She stops too, turning. "What?"
"Years? No one's—" I wave my hand, unwilling to say it again. "No one's looked at him like that in years?"
"He's the Alpha." Same voice. Same certainty. End of sentence, end of explanation.
"But he's—" I stop myself. He's what? "That's a lot of pressure. For him, I mean. Being that. All the time. Not having anyone who—" I stop again. The bag strap is going to snap if I keep twisting it. "Never mind."
Her eyebrows go up.
"Most people don't think about it from his side."
"Most people are exhausting."
She laughs—short, surprised. "You're strange."
"I get that a lot."
"I bet you do." She turns and keeps climbing. "Dwelling's just up here."
I follow, my neck still prickling. The way everyone turned. The way Keer's nostrils flared. The way he looked at me before he looked away.
Years.
No one's looked at him like that in years.
The dwelling is small.
Smaller than my cottage—
I cut that thought off.
The cottage is gone.
This is now.
One room. A sleeping pallet against the wall, frame made of rough wood, pile of furs that have seen better days. A table with two stools, one wobbling—the left leg is shorter than the others. Wedge of scrap wood would fix it, or I could sand down the other three legs if I find something rough enough. Fire pit in the center, stones dark from old fires, no ash. Dust on the table. Cobwebs in the corner near the ceiling. A crack in the wall by the door, patched with mud that's crumbling at the edges.
I set the basket down. Nugget immediately escapes and inspects.
"Water's from the stream at the bottom of the ridge." Dara leans in the doorway. "Communal meals at the central fires. Cook your own if you want, but you'll have to find your own food."
"Where do people get food?"
"Hunt. Forage. Trade with each other." She's watching me look around. "You cook?"
"Yes."
"Properly? Or just enough to survive?"
"Properly. I've been feeding myself for ten years." I'm already righting the wobbling stool, testing the short leg with my palm. Definitely a wedge. "Do you have scrap wood anywhere? A thin piece, about this wide?"
She blinks. "You've been here thirty seconds."
"The stool wobbles."
"Most of us don't bother with real cooking." She ignores the stool question. "Eat things raw or barely heated."
"That's inefficient."
