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“Of course.” Indie wags her finger at Arielle, and I laugh as she tacks on, “But no bangs.”
“I swear.” Arielle crosses her finger over her chest.
Indie launches into a repeat explanation of how she wants the length of her layers. Even though Arielle is only fifteen, I trust her implicitly. She’s basically been my apprentice since she became a teenager. And even if she messes up, Indie is forgiving enough to let me fix it and go on as if nothing happened.
I owe you one, I mind link Indie as I leave them to it.
You owe me a few,she jokes.I’ll collect someday and you’ll be sorry.
I know she isn’t serious. The two of us have been as thick as thieves since we were barely old enough to walk. It’s true that Indie has done me more favors these past few years than I’ve done for her, but I’m determined to even the score as soon as I can think of an adequate way to help her in return.
If only she would let me help her find her the perfect mate, but she steadfastly refuses that service each and every time I offer it.
For those of us in Cupid’s Pack, the mate bond is more complicated than for others. Most of our pack members never leave the safety of the low stone wall that surrounds our small community. It’s the pack Luna—presently my mom—who helps the wolves find their mates instead. Sometimes she goes out searching, and less frequently, she’s left with no choice but to force a bond.
Shifters aren’t meant to live alone. We’re social creatures with the need for a mate bond to help us build strong partnerships and families. The mate bond is the most sacred thing a wolf ever does.
There are some purists who don’t believe we should manipulate bonds. And some days, I think my mom might agree with them.
But every year, we seem to have fewer new bonds.
This year,I’vehelped more unmated shifters than my mom has. She seems to be more and more obsessed with the idea of finding the pack members’one true matelately. I’m trying to understand it for her sake; I know her role means everything to her. But I can’t help but feel that sometimes she’s hurting some of the shifters more than she’s helping them.
And nothing drives that worry home more than seeing the evidence of it in real time.
I reach the front gate to find Dennis, the most gentle of the guards, hovering over a fraught woman who can’t be more than a few years older than me.
“I can take it from here,” I tell him, putting myself between them. Dennis has a heart of gold, but the woman curls in on herself, like she’s afraid of him, as he hovers. I don’t have to ask why. Her clothes are half-shredded, and there’s an obvious scratch from a wolf’s claws running across her right leg. It’s red and angry, like infection has set in around the cut despite her rapid healing.
“Are you Moira?” the woman asks between sniffles.
“I’m her daughter, Quinn.” I speak softly, knowing it will help her feel comfortable. “You can tell me your name when you’re ready. Do you think you can make it up to that house with me?” I point out my family home. The quaint, two-story home sits unassuming at the front of the neighborhood.
The woman nods and in a quiet voice says, “I’m… Reagan.”
“Welcome to Cupid’s Pack, Reagan. Let’s get to the house, and we can talk about what you need, okay?” I already know I don’t want to deny this woman anything. She takes a shaky step to follow me toward my house, and after a moment, she clutches my arm and leans into me slightly, as if she needs to borrow some strength.
I would give her every ounce that I have if I could. My heart aches for the obvious pain behind her eyes.
I watch Reagan out of the corner of my eye as we make our way into the house, following the hallway into the kitchen. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable by openly staring, but I’m trying to take in as many details as possible. Her strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back from her face in a messy braid, showing me a woman who feels exposed and raw as she sits down at the dining room table.
We’re both silent as I patter around the kitchen to fix her a cup of warm tea and a sandwich. Sometimes it’s easier for people to talk when they have somewhere else to put their hands and attention.
I learned this little trick by watching my mom with Arielle and I. She uses the same technique when she’s trying to get us to spill our guts to her.
“I hope you like turkey,” I tell her as I slide the plate and mug in front of her. “Tomorrow is grocery day, so the options are unfortunately a bit scarce.” My mom didn’t stock the kitchen again, so Arielle or I will have to do it. It’s just another problem to push to the back of my mind until I can deal with it later.
“Turkey is good,” she says quietly, already reaching for the sandwich. Most women who come here, upset the way she seems, are hesitant to take the food. My mind spins through the possibilities of what could have happened to her to leave her so desperately hungry that she immediately dives in.
I let silence fall between us again, giving her a chance to eat before I start asking questions. She doesn’t seem to notice the silence until she’s scarfed most of the sandwich, and she looks up at me with guilt shining in her eyes. Fear rests just behind the guilt, and my stomach churns violently at the thought of what she’s likely suffered through before finding her way here.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles around a half-chewed bite.
“Oh, don’t ever be sorry for eating in this house. Our favorite thing to do here is feed people.” It’s the easiest way to serve others—keeping them fed. When my dad died, Arielle and I asked the pack to let us cook for them instead of vice versa to keep us busy while we grieved.
She swallows the rest of her bite and picks up the mug. “Thank you,” Reagan mumbles before taking a small sip of the tea. She sighs, seeming to melt in her seat as she sips. With each passing second, she grows less tense, shoulders loosening and falling as the shake disappears from her hands.
“Do you think you’re ready to tell me what happened?” Based on the nasty look of her leg, it’s bad. Once I find out more and make sure she’s comfortable, I’ll need the pack doctor to look her over.
