Page 22 of Runt of the Pack
I’m wondering where Vlad is. I haven’t seen him since breakfast when he shoveled down eggs and sausage in hearty bites before heading out to chop firewood. His healing has improved so much lately that he relishes the opportunity to tackle hands-on projects and repairs. Over the past week, I’ve heard the echoes of hammering and sawing, interspersed with Russian and Italian curses when something puts up a stubborn fight. But Vlad is nothing if not tenacious.
I smile thinking of his grin when he presented me with a simple wooden tray for my art supplies, etched with an ornate A. His hands are so strong, but can be incredibly gentle. Gentle... the smile slips from my face as a wave of dizziness hits me. I grip the back of my chair for balance. What is that about? Probably nothing. Just fatigue and the fumes catching up with me after being cooped up painting with oils all morning. I definitely should have cracked that window wider for better ventilation. The odor of the solvent I used to clean my brushes didn’t seem so potent, though.
A deep, longing exhale escapes my lips as I step into the bathroom. A nice shower is in order to refresh myself.
Turning the brass handles, I release a gush of hot water that sends curls of steam swirling up to the ceiling.
Soon, I am stepping blissfully into the water’s enveloping warmth, the heat seeping into my weary muscles. But as I relax, eyes closed, a nagging ache blooms low in my belly. I shift, trying to get comfortable, but the discomfort only grows.
Regrettably, the water cools and I reluctantly step out, skin flushed pink. After toweling off, I choose a soft cream sweater and linen pants from the antique wardrobe. As I braid back my damp hair, an unsettling realization creeps over me. These strange sensations... they remind me of my youth, when my first heat caught me unaware.
No. It can’t be. I shake my head sharply, as if I could physically dislodge the notion. I don’t have heats anymore. Not since I left the pack. A rogue omega like me is broken, defective. This is surely just exhaustion, or maybe catching a cold after being out sketching in the freezing dawn mornings.
Ignoring the growing ache, I head to the kitchen to make lunch. One look in the antique icebox confirms Vlad hasn’t been exaggerating this morning about running low on supplies. With all the projects he’s immersed in, I know going to town for groceries would likely fall to me. If the roads were clear, I would enjoy the chance to wander into the quaint shops. But even the thought of venturing so far from the warmth and comfort of our little cabin right now makes my stomach clench anxiously.
I nibble half-heartedly on slices of brown bread spread with the last of the butter, almost gagging as the fatty richness hits my tongue. My inner wolf cringes away from the cloying taste. Suddenly, even the thought of cooking something more substantial is unbearable.
Resigned, I return to my studio to tidy up in preparation for delivering the finished pieces to Yulia. As I straighten my supplies, I fan myself with a sheet of drawing paper. An unnatural heat suffuses my skin, radiating in waves that leave me short of breath. I lean my burning forehead against the soothing chill of the broad windowpane. Snowflakes drift lazily down, the peaceful sight at odds with my inner turmoil.
What is happening to me? I shuffle back to my room, each step weighted with reluctance. But I can’t hide here forever. When Vlad returns, he will take one look at me and know.
The thought sends a bolt of fear straight to my core. I can’t let him see me like this. Vulnerable. Needing. Broken.
An escape presents itself in the pile of Vlad’s clothes, ready to be laundered. I quickly sort through them, searching for a shirt he wouldn’t miss. My fingers settle on a grey cotton Henley, the soft material carrying his earthy, masculine scent. Gripping the shirt like a life preserver, I retreat to my studio and bury myself in the nest I’ve crafted from Vlad’s bedding. His stalwart aroma envelops me, soothing my ragged nerves. I hunker down, clutching one of his pillows as tremors rack my frame. Maybe if I just stay here, ride it out alone, he will be none the wiser when this strange fever breaks...
I must have dozed off, because suddenly Vlad’s voice is calling my name. I jolt awake, disoriented. How long have I been tucked away in here?
20
VLAD
The echo of my boots reverberates through the stone corridors as I make my way to Anya’s workroom, a tray of roasted chicken and vegetables balanced in one hand. My breath comes out in impatient huffs. As my wounds finally begin to close, I must shift my focus to the upcoming hunt for Grisha. However, Anya has been strangely absent all day, lost in her art within the confines of her studio. I’ve been mindful not to distract her from work, but she’s skipped meals altogether. I won’t have her neglecting her self-care this way.
I rap sharply on the door. “I brought you dinner,” I call out gruffly.
“I’m not hungry, thanks...” Her muffled voice sounds small and strained, immediately putting me on alert.
I turn the ornate handle and let myself in, the heavy oak door creaking open. The room is dim, illuminated only by the first beams of moonlight straying through the window. My eyes adjust quickly, zeroing in on the petite form bundled tightly in blankets in the studio’s corner.
For a second, I panic, wondering why she would consider returning to our old sleeping arrangements. Has she grown tired of my presence? My mind whirls with endless worries until I pick up the scent that permeates the room—my scent on the covers that surround her.
“You need to eat, Anya,” I insist, setting the tray down on the work table with a thud.
“I don’t want to.” She refuses to look at me, burrowing deeper into her den of covers.
I cross my arms. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I’m just… tired.”
I crouch down and grasp her chin, forcing her to meet my piercing gaze. Her skin feels overly warm. “I don’t think that’s it...” I hesitate to say more, but finally, I spill it. “My heart, I think you’re in heat.”
Pink blooms on her pale cheeks as she knocks my hand away in embarrassment. “What? No, I’m not!”
I take in her hooded eyes, fatigue evident in every feature of her lovely face. She’s being stubborn, but I know the signs.
“Oh... I see,” I murmur, then toe off my boots and join her on the plush makeshift bed. She recoils slightly as I wrap my powerful arms around her.
“Shh. I know what you need...” I whisper, enveloping her slender frame with my much larger one. I stroke her chestnut hair and let out a deep rumble from my chest to soothe her. Gradually, the tension eases from her body and she curls into me with a contented sigh, comforted by her Alpha’s reassuring presence.
