Page 86 of Red

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Aloka, I’d love for you to meet my twin, Verna,” Wilde calls from across the table. Verna has his brown eyes and dark-toned skin. Her hair is tied up in a round bun, while Wilde’s is free and erratic, shooting out in multiple directions on top of his head.

“So nice to meet you,” I say.

“It’s good that you’re here.” Verna’s gaze meets mine, steady, and there’s no lack of sincerity to her voice.

Kiya nudges me, and I turn toward her “Do you know what’s going on with him?” Kiya points her chin in Stark’s direction, where he’s sitting with the Elders.

“He seems like regular Stark?” I can’t keep looking at him after last night. We crossed even more lines that we should both be ashamed of.

“If you say so.” Kiya goes back to chatting with Serena.

I talk with Verna and Wilde for a bit, otherwise I keep to myself for the rest of the night, fielding questions when needed.

Morning comes with no hiccups, and I’m pleased the first cohort meeting went so well. If I could get over Stark, everything would be fine. He managed to ignore me all night, and as we say goodbye outside Serena and Hendin’s home, he keeps a body between us at all times. Maybe it’s for the best. He knows we shouldn’t get close to each other. It’d just be nice if he could acknowledge my existence as we head off to the North cohort.

It’s not until midday, when I stand in the middle of the meeting room for the North cohort, that there’s a shift. Their meeting space is replicated after the Elders’ Chambers, which is a bit nerving, though once the room fills with smiles, it’s a bit better. I wrap up my speech faster than ever, now that it’s become well-rehearsed.

“Don’t you think a werewolf who has the intelligence to gather useful information should have gone instead of you?”

I smirk. “If you’d like to volunteer, feel free to go yourself.”

Kiya gives me a thumbs-up from the side of the room next to Stark, whose face doesn’t change.

“We are not here to judge or make comments. Aloka took a great risk and is now helping all of you keep your homes. Let’s be grateful.” Merik steps up next to me. He’s tall like Stark and wide set. His hair is dark and curly, cut short. He’s the first Alpha we’ve come across without a mate.

“Thank you,” I say.

The rest of the questions are normal, from how long I stayed to how I escaped.

After dinner, I stroll back to the meeting room, where I take a deep breath. It’s only a room. I noticed the large wolf mural behind everyone earlier, and now I get to see the heart of it unblocked by pack members. I move back to take in the painting—various-colored wolves are running through a forest. I smile at the one that’s a chocolate brown. Pratt should be here.

The door opens wider and I smile at Merik. He strolls over with his shoulders set back. He dresses a lot like Stark, covered in black. His arms are unmarked except for a tattoo of claw marks that wrap his biceps.

“Do you like the art?” he asks.

“I love the colors. I always find it so unique seeing who everyone turns out to be.” Awe fills my words.

“I’m impressed with the way you held yourself today. Being surrounded by werewolves, not being one yourself.” I glance at his eyes, the light-green reflecting back, and his smile is soft under his well-trimmed beard.

I blush. “Oh, thank you. I get they don’t all trust me.”

“You are something. Would you like to see another painting?”

“Sure,” I say.

Merik surprises me by grabbing my hand and leading me out of the room. We cross the space where everyone is chatting, walking past Stark and Kiya. Stark turns away and heads out the back door. Kiya shrugs at me and heads out after him. I look for Jocko with no success.

Merik guides me to a door and opens it up. Inside is a small office, though it’s missing the bookshelves of Stark’s. On the back wall is another ginormous painting, this one framed.

“When you mentioned colors, I thought this one might interest you. It’s a lot older than most.”

I get closer and see ten wolves standing in line at the edge of a lake—a few browns, one black, a gray, and in the middle of them all . . . It isn’t. My heart leaps. A red wolf, darker than myself, stands in the pack with everyone like it’s a normal day.

My hand crosses to my heart. “You don’t see red wolves in paintings.”

“Not very often do myths make it into art anymore,” he says. I glance up from the painting, and he’s not looking at it.