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I want to ask her how she knows that, but I let it go for now, instead promising to come in soon. We then stop at the butchers, where the wolf behind the counter packs a satchel full of paper-wrapped beef before handing it over. I can’t help noticing the curious look he gives me. I’m sure he knows who I am, just the way the girls did. I don’t want to make a big deal about it, though. I’m not used to people paying attention to me for any sort of positive reason.
Besides, my attention is split. On the surface, I’m happily engaged with the girls, laughing as they describe the few people we pass and at the stories they tell. They’re refreshingly honest in the way only a teenage girl can be—and even though we don’t know each other well, they don’t bother holding back negative opinions, like the way they wrinkle their noses at a young male who runs past as we leave the butchers.
“Clinton,” Diana sneers. “He thinks he’s hot shit because his dad’s head of the guards. He’s never been in a fight, but he’s always quoting his dad and acting like he’s an expert.” But I notice her sister staring after him, just the same. I wonder if she has a little crush. She glances my way and finds me watching, and I wink to let her know her secret’s safe with me.
“We’d better go—Mom is going to want us to bring these things home. You can come with us,” Diana offers.
“No, thank you, I should get back. Maybe next time.” Because as much as I enjoy their company and would like to meet the beta’s wife, it’s the other thing I have on my mind that won’t let me focus on anything else. The way they described choosing their mates in this pack.
Rather than head straight back to the house, I continue walking, mulling it over. I didn’t know it was possible to decide for oneself outside of situations like the one I’m in now. When it’s kind of an emergency. I didn’t know wolves could make it sort of a policy to choose their own mates regardless of what Fate decides.
I almost can’t believe the relief it brings me. It isn’t like we’re going against the natural order of things, something I realize only now is holding me back. Just because I knew it was possible to choose a mate didn’t mean I knew it was commonplace.
And it feels right to me. I never did quite understand why we had to leave it up to Fate. What if Fate made a mistake? Or what if it paired me with somebody like Forrest, who I could see maybe being friends with but nothing more than that? How many generations of wolves have forced themselves to get along all because they felt they had to?
Somehow, I’ve ended up where I belong. Where things actually make sense. I love the freedom of knowing I can choose for myself. And it makes me feel better about choosing Wilde—to put it mildly. It doesn’t feel like anything is holding me back anymore.
Somehow, in all my thinking and walking, I’ve ended up on the edge of town. To the south, maybe half a mile away, is the site of the last invasion where I was injured. I turn away from it and end up looking toward a cluster of what I can only think of as shacks and huts that form sort of their own little village. I wish the girls had told me what this is.
I should turn around and get back to the house, but something holds me in place. A feeling. It’s not my wolf, though—she’s quiet, unbothered. There’s some other part of me that wants me to keep going. I guess there can’t be any harm in exploring a little more—and it’s not like the area is roped off or anything, so it’s not forbidden for me to walk through.
It’s strange, seeing the way they live. Instead of indoor plumbing, I see a couple of female wolves standing by a well, pulling up the bucket using a crank. Is it their choice to live like this? I have so many questions for Wilde when I see him later. They seem happy enough, talking, teasing, and though it’s clear they’re older women, their lighthearted laughter brings to mind a couple of kids like Thorne’s daughters.
Yet they nudge each other when they notice me, and their laughter dies. When I dare glance their way, there’s no judgment in their gazes. Only curiosity. I can handle that.
In front of one of the oldest, smallest huts sits a woman with long, white hair that hangs in two braids, one over each shoulder. She’s in a simple, shapeless dress, her feet bare, and her hands busy knitting what looks like it might be a sweater at some point. She looks up at me, but her hands never stop moving, like she’s done this for so long she relies purely on muscle memory.
