Page 111 of Chased By My Grumpy Alpha
“Don’t worry about me.” I tell Seth. “How’s the investigation into the Umbra Council going?”
Seth looks uneasy. “High Inquisitor Draven has been making some visits to different packs in the North. There have been some rumors of disappearances of young shifters with dual natures within that area, as well.”
My jaw tightens. Dual natures. Shifters who aren’t exactly pureblooded. “Do you have names and backgrounds?”
Seth shakes his head. “Leon is looking into it, but the alphas are closing ranks. They’re giving excuses for the disappearances and claiming they are their own packs’ internal matters. If we press any further, news could get back to the King, and you’ll be reprimanded for conducting this investigation.”
That stubborn fool!
My eyes flick toward the upper windows of the inn once again. I need to get home, but in this state of hers, how can I bring Astra to the palace? She’ll be torn to shreds.
I need to fix our relationship first. She needs to love me. She needs to be completely dependent on me emotionally so that she will never leave me.
I have claws marks on my back from her that prove to me her wolf isn’t latent, and I’m sure whatever happened to it has something to do with a witch. Until I figure that part out, I have to make sure she can’t leave me.
Seth departs with a promise to keep me updated and a warning to watch my back. I stand alone on the empty street, his earlier words echoing in my mind.
“Try buying her gifts.”
I’ve tried gifts. The necklace sits untouched in her knapsack alongside the poetry book and the cloak. Everything I choose, she accepts with that hollow “thank you” that makes my teeth ache.
But then I remember something: the bookstore she wandered into while I was buying her clothes. The way her entire body changed when she picked up that gardening book. The pure contentment I felt through our bond—the first real happiness I’d ever sensed from her.
She likes books about herbs. About plants and their medicinal properties.
Of course! She’s an herbalist, but most of the equipment she carries is broken. I’ve seen the cracked mortar, the rusted tools,the makeshift containers she uses to store what little she can gather.
I need to find herbalist supplies.
It takes three shops before I find what I’m looking for. The elderly woman behind the counter brightens when I explain what I need.
“Ah, for a fellow herb enthusiast!” She clasps her hands together. “How wonderful. Let me show you our finest equipment.”
I follow her through the cramped shop, my mind racing. This has to work. This has to be the key to reaching whatever part of Astra is still buried beneath all that careful politeness.
“These are our premium storage jars,” the merchant says, lifting a set of glass containers with tight-fitting lids. “Perfect for preserving dried herbs. See how the glass is slightly tinted? That protects the contents from light damage.”
I nod, though I have no idea what “light damage” means. “I’ll take a full set.”
“Excellent choice. And these”—she moves to another display—“are our grinding mortars. This one is made from volcanic stone, perfect for breaking down tough roots and bark.”
“That one, too.”
Her eyes light up with each purchase. Measuring scales with delicate brass weights. Sharp pruning shears for harvesting. A leather satchel specifically designed with compartments for different tools. Small mesh bags for drying herbs. Labels made from special paper that won’t deteriorate.
“Oh, and this,” she says, practically vibrating with excitement. “This is our newest piece. A portable herb dryer.” She shows me a wooden contraption with multiple levels of fine mesh. “It allows for proper air circulation while protecting the herbs from dust and insects. Perfect for someone who travels.”
She quotes the price with an apologetic wince, but I don’t even pause. “I’ll take it.”
By the time I’m finished, I’ve spent more money than most people see in a year. But as I look at the carefully wrapped packages, a good feeling comes over me. These aren’t random gifts chosen to impress her. These are tools. Equipment that will let her practice her craft again.
This is giving Astra back a piece of herself.
I make my way up the stairs in the inn, my arms full of the purchases, when I hear her voice drifting through the thin walls.
I freeze outside her door, my wolf’s hearing picking up every word.
“...just like I expected, Luna.” The despair in her tone makes my heart tighten. “He slept with me, and now he’s done. Got his own room, didn’t he?”
