Page 38 of The Ashpaw: Part One

“Do you ever get used to being talked about like you can’t hear them?” Fern asked the rat.

It squeaked, stuffing the cheese in its mouth and squeezing through a crack in the wall.

Once everyone was gone, she grabbed her broom—her shield, her prop—and shuffled into the dining hall.

The hall was loud that evening, her own thoughts overpowered by shouts, laughs, and stomping feet.

Another courtship rite for the happy couple. Apparently this one had involved chasing the mate-to-be through the woods until she was “caught,” followed by enough mock screaming and laughter to make sure everyone knew she was delighted by it.

She now knelt at his feet, a pillow under her knees, as she fed him from her hand.

Luckily Fern had missed most of the theatrics, and could concentrate on her own burgeoning acting skills by pretending to sweep an invisible layer of dust for the next few hours.

“He’s wasting you here.”

Fern jumped, flattening herself against the wall and bringing the broom to her chest.

Harland, the beta who hadn’t quite gotten the message that she was a pariah, stared at her, nostrils flaring. He took a heavy swig from his cup, wiping the drops of ale that had spilled from his lips with the back of his hand before coming closer until he was right in front of her.

His forearm rested above her head, and he leaned in, his nose running along her skin.

She wished it was anyone else before her, but Fern was desperate for the feel of someone’s touch. Her hands tightened around the broomstick, and she whined softly on an exhale of breath, which only brought him closer.

“Do you have any idea how good you smell?”

She pressed her lips together, her chest heaving, remaining silent. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t react…

“I never thought I’d actually want a she-wolf to speak, but I miss your voice. Just say my name, please. I promise I won’t tell the big, bad alpha.”

The Ashpaw is not spoken to.

The Ashpaw is not touched.

The Ashpaw stands apart.

The Ashpaw does not belong.

“Harland? Sir?”

Behind him, one of the new Solvekh women stood with a smile and pitcher, her curly, red hair lovely in the firelight. “Allow me to fill your cup,” she said, her voice low. “I was told you may need some personal attention tonight.”

Oh, please, Fern thought, while a tiny part of her also hoped he might stay and touch her further.

With a low growl, Harland turned and looked past her towards the head table, and Fern followed his gaze right towards Darion.

His eyes were dark and his scowl murderous, even as Kyntha shoved another cut of meat between his lips.

Harland grabbed the pitcher out of the woman’s hands, chugging the whole thing as he stared down the alpha, belching loudly and throwing it on the floor once it was empty. “Tell the one who sent you I will no longer be distracted with random offerings.”

His head whipped around, and he pointed his finger in Fern’s face. “I don’t know what Alpha Darion is playing at, but I will force that wolf out of you with my bare hands if necessary to end this. You’re mine.”

He slammed his fist against the wall once for emphasis, then stormed out of the hall, Darion’s eyes following him the whole way.

The other Solvekh woman watched him go as well, then spat at Fern’s feet. “Disgusting Ashpaw. Maybe you thought you were too good for a petition, but I know my worth here. I’d never sink as low as you.”

She kicked the empty pitcher towards her and turned tail, leaving Fern confused over how quickly this new Solvekh had learned the rules, envy coiling inside her like a serpent. Her alpha had probably explained things when he’d bound her so she wouldn’t find it as difficult to adjust.

She would have taken practical information over a pillow to hang over her head any day.