, low and tuneless, but it seems to work; the baby’s face is slack with sleep, one fist curled under her chin.
I take a breath, brace myself for this new version of home, and open the door.
Dina doesn’t look up. She just sets Alora gently into the bassinet, then wipes her hands on her jeans and checks the feeding log. I stand around like an idiot, boots melting a puddle onto the mat, until she finally speaks.
“She took three ounces at noon. Slept the whole time. No fever.” Her voice is so calm it almost sounds bored, but I know better. I’ve started to notice the way her eyes dart to the corners of the room, as if she’s clocking every possible exit, every threat. I recognize it because it’s how I look at the world, too. I just hide it better.
It isn’t until she turns to hang her coat that I realize her hair’s come loose and is now in inky waves falling over her shoulders and down her back. She runs a hand through it absently, only making it messier, and my wolf sits up and starts paying uncomfortable attention.
I try to look anywhere else, but my gaze gets stuck on the line of her shoulders, bare above the t-shirt she’s wearing, and then on the way her hips move as she crosses to the kitchen. She’s built like an athlete, strong and full of quiet power,but somehow full of curves too, and the faded jeans make it impossible not to notice. I remind myself not to notice, because I can tell by the way she avoids my eyes that she’s not interested in being seen. Especially by me.
I warm up the last of the leftover stew, stirring it with one hand while Alora fusses in her bouncer and Dina gets ready to leave.
I’m just about to ask how her day was when Alora lets out a gurgle, then a low, wet sound I have come to dread. I turn and catch her just as she erupts, projectile-style, straight down the front of her onesie.
“Shit,” I hiss. I grab a towel, but it’s too late; she’s already slimy and screaming.
I glance toward the food that’s about to boil over, but Dina doesn’t flinch. “I’ll watch the food,” she says.
I nod, scooping Alora up, holding her at arm’s length, and rushing her to the bathroom. She’s furious, howling, but as soon as I get her under the warm water, she quiets down, blinking at me with those too-large eyes. I start humming, a song I half-remember from somewhere, and she relaxes into my hands.
By the time I’m done and she’s finally clean, I wrap her in a towel and hold her close. She smells like soap and innocence. I bounce her gently on my hip as I head back to the kitchen.
Dina’s already wiped the counter, rinsed the bottle parts, and set the table for dinner. She’s leaning against the fridge with her arms crossed, but her expression softens a fraction when she sees Alora all wrapped up.
“I didn’t picture you as the lullaby type,” she quips.
