Page 33 of Craving Carla

I’m not afraid of them at all. In fact, I adjust my suit and greet them. “Hello, Carla’s children.”

One steps from the shadows, and its size takes my breath away. I can tell it’s a male, similar to my little friend but significantly larger—easily three times its size. Its body is jet black with vivid green markings along its back, resembling runes carved into its glossy exoskeleton. Its legs stretch wider than my outstretched arms, and its eight eyes like polished obsidian. The fangs jutting from its mouth look sharp enough to pierce steel as it inches closer to me.

“I don’t want to hurt your mother,” I say. “I just?—”

Before I can finish, the oversized arachnid sends images to me—me with Carla, kissing her, loving her, embracing them as my own, as my children.

I stare at it strangely, then look around the forest at all the eyes watching me, and grin in amazement. I’m not frightened but curious, amazed, and genuinely pleased.

I give it a smug grin. “So, you approve?”

11

Carla

Idon’t shop much, only for food and necessities. Whenever I come here, I always get stares. But this time, I’m here for something different.

A dress for my date. I only have a few days to get ready, and I want to make sure I look my best. It’s my first date, and hopefully, my first everything else. I’m excited and nervous, and I don’t know the first thing about how to make sure I look nice enough.

I finally step out of the forest, making my way across the street to the shopping strip, already bracing myself for the stares I’m getting. As I walk onto the pavement, heading for the retail store, I feel eyes following me, hushed whispers trailing in my wake. Some supernaturals even step off the sidewalk to avoid me. Fucking typical.

The retail store has everything—clothing, shoes, personal items, and other things. It’s pretty much the place you go for clothes and stuff on Wintermoon, unless you want to make your own. The shop window showcases a beautiful wedding gown ondisplay, all white satin and intricate beadwork. I pause for a moment, allowing myself to imagine what it would be like to wear something so elegant, so desired. Then I shake my head. No point in dreaming about something that’s never going to happen.

As I approach the door, I almost collide with a wolf shifter and his pregnant mate. The way they scramble to get out of my path—the fear in their eyes as they huddle together like I’ve got my arachnids lurking nearby—makes my stomach churn. With an eye roll, I brush past them without a word.

“Sorry,” I mutter, but they don’t say anything back. Of course they don’t. They never do.

I sigh and start looking around. I’m just here for the dress, the one I’ve eyed every time I visit. No one has bought it for months, and I always notice it when I shop for personal items. I keep wondering what it would feel like to be in something so feminine, so unlike my usual attire.

Right now, I just wear my Wintermoon uniform—a fitted t-shirt that says “Wintermoon Sheriff Department,” with a pair of fitted jeans and black boots, and a Wintermoon Sheriff jacket. When I’m home, I wear a simple nightgown. But it’s better than the tattered clothing I’d wear all the time when I was stuck in the shadows. Anything is better than that.

I walk through the women’s section, weaving past the racks until I reach the dress displayed high on the wall, elegantly draped on a mannequin. It’s a body-hugging black dress with intricate silver beadwork, creating mesmerizing patterns across the fabric. It has an almost magical quality to it.

I smooth my hands over my hips, trying to measure myself against the dress with my eyes. I’m curvy in the hips; this dress might not fit me. But I’ve seen women in dresses that barely cover their asses all the time on the tourist island. That appears to be the style to catch a man these days.

I dig into my pocket and pull out the cash—money I don’t really need. Wintermoon works mostly on a barter system, but they’ve started using currency as Wintermoon has grown. Most of the humans on the Community Lands prefer it that way. Some use it, some don’t. I like it because it feels like I earned it, working on Wintermoon. It makes me feel like I’m earning my place to be here and not just sitting, taking up space.

I stuff the cash back in my pocket, turn around, and walk to the counter to ask a clerk to help me get the dress down. I’ll take it home and try it on. And if it doesn’t fit, I’ll just keep it. I already know how the community feels about me. They already want to burn down the patrol cabin because my spiders and I have been living in it.

I reach the counter and address the clerk with a kind, nervous smile. “Hi, I really like that dress, and I think it’s my size. Could you grab it for me?” I place my hands gently on the counter, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

Melissa’s eyes narrow the moment she recognizes me. Her upper lip curls slightly—that subtle grimace people make when they smell something rotten. She’s one of those fated humans who moved to the Community Lands for safety, waiting for her supernatural mate to find her. Right now, she’s looking at me like I’m something she’d scrape off her shoe.

“I’m sorry, Carla, but that dress is sold,” she says, not even trying to hide the sneer in her voice.

I rarely splurge on myself. My cabin has everything I need to survive. But for once, I want to look nice for this date. The way the fabric hugs the mannequin’s curves—it would make even me feel beautiful.

“The dress isn’t sold, Melissa.” My fingers press harder against the counter. “Please go grab it for me. I have the money.” I pull out the cash and set it on the counter between us. “I won’t return it if it doesn’t fit. I’ll keep it.”

Her eyes flick to the money, then back to my face. “Look, Carla. You’re scaring the customers in here.”

My jaw clenches so tight I can feel my teeth grinding together. I’m one rejection away from turning my back on Wintermoon for good. The shadows call to me every time I try to fit in, whispering promises of acceptance in the darkness. At least there, I’m not treated like a contagious disease.

“Is there a problem?”

My head whips around at the familiar voice. Damon and Amari stand at the entrance of the retail store, looking like they just stepped out of a catalog in their expensive suits and polished shoes. Amari’s beard is neatly trimmed while Damon maintains his perpetually smooth shave. Their cologne likely attempts to mask the scent of blood from their last meal. Amari’s eyes lock onto Melissa, and she immediately drops her gaze to the counter.

“If you want to keep your job here in the market, Melissa, I’d suggest you grab that dress for Carla,” Damon says, his voice firm and cold.

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