Page 59 of The Ashpaw: Part One

Fern could picture her in her mind, her coat just a shade or two darker than her own hair, her stature slight.

Green eyes blinked slowly, watching her work and wondering what could possibly be so pleasing.

You eat these rocks? she asked.

Fern nearly jumped where she sat. A woman turned sharply towards her, and Fern smiled.

“Sorry, there was a bee.”

The woman rolled her eyes and went back to work.

They’re not rocks. And I do eat them. If given the chance.

Her wolf snorted, then yawned and closed her eyes, settling down for a nap.

As she dug through the next section, a small, brownish-gray stone caught her attention from beneath the leaves, and she picked it up.

Not a stone, but a snail shell, its inhabitant long gone.

Her thumb ran over the ridged surface, tracing the spiral.

She’d kept several snail shells in the hollow of her tree as a child, shapes that always seemed too perfect to be made by something as wild, untamed, and cruel as nature.

Fern tucked it into her pocket, feeling eyes on her. She’d assumed it must be her wolf again at first, but when she looked inward, the beast was still napping.

Then she raised her head.

Kyntha was walking with her attendants, one of them holding a parasol above her head as they moved. As if her skin were so delicate, a single drop of sunlight would burn straight through her.

The lady’s eyes were trained ahead, but it was darker eyes that had turned towards Fern.

Mauricia.

Watching. Learning.

Smiling.

Then she turned back around, following dutifully after her lady as they entered the castle.

A cold shiver ran down her spine, and Fern got back to the potatoes, trying not to let the feeling keep her from enjoying what was left of the day, a memory she could hold onto the next time the castle walls began to close around her.

Chapter 16

Fern

It was a week until the full moon, and Fern was beginning to recognize the way its pull affected the wolfkin.

She could identify it more easily in herself as well, those strange sensations she hadn’t been able to articulate before Darion had brought her here.

The restlessness. The aggression. The gnawing, humiliating lust.

And the frustration knowing there was nothing she could do to slake them.

Back in the dining hall, she clutched her broom so tightly she worried the stick might snap as she watched the crowd, faceless bodies of muscle and hands that touched and tongues that tasted and skin meant for tasting…

The wolfkin closest to her began sniffing the air, a sign she had lingered too long, so she moved to the other side of the room, creeping along the edge of the wall.

There was nothing to sweep, of course. If anything, the broom’s bristles had permanently etched grooves into the floor she’d been pretending to clean for the past few weeks. But the repetitive motions had become soothing.