Page 63 of Ravaged Wolf
“No one is punching the dickhead,” Drona says, giving Seth another tug. He shakes her off. His wolf growls louder. She heaves a sigh, and then, without warning, pops her fangs and sinks them into the meat of Seth’s upper arm, straight through the sleeve of his polo shirt.
Several females hoot.
A pup squeals, “She bit him! No biting! No biting, Drona!”
With her fangs still sunk in his bicep, she backs away. He goes with her grudgingly, his body wired, his wolf snapping in frustration.
My wolf plops his ass back down and proceeds to groom himself, more amused than anything. He’s as good-natured as I am. As I was.
Drona pulls Seth a yard or so away, and the females shush each other, trying to eavesdrop on what she’s saying to him, making it impossible to overhear. She’s giving him an earful. Seth scowls into the middle distance, mouth shut, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Ooo, the beta’s getting yelled at,” a pup crows.
Poor bastard. Obviously, he feels a claim on Drona, but she’s Geralt Powell’s mate. My gut twists thinking of the name. He was part of that bullshit around why Izzy’s family wouldn’t let us mate. Good for Drona that she’s left him behind.
She finishes what she has to say and doesn’t seem to want to hear his side. He tries a few times, but she cuts him off, and eventually, he jerks a nod and stalks away.
“No TV for him tonight,” a pup says and sighs.
“Got to go to bed early,” another pup agrees.
Drona returns and smiles at me sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s all right.”
“He was out of line.”
“You put him right back in.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Drona grins, and she looks ten years younger. “Let’s get you some ‘female goods’.”
She gives me half a box of tampons and a chunk of soap wrapped in cheesecloth, and ignoring my protests, loads me up with a bunch of sheets and blankets, which she ties in abundle that I can sling over my back. She says, “If her body’s settled enough that she’s getting her period, she’s going to want a nest.”
The words echo in my head, over and over, on the walk back. I want Izzy to feel settled—so much that I can’t think about it too deeply—but I never dared even imagine anything like this, so I have no plan. No provisions.
Growing up, Dad taught us to live close to the bone and sock away whatever we could for our future mate. In Moon Lake, I had savings, an apartment, a vehicle. I lost it all when I was exiled, and I never even thought about it. I’d lost Izzy. The stuff was nothing.
But how is she going to feel safe without a bed to nest in? And she’s going to want her own space, her own bathroom and kitchen. The scavengers are mostly cool with the communal arrangements, but the ranked wolves who came to Old Den, especially the few females like Lowry Powell, prefer the cabins we’re building around the den.
I can build whatever Izzy wants, but it’ll take time and materials, which I’ll need to trade for or find a way to make.
I walk, the water sloshes in the bucket, and I worry. By the time I get back to our shelter, I have a list in my head as long as my arm and panic knotted in my chest.
Then I see my mate.
She’s still sitting on the bedroll, hiding in the heaped blankets, her eyes brimming with uncertainty as she puts on a brave face and chats with Granddad.
“Here he comes now,” Granddad’s saying as I set everything down on the edge of the platform. “I told you he’d be right back. No flies on that one.” Granddad grins at me. “Do you know how we became pack?” he asks. Both Flora and Izzy murmur that they don’t, although Flora’s definitely heard the story a hundred times.
“Oh, they don’t want to hear about that. Tell them aboutthe time you nearly caught that bog worm,” I attempt to divert him as I gather the breakfast dishes. Flora casts me a peeved glance. The bog worm story is twice as long, and she’s heard it twice as many times.
Of course, much like the bog worm, Granddad doesn’t take the bait. “This one here just showed up one day, you know. Slept on the back porch. Didn’t say nothing. Didn’t eat. We figured he’d die or wander off soon enough. And then one night, there was a storm, one of those summer storms, right in the middle of August when the sky goes pitch dark in the middle of the day.” Granddad stops to cough, and I grab his water from the floor beside his cot and put it in his hand. “No one was home but me and him, and he was dead to the world out on the porch. And then, between cracks of lightning, I heard something.”
Granddad imitates a high-pitched whimper. “Like that. Like a scared pup. To this day, I don’t know how I heard it. My ears were already shot by then, but Fate wanted me to hear. In my heart, I knew I had to go. The pull—there was something supernatural about it. I shifted because my wolf’s knees were better, and like anyone, I was steadier on four feet than two, and I went hunting after that sound.”
Izzy is leaning forward, her eyes wide. The scent of her misery lifts, and my embarrassment fades. I guess Granddad can tell whatever stories he wants if it distracts her.
“The rain was coming down in sheets. You couldn’t see an inch beyond your face. Couldn’t smell nothing. I had a sense, though, so I followed it down to the river that runs down the holler out back of the houses. I don’t know how I saw her, either, in all that rain and with no light, but there she was, a young female, trapped on a tiny strip of land in the middle of the raging river, soaked to the bone and shaking like a leaf.”
