Delilah

It's hard to keep your emotions buried when a tall hot hunk of a man is staring at
you in sympathy, but somehow I manage to swallow them down. Lamely, I tell
Lance, "No one mentioned that in the notice they sent to me."

"I'm sorry." He puts a broad hand on my shoulder, his palm engulfing me. "I really
keep putting my foot in my mouth, don't I?"

"It's not your fault."

"Someone else should be breaking all this news to you. Somebody who you didn’t
just meet. Is there someone I should go get? One of your friends or... another
family member?"

I shake my head, hating that Cat isn't here with me. "It's okay, really. Queenie and I
weren't that close—I barely knew her. I just hate to think of her dying like that."

"I hate to think of anyone dying like that." His hand falls away from my shoulder,
and I feel the absence of his warm touch. "If it's any consolation, she went quick.
By the time the curse took hold of her, the deaths weren't long anymore. They were
just alive one minute, and the next..."

"A curse." I shake my head. "I can't believe it's not in all the papers and all over the
TV. No one in San Diego talked about this."

"Does it surprise you?" Lance arches a thick dark brow. "Humans don't believe in
the things we talk about. Researchers have shown up to traipse through the town
and try to figure out what's going on. They all just conclude that it's blood rot and
leave in disappointment. None of them listen when we tell them the
curse preceeded the blood rot, and not the other way around."

"Blood rot. Oh, god." I find myself swaying, but helpfully the loveseat is nearby.
Collapsing onto it, I put my hands on my knees and try to accept this new reality.
"When did it start? How—how come my dad didn't stop it?"

Vampires cause blood rot. Specifically, by draining werewolf blood. A pack is

connected to the earth, and each pack member is connected to each other, by blood,
mate bonds, and pack bonds. When vampires drain werewolf blood to the point of
weakening the pack, it also weakens the land—and weak land leads to scarce prey,
which weakens the pack further, until things get dire.

Blood rot is how werewolves were decimated, once. It's been weaponized by
humans before to steal our land. Pack territories are federally recognized now, and
humans are no longer on friendly terms with vampires; that ended the instant they
realized just how much they were being drained as well as us. But the vamps still
hover at the edges of packs, stealing weak members and hypnotizing the unwary.
Idiotic werewolves have even been known to let vamps drain them for the high that
follows the encounters.

"Your dad tried to stop the blood rot," Lance says, abandoning the filing cabinets
entirely. He wheels the desk chair over and sits across from me, and I have to say,
the early morning light from the windows above the loveseat really emphasizes
how drop dead gorgeous he is. Which is why it's hard to concentrate on his words
as he explains, "He even reached out to other packs for their help. But few came—
no one wanted to risk the curse traveling to their pack. And as more and more
females died during their shifts, mate bonds were weakened, and the pack's
protection fell into disarray.

"Your dad was researching what might've caused it, and looking for a cure. At least
that's what he said. And I'm hoping to find that in his papers."

"Right. A cure."

I nod weakly, feeling numb inside. My mind keeps going back to those moments I
threw away the letters from my father, and I cringe regretfully from head to toe.

Finally, I shake it off, meeting Lance's sympathetic eyes, and I feel like crawling
beneath the floor. He's looking at me with such pity—like I'm weak or something.
No doubt he's wondering how an alpha's daughter could fall so far as to not even
know what was happening in her own pack.

But it isn't my pack anymore, I realize with a pang. Though it's stupid, some part of
me was hoping that when I came back here, it would feel like home. A werewolf’s
home isn't the land or the house, though. It's the connection to the pack—a
connection I'll never have, because I'm too broken to shift, much less mate.

Absentmindedly, I scratch my neck. Lance watches my movements, his eyes on

my bared skin, and I feel a flush go through me. I want him so bad—my body
responds to every flex of his shoulders and shift of his eyes—but I'll never have
him.

So I pull myself together, straighten my shoulders, and wave him away. "You've
caught me up. Get back to your search. Whatever my dad has in here, it's yours—
just let me know what you take before you take it, so I can make copies."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course."
I force myself up off the sofa, which only brings me closer to him as he springs
from the chair. Inhaling sharply, I catch a whiff of his scent: pine needles, fresh
snowfall, sharp mint, and the undeniable warm musk of werewolf.

It's enough to make me dizzy. I sway a little, and try to step past Lance to give
myself some distance. Instead I stumble forward—and his arms come up,
steadying me.

My hands fall against his chest, fingers brushing his warm sweater.

Our eyes collide, and I swear for a moment I see his black pupils dilate. Everything
inside me yearns for werewolf senses. If I had them, I would know if he's attracted
to me.

That thought is like a bucket of cold water because it reminds me that A) he can
totally smell how stupidly I'm crushing on him right now, and B) I'll never be able
to have him, not really, not the way a werewolf female would.

Though if there really is a curse that's killed all the Glass Pack females, my mind
whispers, that means he doesn't have a mate.

What a terrible thing to think. I force myself away from Lance, stumbling back,
hating that I even thought that.

"Sorry," I mumble, shooting past him and out towards the hallway.

"Hey—are you okay? Delilah?"

My name in his mouth just makes me want to melt into the floorboards. He sounds
so warm as he says it, so melodic and smooth. Dark desires fill me at the sound,
and I want to make him say it again.

"I'm okay!" I barely manage to squeak out a response. "Just, uh, have some errands
to do! Look through the files without me."

"Okay."

I glance back to see him hovering near the doorway of the office, his brows drawn
slightly together, a small frown on his plush lips. I swear he looks more handsome
by the second.

"Well—bye!"

I flee from his eyes, going through the first door I find, and slip to the other side
with my heart beating double time. It's so ridiculous; my cheeks are heated, and I
feel as giddy as a schoolgirl, but nothing happened. I just got a little clumsy. He
did what anyone would do: he held his hands out to catch me before I smacked
right into him.

I'm making a fool of myself for nothing. It's not like I'm some preteen girl
anymore. I've dated around. I've had sex. Hell, just last week I went on a dinner
date, and if I weren't on the other side of the west coast by now, I'd be preparing
for date number three, which would've probably meant an overnight.

Sex with human men, a little part of me knows, is nothing like the kind of sex that
happens when two werewolves consummate their relationship in the Mating Circle.

Shaking that delirious thought off, I look around me—and realize with a start that
I've gone into my father's bedroom without even realizing it.

Most of the room is much like I remember it, though the bed has been moved, and
there are new sheets and a new headboard. Unlike most of the house, there's carpet
in here; a plush shag that was put in shortly before my exile, which is now a little
worn down but still smooth beneath my toes.

On one wall, thick oak closets take up much of the space. On another, double doors
lead to a large master bath. That's all the way it used to be.

What has changed is everything else. The bedroom is a musty, horrifying, terrible
mess, the space between the bed and one wall covered in stacks of newspaper and
crumpled takeout food trash. There are empty liquor bottles and beer cans on every
free surface that can take them. Two of the closet doors are hanging off their
hinges, and an ashtray on the nightstand is overflowing, stubby cigarettes put out
everywhere. The old leather recliner in one corner is covered in dirty laundry that
spills out onto the floor and into the master bathroom.

The worst part, though, is the wide horizontal window above the bed. Below it is a
mahogany shelf that spans the width of the room. It used to be full of things my
father was proud of, like little league trophies, photos of my mom, and pictures of
me as a kid.

All of that is gone now. Instead, the entire shelf is covered in objects that make me
recoil. Bits of things in jars; skulls and leather bat wings and dried up lizards.
Bundles of dried herbs, crushed and torn. Several old bottles full of mysterious
liquids that glint in the light through the window. I don't know what the liquids are,
but I can guess. Witches only work with dead things, and there's nothing more
dead than a creature drained of its blood.

Horror fills me. I want to back out of the room and away, but instead I approach,
climbing up onto the bed and walking across it, so I can look down at the contents
of the shelf.
"Witch shit." I wipe my fingers across the mahogany wood, and shudder at the
tingle of magic that follows. "Nothing but witch shit as far as the eye can see."

Behind the jars, bottles, and various bits of things, is a pile of framed photographs,
stacked and forgotten.

On top of the pile is a picture of me, gap-toothed and achingly joyful, my hair the
golden blonde of childhoods spent out in the sun, my father's hand clasped on my
shoulder as I hold up a trophy from my own little league game.

Grabbing the framed photos—at least half of them are of Mom—I leap off the bed
and get out of the room as fast as possible.

I don't want to think about what my father's new collection means.

Or the answers I'm now certain Lance won't find inside his filing cabinets.

Because one thing is undeniable: whatever curse hangs over Glass Pack, my father
wasn't able to cure it. He quite possibly smoked and drank himself to death looking
for a cure but never found it.

There's no way he would've brought taboo and dangerous spell ingredients into the
house and put them in a sacred place above his bed otherwise.

At least now I know why he slept in his office. I wouldn't be able to dream easy
under a shelf full of a witch's dead things either.

***

I can't get the image of my father's bedroom or my stepmother's death out of my

mind. I search the house for something to chase it away despite the early morning
hour. The bar cabinet in the dining room is empty of anything useful; just a few
sweet liqueurs and a dusty bottle of something that looks like absinthe. I look
through the pantry, the kitchen cabinets, the fridge, and finally find a half-drunk
bottle of vodka in the freezer. Rustling up some sugar, I pair the vodka with a few
squeezes of lime juice concentrate, shake it in a mason jar, and strain it into a cold
glass.

It's nothing fancy enough to serve at the restaurant, but even the first sip soothes
the images in my mind, and feels less feral than drinking straight from the bottle.
Since it needs something to pair with, I grab the only two things I salvaged from
the fridge—half a dozen eggs and a stick of butter—and start breakfast in a
stainless-steel pan I scrubbed before Lance got here.
The house needs a lot of work, I reflect as I stir the scrambled eggs, but it could be
salvaged. A little sanding work on the hardwood floors, some refinishing and
resealing, a few coats of paint and the living room would look nice again. The
bathrooms will take more, and the exterior of the house is a wreck, but if the roof is
intact, it could probably be brought back to its former glory.

What I mourn most is the stained-glass transom. But there has to be a restorer or
stained-glass artist who can fix a new panel in the broken spot. The swirling pink
glass curves depict peonies against a dark green background, and one of the green
panels has been broken.

I don't remember much about my mother—she died of breast cancer when I was
five—but I do remember that she loved that stained-glass transom.

"It could all be fixed," I murmur to myself as I serve up the scrambled eggs on a
clean plate and settle onto the dining room table. "This place isn't beyond repair."

The only problem is, I won't be the one who gets to repair it. Whoever wins the
alpha contest will likely want the house. If not them, someone else in town—
someone who might very well tear it down and build anew.

Of course now that I know about the curse, I do wonder if anyone will be around to
want it. Surely, not every female werewolf is dead—Lance must have been
exaggerating for effect—but even half of them, plus the blood rot, would drive
werewolves and humans alike out of Juniper. There may not be anyone around
who wants a rundown house in need of repair.

And I promised myself that I would be in and out of here in the matter of days. Not
stick around to sand hardwood floors and retile the kitchen backsplash.

Cat will know what to do, I reason as I wash a mouthful of eggs down with a long
sip of my lime cocktail. She'll probably suggest that I leave it in a contractor's
hands. That's just what I'll do today, while I'm out running errands—hire someone
to get the place in running order, so it can be sold. I won't even need to be in town
to do it.

Footsteps on the stairs alert me to Lance's presence, and I drain my cocktail

quickly, embarrassed at how early I'm drinking. A moment later I feel even more
embarrassed as I remember he'll smell the liquor on my breath.

Werewolves. Right. I'm not among humans anymore.

I've spent a third of my life exiled from my own kind, and I've forgotten what we
—what they—are like.
"I found a few things that look promising." He comes into the room, glances
briefly at my meal, but thankfully doesn't comment or even look judgmental. "It's
unclear if he found anything, but he was researching a few possibilities."

"That's good."

"There may be more." Hesitating a little, he glances at the table. "Can I sit?"

"Go ahead."

He does, and his bulky frame in the wooden chair just emphasizes the difference in
our size. I'm an average woman—a little tall among humans—but not terribly
small. In Lance's arms, or thrown over his back, I'd be minuscule. Dwarfed by the
sheer size of his body.

At the moment I'm drowning in the warmth of his dark eyes.

"There's a locked drawer in one of your father's filing cabinets."

Lance's deep bass voice draws my attention up to his face and away from his broad
chest. I shove some eggs into my mouth, keenly aware of how the alcohol and his
presence are affecting me. "There is?"

"Yeah. I was thinking that it might have important research in it. But I didn't find
the key—and I don't want to overstep my welcome."

"It's probably just taxes and stuff," I tell him dismissively. "I know where he kept
keys and things. Once I've got it open I'll let you know if there's anything in there,
but there probably isn't."

Lance licks his lips. My eyes follow the motion, and a sinful part of me wonders
what that mouth would feel like between my thighs. Unfortunately for me, a male
like him would never mate with a female like me.

God, I've got to get out of Juniper as soon as possible. This place is going to make
me wild over the things I can't have.

"Your father was... more interested in the curse than you might think, Delilah."
Lance leans his broad arms on the tabletop. I put all the scrambled eggs into my
mouth, trying to counteract the alcohol now hitting my veins. "It was an obsession
of his, you might say. The only thing he talked about in the months leading up to
his death was the curse. And the only thing he did was research it. I got the feeling
he was concerned that if he never fixed it, he had nothing else to live for. Is it
possible he was looking for a cure so he could bring you home?"
I cough a little, and swallow the eggs with difficulty. To cover up all the thoughts
and emotions that brings up in me, I grab my empty glass and step into the kitchen
to fill it with water, then dart back in, drinking quickly and clearing my throat.

"You weren't here when I was exiled," I tell Lance. "So you may not know all the
details."

He frowns. "I know some of them, at least I think I do. Like I said, it isn't
something no one has discussed."

"You'll forgive me for doubting that." I shoot him a wry smile. "If you knew all the
details, I don't think you'd believe for one second that my father was
doing anything to bring me back to the pack."

"What do you mean?"

"He was the one who exiled me."

Lance frowns a little, brows drawn together. "I don't understand. I heard that your
mate rejected you—that he refused you during the ceremony, and the pack threw
you out. Your father had no choice. The people wouldn't accept you."

"No. He had a choice." I shake my head slowly, the pain like a fist around my
chest. "After I was rejected, his mate and his second told him to give me another
chance. To pair me with a different intended—let me find a mate who might
work."

"The ceremony hadn't started?"

My throat aches. "It couldn't start because I wasn't able to shift."

Lance
"Because I wasn't able to shift."

Those words make me reel back in shock so hard that the legs of my chair come up
off the ground slightly, only to fall back when I lean towards the woman sitting
across from me.

A woman with soft, glowing skin and thick hair swept up in a ponytail that grazes
her curved neck. Whose forest green eyes have a brown chip in the right iris, just at
the bottom. With a mouth that curves in a wry smile at the moment—a smile that
does nothing to hide her pain.
Just being in the same room makes me feel something. As if there's a slight shift in
the axis of the world, tilting the ground beneath us.

Mentally, I go over everything I know about the alpha's daughter. Her mate
rejected her—a horrifying, taboo thing to do, though not unheard of. The pack
exiled her, which the pack seems to see as tragic but necessary. Pack health
depends on healthy bonds with willing mates; a lone wolf, without any kind of
family or mate, is like a fly in the ointment.

I should know. Ever since my mate died, I've felt unmoored, like a ship adrift at
sea. And that was a shallow, arranged relationship neither of us ever had the
chance to settle into. I can only imagine how those who lost their true mates feel—
seeing it in their eyes, I feel as if I've never truly known sorrow.

But no one ever told me that the late alpha, William Glass, had a daughter who
couldn't shift. Somehow that part of the story always got left out. I thought she was
exiled because she was rejected, and that she went to another pack. The shiftless
don't get to find a new pack.

Maybe the wolves who told me felt it was too shameful to ever speak of.

"I'm sorry," I tell Delilah, unable to stop myself from awkwardly rubbing the back
of my neck, an old habit my mother used to fuss at me about. "I keep putting my
foot in my mouth around you, and now it's happened again."

"It's okay."

"I didn't ask to reopen old wounds," I insist, wincing a little at the fact that I did
exactly that, intentionally or not. "I shouldn't have talked about your father at all. I
had no idea what a fraught relationship it was—he always spoke of you like he
thought you'd come home one day."

Delilah reels back like she's been slapped, and I wince inwardly yet again. She
recovers quickly, smoothing the emotion down and burying it, which must cost her
dearly.

In a bitter voice she mutters, "That's news to me."

"Some things are just hard for people to express aloud," I say hastily, wishing they
made bulldozers that could shovel up all the shit that's fallen from my mouth this
morning. "I know he cared about you. I guess I just thought—well. He was a man
possessed. The curse was the only thing he talked about or thought about, long
after most of us had given up ever curing it. I assumed the only reason why he'd be
that single-minded was because of love."
"Let's not talk about my father anymore," she says, which is a relief to me, the guy
who can't seem to stop picking at things I should leave alone. Her hand briefly
goes up to her neck to scratch at a small bump there before she jerks it away
suddenly. "I want to talk about the Summit. When is it happening? Who is—who is
a contender?"

Ah. I stifle my wince. We've moved from a sore subject for her to a sore subject for
me.

"Niall hasn't set a date yet. He wanted to wait until a few things were settled."

Until the alpha's daughter was back, and he had decided what to do with her. Now
that I know the full story, it seems like the only thing to do is to let her finish her
business and leave town—which is clearly what she wants, based on the drink she's
downed with her breakfast and how uncomfortable she looks just sitting in a room
with me.

She's so beautiful that I find it hard to accept that any male worth his weight would
reject her. Even without a wolf inside her, she radiates a connection with the earth.
Surely, a bond could've been formed—stranger things have happened than a mate
bond between a wolf and a shiftless, like the ones formed with humans, or even
with witches.

I know that I couldn't have thrown her away so easily. The idiot who rejected her
should have his balls twisted so tight they fall off his body. Knowing who did it, I
find it hard to believe he was ever worthy of her.

"And the contenders?" Delilah probes. "Who's at the top? I know it's happening
soon, but these things are usually pretty obvious."

I was hoping she would forget about the second question she asked if I never
answered it. Instead of coming at it directly, I tell her honestly, "I'm hoping Roarke
Bell is chosen."

"Roarke?" Disbelief fills her tone, and she looks momentarily shocked. "Seriously
—Roarke Bell? The beanpole kid I grew up with?"

"Unless there's another Glass Pack werewolf with that name, I imagine it's one and
the same. And he's no beanpole—last I checked."

"Huh." She fidgets a little, looking down and to the side. In a quiet voice, she asks,
"Anyone else?"

Me. Technically, since William died, I'm the strongest wolf of the pack, physically
and spiritually. Of all the males whose mates died, I'm the only one who never
suffered much of a wound. Oh, it hurt, it unmoored me, but my relationship with
Vivian was one of convenience. Each of us had intendeds who died before the
mate bond could be consummated. We found something like friendship in each
other, but never love—and she was dead before I could even try for something
deeper.

"I'm sure Niall will announce the contenders before the Summit," I tell Delilah, yet
again sidestepping her question, despite the way it makes my stomach turn to lie.
"It may take a month or two before the pack is ready for new leadership, though.
We'll have to decide where we'll go from here."

"Oh." Delilah taps her fingers against the table. "I guess I thought it would be
sooner, but this was unexpected."

"It was. And there's a lot to decide."

"Right."

She sighs a little, her breath moving a stray bit of purplish dyed hair that's fallen
from her ponytail, and I'm struck once again by her beauty. She doesn't even seem
to notice me watching her, though my eyes briefly stray along the curve of her
body before I jerk them back. Inside, my wolf growls hungrily for her, and I
wonder how it is that he's awakened to her presence despite her lack of a wolf.

"I should get going," I tell her, forcing myself to rise and gather the files I took
from William's office. "Do you need to make copies of these, or is it enough if I
send them to you electronically? I'm going to scan everything to make sure I have
backups."

"As long as none of it is about the house or the land, it's fine. Take whatever you
need—I had no idea my father was even that much into researching biology and
sociology anyway."

"He was a desperate man," I admit, a shadow of grief passing over me. "We all
were. Still are."

"Right. Of course." After a moment she adds, "Sorry."

"About?"

"Everything." Gesturing around her, she gets up as well, and leads me towards the
front door. "I had no idea this place was so rundown. Maybe if I'd known... well.
There was nothing I could've done about it anyway. There's nothing for me here."

Pausing by the front door, I take her in again. Those beautiful green eyes with the
one odd chip of brown. Thick hair, dyed a fun maroon color that looks like it
would spill down her back if loose. A body with curves as well as strength, and a
mouth slightly curved with amusement, that promises she'd be a challenging mate
worth having around.

Before I can stop myself I tell her, "It's probably for the best that you were exiled.
It would be a shame for a female like you to die a horrible death. At least you're
still alive."

"Yeah." She laughs a little, the sound of it hollow and without amusement.
"There's that, right?" Glancing at the files, she adds, "Do you need my contact
info? To send those over, I mean."

"Niall has it," I tell her, feeling a little embarrassed at just how much access to her
I already have. "He gave me your number when he found out I wanted to look
through your father's files. I'm assuming it's up-to-date?"

"It is. I never changed it."

"Then that's where I'll send the files to."

I have to peel myself away from her, turn my back on her remarkable presence and
force my feet down the stairs to the front porch. As I walk away, heading on foot
towards my truck parked near the road, I feel her eyes on me. It's all I can do not to
turn around, rush towards her, and sweep her in my arms.

Somehow I think the only thing I'd get for my trouble would be a black eye and a
mouthful of curse words.

That doesn't make me want to try it any less.

***

Roarke's house is off the beaten path, far from the center of town where William's
old place and several of the pack complexes are. He chose to buy a fixer-upper
when one of the mateless males packed his bags and headed for sunnier pack
territory down in Florida. The house has been improved on greatly since he bought
it, but there's one thing that's still missing as I let myself in with the keyless entry
code: the scent of a female, and the touch of her hands.

Unlike a lot of the pack males, Roarke didn't lose his mate to the curse. At least not
directly. Instead of going through the Mating Ceremony and risking death on her
first post-mated shift, Leanne decided to bribe a witch into breaking their bond.
She ran off to another pack, one without a curse, and left Roarke in the lurch with
an open wound where the bond should be.

I don't know if that's better or worse than watching a woman you care about die.
Based on everything I saw before she left, he and Leanne loved each other, at least
as much as two teenagers can. She didn't want to be with him enough to risk death,
though. Maybe love just isn't enough without the strength that's supposed to go
along with it.

Since then, he hasn't exactly been a monk, but he also hasn't played around either.
Our friend Finn does more than enough sleeping around for both of us. I don't
think there's a female townie under thirty he hasn't seduced, and a few above that
age range as well. Pretty soon he'll lap himself and wind up with the scars to prove
it.

Though the house feels empty, I can sense Roarke's presence as I toe my shoes off
by the door and walk inside. He's probably off in his home gym, shaking off
another night out in the woods babysitting when he should be leading.

"Bell!" I call his name as I head into the living room and drop the files off on the
bar counter against one wall, helping myself to a cold lemon seltzer water in the
mini fridge. "I know you're up. Get your ass out here and come take a look at what
I found."

There's a thump from the other room—Roarke turned the old man's frilly guest
bedroom into a home gym. Apparently, hunting isn't enough exercise for him.
Several thuds follow, and then a moment later I'm greeted by the sight of a sweat-
slick Roarke walking around the corner with nothing but a black tank top and tight
athletic bottoms on. Grinning, I push my thumb and index finger into my mouth
and let out an exaggerated whistle of appreciation.

"Shut up," he mutters, acting like he hasn't turned from the town's skinniest geek to
the male every living female wants to throw herself at—most of them human or
too young to get his attention, but it doesn't stop them. "You're such an ass, you
know that? I didn't give you the door code just so you could drink all my two dollar
seltzers."

"This shit is two bucks?" I blanche at the can. "Buy the off-brand stuff already. It's
the same chemicals at half the price."

"God you're cheap." He lounges against the bar counter and stares down at the file
folders, a frown creasing his brows. "Don't tell me this is what I think it is."

"A path out of our current predicament? Quite possibly."

"I hate your incessant enthusiasm, man." He shoulders me aside to grab a seltzer
out of the fridge, and I hold my nose like he stinks worse than he does, which gets
me a light punch to the shoulder. "I told you already, there's no way the alpha had
the cure to this curse we're under. If he did, he would've fixed it by now. We're shit
out of luck until the thing runs out."

"Are we confident that it will?" I drain my can of seltzer, crumple the aluminum,
and toss it in the recycling without looking. Then I grab another, annoying Roarke
further, which is of course the point. "There's every possibility we're stuck with
this curse until we break it. The pack will wither and die. We can't survive much
longer without mate bonds or the hope of another generation—the blood rot will
take us out before the Summit is even called."

Roarke opens his seltzer and takes a small sip, pacing himself, unlike me. He leans
up against the wall, crosses his feet at the ankles, and thinks for a moment—
patience has always been one of his better traits.

Though I want nothing more than to push him further, I try to stay patient as well. I
know that Roarke is the best male around to lead us into the next generation. The
only problem is, I can't seem to convince him of that. Maybe if I bring him
evidence proving we can find a cure, he'll finally start to believe me.

"I've been thinking about the Summit," he says slowly, which makes me sit at
attention. Maybe he's finally listened to me and is putting in his bid for alpha. "I
know you won't like it, but—I have an idea for a way to fix all of this. Something
simple and sure to work."

I stare at him warily, not liking what I'm hearing so far. "What is it?"

"We give up. Completely." He says it like he's proposing a night of board games
and not the decimation of a centuries-old culture. "Let another pack step in, and
invite them to the Summit. This land, this pack—it's done for. But if another line
takes over the territory, they could push out the blood rot, if they're strong
enough."

"No. No way." I shake my head. "We'd have to sever all our connections to the
earth to do that—give it away completely."

"Yes."

"After so long fighting the humans just so we wouldn't have to do that? It's
unacceptable."

I find my free hand curling up into a fist, and make effort to relax it. My wolf is
growling and snarling, so I take a deep breath to calm him. "The Glass Pack
connection to this land is sacred. We feed our spirits into it, and they protect us in
return. The streams rise to drown invading soldiers; the trees come to life to snatch
vampires from our borders. We can't betray the earth by giving it away."

"The streams and the trees used to do that," Roarke says bitterly. "Now? If it
weren't for our treaties with the US government, they'd invade us and we'd fold in a
matter of minutes. None of our border protections are active—you know that.
You've seen what the woods are like at night."

I have, but not recently. Unlike Roarke, I'm not a madman with a death wish
willing to throw himself away at lost causes.

An uncharacteristic anger stokes up inside me. Normally, I let Roarke do whatever

he pleases; we've been close friends almost since the day I stepped foot in Glass
Pack Territory, and part of that is our mutual respect.

But things have changed. Our alpha is dead. We need new leadership, and
I know Roarke could be that leader. There's just one problem.

"This is because of Kieran, isn't it?" I set my seltzer aside and slide off the bar
chair, turning to face Roarke as he pushes off from the wall, a stubborn set to his
jaw. "You know that he won't survive much longer if he keeps going down the path
he's on."

"He won't. You've seen it as well as I have."

"So you've decided it's better if we just throw in the towel and give up. Because
you think if another pack steps in and gets rid of the blood rot, he'll wake up and be
the friend he used to be to you."

"You didn't know him before all this," Roarke says, a familiar refrain I've heard
from him before. "He used to be different. What happened with Tara... it changed
everything."

"That was years ago," I argue. "He should be over it by now. The rest of us have
gotten used to not having a mate bond—I'm sure Kieran would too, if you weren't
babysitting him."

Roarke’s eyes flash, and for a moment I think he might actually fight me. As much
as I loathe conflict, I would almost welcome it from him—better than the limp man
who stands before me, too obsessed with saving a single member of his pack to see
all the others who need him.

But it only takes a moment for Roarke's anger to dissipate. He shakes his head and
steps back from the brewing conflict, refusing to let the heat of anger rule him.
That's one reason why I know he'd be a good alpha—and why I'm so frustrated he
hasn't stepped up and put in his bid.

"Do whatever you want to try to reverse the curse," he says, pacing over to the
coffee table to grab a remote and turn the TV on, flipping over to a football game.
"Just don't expect me to put all my faith in a solution we've been unable to find for
years."

"There's got to be something," I tell him, feeling fierce conviction inside me. "I
know there is."

"And if there isn't?"

"Then I won't give up on the pack. I'll do whatever it takes to save it."

"That's how I feel too." Roarke's jaw sets at a stubborn angle that radiates with
tension. "Which is why, when the day comes, I'm prepared to give up completely
to save us. The Glass Pack Territory doesn't need to live on underneath the Glass
name—a pack is its people, and we should prioritize them above all else."

Roarke really believes what he's saying. He thinks that if another alpha comes in,
takes over, and bonds their pack spirit with the earth, it'll be enough to drive the
blood rot out and reverse the curse.

I wish I could believe the same thing. But I want to save our people—and that
means saving the Glass Pack name and spirit, too. I'm convinced that Roarke
would see that if he weren't so busy trying to save Kieran from himself.

At the end of the day, Roarke Bell would be better off if Kieran Salt were dead.
Probably all of us would be.

It's the least he deserves, I'm beginning to realize, for the part he played in
Delilah's exile.

Delilah
Everything in Juniper has changed.

It's not just my father's house, I'm beginning to realize. I look around in disbelief
after I park near the town square and get out of my car. The very fabric of the
community here has withered. Half the stores are closed up permanently; the other
half look close to it, advertising clearance sales beneath peeling signs. Even the
foot traffic past the stores is a fraction of what it used to be.
Until now, I only half-believed Lance's story. I thought he had to be mistaken, or
exaggerating somehow. Surely, Glass Pack Territory hadn't given in to blood rot,
and the mate bonds weren't all gone because of death and destruction. It was
impossible to imagine the strong, vital pack my father led being brought to its
knees in the years since I was exiled.

Now that I'm in the middle of things, I have to admit he was telling the truth. If
anything he was downplaying the news as he broke it to me.

As I walk down the footpath past an old shoe store that's closed, and a floral shop
that looks dusty, my heart skips a beat to see a familiar store still open: Bea's Toy
Shop, an old haunt I went to often as a child. Glancing around like I'll see old
ghosts here, I shake off the paranoia that I'll run into him and rush to the front of
the store, then pause.

Sure, it's unlikely I'll see Kieran here—grown men don't exactly hang out around
toy stores—but a worse thought occurs to me. What if Bea is no longer here? She
was human, so there's no way the curse took her, and I know she wasn't old enough
to have passed away from natural causes. But Lance's story seemed to suggest that
many of the townies left Juniper as the blood rot closed in. It wouldn't be a big
surprise if that included Bea.

I can't just stand here waiting in suspense, though. Steeling myself against
disappointment, I push open the wide glass door and walk inside.

Relief fills me at the familiar sights. The toy store is still the same. Shelves on
either side near the entrance are filled with everything from board games, to
puzzles, handheld electronics, a few video games behind locked doors, and even
model trains. There are large barrels near the front that are full of tiny odds and
ends like wind-up toys and bouncy balls.

Toys aren't the only thing Bea filled her shop with, though. There's a long ice
cream counter in the back, the fluorescent light glowing beneath the sneeze guard.
Clear acrylic bins near the counter are full of taffy and candy. And next to that, a
wide doorway with a thick black curtain marks the entrance to the arcade, where
everything from Street Fighter to Grand Theft Auto can be played for just a quarter
—quarters Bea will let you get back from the machine if you give her a wide
enough smile.

No one is behind the ice cream counter or the cash register, but as I step in the door
swings shut behind me and the bell rings. A familiar voice calls out, "Just a
minute!"

My heart soars—and then twists anxiously. I came here hoping for a reunion, but
there's no telling what I'll get. Bea may not have been embroiled in pack politics
like everyone else, but will she even remember me? Will she care, or just consider
me a nuisance? I left without even so much as saying goodbye.

Not that Niall or my father would've let me walk around town waving off every
human townie I saw.

Maybe I shouldn't have come here. I could go—head back out the door and dart
around the corner without notice. I may not have a wolf, but I was born to two
werewolves. There's plenty of strength and speed within me to evade one human
chasing me.

The black curtain twitches before I can make up my mind to flee, and a familiar
figure slips into view. Bea is older now, her hair more salt than pepper, and short-
cropped close to her ears. But she has the same rich brown skin, gold hoop
earrings, and fashion sense. Right now she's wearing a flowing purple silk blouse
and loose pants covered in leopard print with a sash tied at the waist—and she's
looking right at me, her eyes widening.

A moment later her mouth curls up in a familiar, infectious smile, and she whoops.
"Delilah! You're back!"

"I am."

"Oh, that's so—well." She moves towards me suddenly, sympathy crumpling her
face inward. "I can't lie and say I'm not glad you're back in town, but I know it's for
terrible reasons. I'm so sorry, Sweetie. Hug?"

"Of course."

She folds her arms around me gently and envelops me with her faded floral scent.
It takes a moment for me to loosen my arms from the side and return the hug.
Anxiety gnaws at me, threatening to turn my stomach inside out, clawing at my
throat like a living thing.

Bea's hands stroke my back, her voice low and soothing. "You poor thing. Gone
for so long—and through no fault of your own—only to have to return to bear a
terrible burden. And to think, you had to grow up so quickly."

Something shakes loose inside me. I breathe out, and am shocked to have to blink
back tears. The words that leave my mouth feel like they've been bubbling up for
days—and they have.

"He died before he ever said he was sorry," I tell her, closing my eyes as she
clutches me tight. "How is that fair?"

"It isn't."
"Now I'll never get to hear those words."

"And you deserved them, Dee." In her mouth I don't mind the childhood nickname.
"I'm so sorry that things couldn't have been better for you. It's what you deserved."

"Thank you."

I take a deep breath, and for a moment, I just let her hold me. It's a long moment—
too long, maybe—but not enough to soothe my soul. I have to force myself back
before I lean on her too much, afraid that if I start letting more of the grief and
anger out, I won't be able to stop it.

But I hold myself together and dash the tears from my eyes, reminding myself that
I didn't come here to fall apart.

"This place is just like I remember it," I tell Bea, stepping over to a wide-mouthed
barrel full of legos and toying idly with a few bright pieces. "It's like childhood
never really ended."

She watches me for a moment, but wisely lets me change the subject. "I wanted it
to be exactly that when I opened it. If you ask me, we expect kids to turn into
adults too quickly. Everyone needs a little extra playtime—even, or maybe
especially, adults."

"Here I thought I was going to get my version of adult playtime across the square
at the liquor store," I joke.

"Oh, everyone needs a little of that, too." Bea winks at me. "I have a bottle of
liquor in the back that I pull out after closing to play a little Grand Theft on my
own. Your father used to join me from time to time."

"My father? Really?"

"He did. In fact, he was one of my favorite patrons." A sorrowful expression

crosses her face. "When I moved here, I was in dire straights. Running from more
than one shadow. I don't think I would've survived without his help. He's the one
who convinced the bank to give me a loan—put up a bit of a collateral."

"Wow. I had no idea."

"Wouldn't have expected you to—it was before you were born." She shakes off the
expression and reaches out to gently cup my elbow. "There are a lot of us around
here who credit our survival to your dad. He collected strays like none other. We
would've done anything for him—and we'd do anything for his daughter. If you
need any little thing, just ask."
My throat feels raw with emotion, so I nod, because I can't seem to get any words
out.

***

As I make my way through the square running various errands—a few frozen
meals at the grocery store, some office supplies nearby, stamps and cardboard
boxes—the story I get from various townies I pass is the same.

They all stop to talk to me. Giving me genuine, heartfelt apologies. And then they
each tell their story of how my dad helped them when they first moved to Juniper.

One single mother got a gently used crib and cash to pay the deposit on her
apartment.

A man struggling with addiction got a job, a second chance, and forgiveness.

There's a young man at the gas station who says my dad pulled him off a ledge—a
literal one this time—and an elderly woman buying bingo cards inside who claims
he went on extra hunts for her every winter so she'd have food in her cabin outside
of town.

Story after story, accompanied by deep, genuine grief. They all felt a deep love for
my father. I answer their words with whatever pithy remark gets me out of the
interaction as quickly as possible, but as the day wears long and my errands pile
up, anger starts to grow in my belly.

The father who raised me had so much affection for every single person in Juniper,
down on their luck or otherwise. He went to the ends of the earth and back just to
help them up on their feet.

Yet he exiled his own daughter without even considering it. Rebuffed whatever
attempts Queenie and Niall weakly made to suggest another solution. And didn't
even so much as give me another thought. All I got from him was an envelope of
cash that was stolen within hours of second-in-command dumping me on the side
of the road.

I wish he'd loved me as much as he clearly loved all these strangers.

As the bitterness fills me, so does my car, full of everything I could need including
an icebox stuffed with frozen food. Then I spot the liquor store in the square. I only
really have time for one more errand before I have to get home and stuff my
groceries in the freezer, and I really should head to the city courthouse to get the
public records I need on Dad's place. But I want a big bottle of gin and a case of
wine more than I want to stare at more swimming ink.

Mind made up, I turn the wheel and pull into the liquor store parking lot. It's pretty
empty this time of day; five o'clock hasn't passed yet, so the townies are mostly at
their jobs, not picking up booze.

Heading inside, I'm relieved to find an unfamiliar face behind the counter. No one
assaults me with a tear-jerking story as I head down the aisles with a shopping cart
and grab things at random. Finally, I'm alone with my thoughts, and my growing,
bitter anger.

Justified bitter anger.

Cat would say that I shouldn't hold it inside me. That I should let my feelings out—
probably by journaling them—and really feel the anger. She claims that's the best
way to let it go, so it doesn't eat at you.

Well, I've tried feeling all that anger I hold for my father. More than once I've
stewed in it hoping it would go away. While it's faded, it's never really died. Being
back here, without him around to yell at or cry in front of or anything worsens it.

As I grab an aged tequila bottle off the top shelf, tears sting my eyes.

"It isn't fair," I mutter beneath my breath. "He loved everyone but me."

This is the part where the little girl inside me who was rocked to sleep by her father
and held while she cried insists there must be a reason. A deeply buried, well-
hidden reason. That little girl wants to believe that Lance is right, and my father
was trying to cure the blood rot and reverse the curse, so I could come home. But I
was exiled years before this curse ever took hold, if what he says is true, so the two
can't be connected.

I was exiled because I couldn't shift. Because I don't have that essential part inside
me. And while my father can love humans who don't shift—would even probably
help out a werewolf who's shiftless—he couldn't bring himself to love
a daughter missing that essential piece.

Feeling sorry for myself, I put enough bottles of liquor into my cart to eat away
half a paycheck. The bar cabinet in the dining room is empty, I tell myself. People
will want to come by to have drinks and reminisce about the dead alpha. I'll need to
have something on hand. Truthfully, I'm just aimlessly searching for something
here that will make me forget what happened to me.
As I stray near a section in the back with strange, small bottles of clear liquor, a
voice startles me. "Yuja is the best chamisul flavor. Some people like the plum, but
I think it's too sweet."

Whirling around, I blink up into cool brown eyes that light up a face curved with a
wicked smile. A tall man with honey brown skin stands in front of me, his
fashionably cut black hair shiny and sleek as it curves behind his ears. He has
slightly delicate features and a strong jaw, his monolid eyes topped with thick
black brows.

Plus he's absolutely fucking gorgeous. A stunning lovechild of Jesse Williams and
Henry Golding. He looks like he should be wearing a suit and posing on the red
carpet, not standing in a liquor store in the middle of Juniper. In fact, the seemingly
casual outfit he's wearing, of dark-washed blue jeans and a black button-up,
somehow screams style in its simplicity. I get the sense that he knows the
difference between a single and double-breasted suit jacket.

I can't seem to find words to say to him. Especially when I realize I'm standing
here with seven—no, eight, for fuck's sake—handles of liquor in my cart.

"This isn't all for me," I blurt out, like some kind of goddamned idiot. For some
reason this makes the man grin so widely I nearly fall over in stunned attraction to
him. "I'm, uh, having a party. Well, more like a wake. A—a respectful wake! Err,
or, well, a drunk one..."

Stop now, Delilah. He's never going to want to see you naked. Hell, he probably
didn't before you opened your mouth. The man is just being nice to you—he knows
you're having a mental breakdown in a liquor store.

Or if he didn't before, he does now.

"Don't worry about it. I never judge how much a lady is purchasing in alcohol
sales." Turning to the shelf, the man draws his finger across several bottles covered
in writing I don't recognize, and stops at one with a painting of a blueberry and
brush script on it. "If you're looking for something that'll get you fucked up without
you even noticing you're drinking alcohol, this is the stuff. Just be warned—it's not
that alcoholic seltzer they sell around here. It's far more potent."

"What... is it?"

"Soju. A Korean rice wine." He grabs two of the small bottles and places them in
my cart, where they clink against all the other bottles. I cringe and wish for a trap
door to open up in the ground beneath me. "That should get your respectful wake
going quite nicely."
"Uh—thanks." Lamely, I admit, "I'm not really having a wake. Well, I probably
will—whether I want to or not—I'm just kind of prepared for it to happen one way
or another."

"Gotcha." He rocks back on his heels, watching me idly, until I start to wonder if
there's something on my face. "Sorry for your loss? Or congratulations, if it's your
mortal nemesis whose wake you're holding."

I burst into laughter at his joke. Loud, embarrassing laughter that's way more
enthusiastic than the joke called for. Mortified, I slap my hands over my mouth and
wish again for that trap door in the ground.

"It's complicated," I tell him, my blush spreading even as his eyes dance with mirth
and his grin widens. "Everything about this is complicated."

"Well, if you need some help planning a few mortality-themed complicated

cocktails, I'm your man." He winks at me, and somehow it comes across as
charming instead of slimy. Probably because of the handsomeness. "I'm Finn
Barber, by the way—you are?"

"Delilah." I wince at the sound of my own name, and at the flash of recognition
that slides across his face in response to it. "Yep, that Delilah. And the wake is for
—"

"Your father. Oh shit." He pushes his hair back from his face, though it still slides
forward to flop in his forehead, a tiny flaw in his exquisitely handsome exterior.
"I'm so—wait. I won't say that. Since you said it's complicated."

Relief fills me. "Thank you."

"No problem."

"It's just—I never know how to respond when people say that." Staring into the
cart, I admit, "I probably got too many bottles. It'll take forever to put them back. I
hate just leaving them anywhere—when I worked retail, customers like that drove
me crazy."

"No worries. I'll just—ah, yes, that one." Reaching into the cart, he nabs the big
bottle of cheap vodka I threw in on a whim, and gives me a winsome smile that
makes me feel like a teenage girl again. "That's just what I was looking for,
anyway. No need to put it back on the shelf."

I smile back at him, feeling a little less like a crazy lady, and even more like I
should get the hell out of Juniper before I lose my panties in some kind of panties-
melting hot-werewolf-men related accident.
"I should probably go," I tell Finn.

"Of course."

"See you around?"

I don't mean to word it like a question, but it comes out like one.

"Oh, I'll be seeing you again for sure, Delilah." The look in his eyes should scorch
metal; it nearly melts me. "That much I know."

I'm so unbelievably flustered by his words that I nearly dart out of the store without
paying. Thankfully by the time I'm through the register, he's somewhere on the
other side of one of the aisles. Because I get the sense that if he looks at me for one
more second, talking to me in that voice, I'll explode into a thousand pieces.

All that'll be left is a scorch mark on the ground.

Here lies Delilah. She got so turned on it straight-up killed her.

Kieran
Floating smearing reds and yellow. Little bits of green and white. The world is a
rush of colors, out of focus and blurred at the edges.

I laugh and fall down, tripping on my feet. The ground rushes at me. Or I rush at it.

Earth. Dirt and grass and little weeds. It’s cold beneath my cheeks, but my body
isn't cold.

I'm warm. So warm. Full of light. No hunger, no darkness, just... happiness.

"This one has too high a tolerance," says a scornful voice just above my head,
somewhere in the reds and yellows. "I nearly had to kill him to get him blood
drunk. Pretty soon it won't even be possible."

"Pretty soon he'll be dead."

The voice doesn't care that I'll be dead. Neither do I. Sweet, sweet embrace of
earth. Sweet embrace of death...

"Look at him." Kneeling, the owner of second voice looks at me with distaste on
her face. Pale, pale, bloodless face. "I swear I think they feel it more than the
humans do."
"Of course they do," says the first voice, wiping my blood from his mouth, his
fangs retreated, retracted, no more. "They're not weak like the humans. They feel
everything—anger, hatred, regret, and they remember it all."

"So they need us to forget. To get high."

"Not all of them. Just the ones who are fucked in the head. Like this one."

"You'd think they'd appreciate it more."

"You'd think. But the fools care more about the bunnies and the squirrels than
having a little fun with life."

I hear their words distantly, but don't feel them. Don't feel anything. It's all
somewhere else, and I'm somewhere else. I'm up in the dark cloudless sky with the
blues and greens. I'm against the little living things in the earth. I'm everywhere
and nowhere, and I don't have to hurt anymore.

There's a distant sound. A snarl and a howl. The vampires jerk away from me. One
of them curses, and they both shimmer away, moving impossibly fast.

It's my blood that did that to them, I think distantly. My strength. The thing inside
me that makes it all feel too much all the time. The bond that should've been and
the bond that wasn't. All those sharp deadly things inside me. They take them
away, and I don't have to live with them anymore.

Until the feeling fades.

"Shit." This cursing voice is familiar, but new. Blinking up, I make my eyes focus
on a face of melting tans and blues and yellows. "He's blood drunk again."

"How bad?"

"I don't know." Kneeling, the body the voice belongs to taps my face with a
fingertip. "Kieran, can you get up?"

I burble. Ring. Make that noise—laugh, that's the word.

"I don't think he can stand." Weary. A hand slides up under me, separates me from
the earth. I groan and wriggle—more cursing. "Fuck, Kieran! You're going to
freeze to death out here. Especially with that venom coursing through your veins."

I don't know why they call it venom. It doesn't feel like poison. It feels like little
drops of heaven, more potent than the best liquor in the world. With it, I can finally
forget everything enough to actually be happy.
Maybe that's what makes it poisonous. Happiness always is. Nothing taught me
that better than believing I could have her only to lose her all at once, forever.

The hands grab me again, and pull me to a sitting position. I stare at a series of
shapes that coalesce into a familiar face: Roarke. Always the good guy, Roarke,
with his pale skin summer tanned and his light-brown hair summer bleached, even
in the middle of winter. Blue eyes stare at me with concern, and something like
resigned disappointment.

He should've known that this would happen again. I don't know why he ever thinks
it'll stop. I've never told him as much, never promised, and if I have, I didn't mean
it.

"Help me get him home."

"No way, man." Standing behind the noble Roarke Bell is the lovable but
absolutely infuriating Finn Barber, a frown creasing his impossibly handsome face.
"Just give up on him already. He's a lost cause."

"I'm not giving up on him." Roarke pulls at my shoulders and I flop back towards
the ground, ignoring his sighs. It feels better down here. "He wouldn't give up on
me if our places were reversed."

"You keep saying that, but it'll never happen. He'll never be the thoughtful put-
together guy who gives a shit. And you'll never be drunk off your ass in the woods
because you let a vampire bite you."

Sounding exhausted, Roarke says, "Last I checked he wasn't letting them. He was
paying them."

Shame flushes me, running from my chest to my head then back down again. It's
enough to wear away at my high. Damn Roarke for doing that—for taking some of
it away. All I want is a few precious moments of oblivion, and he won't give me
that.

I didn't ask for him to care about me. To spend his nights out in the woods
searching for me. I try to shake his tail—I used to be good at it. But he's gotten
faster, smarter, stronger, and I... well, I've gone in other directions.

As he pulls me up the second time, I'm able to focus on his face. And on Finn's
face. The latter hasn't left yet, though he threatens every time Roarke drags him out
here. One day, he will leave—turn around and walk away. One day, I hope, Roarke
will leave too.

Or I'll die before then.

It's the least that I deserve.

"Just go," I tell Roarke in a hoarse voice, hating how even saying the words brings
reality back in, with all its painful emotions and memories. "Leave me be already."

"No fucking way, dude. It's not happening."

Stubbornness has set into Roarke's jaw, just like always. It runs like a line of
tension from his temple to his chest. A wrinkle in his forehead creases—a wrinkle
that should probably be named Kieran, since I'm the one who gave it to him.

With some cajoling and threats, Roarke convinces Finn to help him carry me out of
the woods. They get me far enough out to find a house at the edge of town with an
outdoor hose. Roarke sprays it at me remorselessly until I surge to my feet, cursing
his name. Once that's done he grabs one of my arms and throws it over his
shoulders with affection in his face; Finn grabs the other arm with far less affection
or care.

"You know, Roarke, one day you won't be able to find me," I tell him, squinting
into the distance, where those smears of reds and yellows and blues still are. "I just
want you to know, when that happens, it won't be your fault. Whatever comes next
—just don't blame yourself."

He mutters, "Shut the fuck up. You are not dying on me."

I don't say anything in response, though I know he's wrong. Instead, I just force my
feet forward, one after the other, staring unfocused into the distance.

Somewhere out there in the world is the one person who could make my life worth
living.

But she's gone now, and she's never coming back for me.

I made sure of that.

And I don't, for one bit, regret it.

***

Oh god, Kieran, it hurts! It hurts!Red smears and frightened brown eyes. Hands on
my arms and blood down her face. The grey stones stare in judgment. Kieran,
please, do something!
There was nothing for me to do.

So she died.

I startle awake from a half-dream to find myself on my old tattered leather sofa, a
pillow hastily shoved beneath my head. Blinking, I stare up at the popcorn ceiling
and sigh. Yet another trip wasted by the worrywarts around me. Yet another day
when I went to sleep and failed to stay there.

It'd be funny if it weren't so pathetic. Like all things in my life, letting go of living
is just another failure.

Tara.I dream of her often. The scared eighteen-year-old girl. Three years later I
feel miles older, but she'll always be eighteen, because she'll always be dead.

I wonder what she'd be like if she'd gotten to live. If she hadn't been stuck with me
in that Mating Circle trying to make the best of something neither of us wanted.
Because I'd always love Delilah, and she would never be Delilah.

She knew. Told me, even, that she knew. Tara was an arranged match made by the
alpha to soften the blow of my disastrous first match, but neither of us knew how
to settle into it. When the time came for us to complete the Mating Ceremony and
form a mate bond, we were still strangers. The mating threads between us barely
even grew.

A few days before that disastrous moment in the Mating Circle, she confronted me.
Told me that she'd sensed something was off, but it had taken her a while to figure
out what. Then she declared: "It's Delilah, isn't it? You rejected her, threw her out
on the streets like she was nothing, but you loved her. You still love her. Why did
you do it?"

A question for the ages. The answer still haunts me. As the ground in Juniper turns
to graves, I wonder: did I reject Delilah shortly before the curse began, or did the
curse begin because I rejected her? Maybe it's egotistical to think that something I
did when I was still a teenager would kill all those women. But I can't help playing
with regrets in my mind.

A few feet away in the kitchen, Finn and Roarke are having a conversation in not-
so-low voices. The tone is growing heated between them, the volume rising.
Roarke is probably trying to make me dinner to soak up the vampire venom, and
Finn is no doubt trying to convince him to stop bothering.

Lance has already given up on me; Finn will be next, and Roarke... well, Roarke
will give up the day he stands at my grave. Maybe a few years after. I don't know
what possessed him to be so loyal, but I wish he would realize that the friend he's
still holding out hope for no longer exists.

A big part of me died in the Mating Circle seven years ago. Then four years later,
the rest of me died. Now all that's left is someone who shouldn't still be alive.

"It was one thing when you wasted your time on him before," Finn mutters, barely
bothering to keep his voice down. "But now? Roarke, the Summit is happening
soon."

"And? I'll show up to vote like everyone else. You know the totem bearers will be
the ones doing most of the picking.”

"No. It isn't like that." Frustration in his voice. "You need to put your hat in the
ring.”

"Politics don't interest me. Besides, isn't Lance the strongest wolf in the pack these
days?"

"You'd be a great leader."

"I wouldn't." Roarke says it easily, like it isn't a lie. He even adds, "I wasn't
groomed for the position, and we both know that the best alphas are born to it."

I turn my head towards the back of the sofa and try to block out the real world,
desperately reaching for whatever of the vampire venom still flows through my
blood. What I want is to be gone, now, to anywhere but here.

Finn snaps, "Kieran was groomed for the position since birth, and we both know
where that ended up." Silence. "Are you seriously going to stand there and tell me
that you won't put yourself in the running because you're afraid of taking it
from him?"

"That's not it. It just—it isn't for me."

"It would be if you spent more time with your pack and wasted less time on a lost
cause."

Another long moment of silence. There's a sound like a spoon stirring. Roarke is
probably heating up soup for me. I don't know why he bothers.

Then he says, in a resigned voice, "He's not a lost cause. Not yet. I can't believe
that."

"Well, try. Nothing is waking him up from that stupor. Nothing except the fact that
—"
"Shut up. We both agreed we wouldn't tell him."

"He's high as a kite." I bury my head further in the sofa, dragging a pillow over my
ears. But it isn't enough to keep me from hearing, "What would he do if he knew
Delilah is back in town, anyway? Probably just get high again, like always.
Nothing would change."

"Shut up! He can't know. It would destroy him."

"Like there's anything left to destroy."

I hear some of their words, but they're faint and distant. The pounding of my heart
is a drumbeat in my ears, the roaring of my blood overwhelming. Emptiness gnaws
at my stomach, until the soup starts to sound like a good idea.

She's here. She's back.

Of course. Her father died. Niall probably called her back to Juniper for that alone.
There are things to take care of, ceremonies to perform...

But she missed the burning of his body and the ceremonial sealing of the ashes in
the tomb. I didn't think she'd come after that. I looked and looked for her in the
crowd, but she wasn't there.

Now she is. She's here. Not that far away from me, either, if she's in her father's
house.

It's enough to make me sit up despite the aching in my muscles. To convince me to

clear my throat and make my presence known, though I hate the way Finn's eyes
narrow at me, and how much pity and sadness is written on Roarke's face. I even
manage to stand, swaying a little, and turn towards the kitchen, taking a few steps
before I have to grab onto the wall for balance.

"Is that a stew?" I ask Roarke, my voice hoarse and raw. "Give me a bowl of it."

"Sure—of course!"

He looks happy that I'm up, which is more than a little sad. Probably he thinks I'm
getting a second wind, rethinking things, considering sobriety.

I am, a little—for a few days at least.

Just as long as it takes to run Delilah out of town.

Permanently this time.

I made a promise to a dying man, after all. At William's side, as he drunkenly
stumbled out of the bar one night—the same bar I was half-drunk and half-high in
—he took me aside. For a moment, he sobered up, and looked me right in the face
with keenness in his eyes.

"Remember what I told you seven years ago? The night before your Mating
Ceremony. The first one."

The shock of his words was enough to sober me up a little, too. We didn't talk
about that. About her. Not ever. "Of course."

"Well, I needed you then, and I need you now." He pushes a hand through his hair,
and it struck me that he looked twenty years older than he had back then, not
seven. "There's a promise I need you to make me. A big one."

"Maybe we should be sober for this."

"No. It's too important to wait."

William grabbed onto my shoulders and stared me down. Despite his inebriation, I
couldn't forget that he was alpha. I felt it in the way his extra inches of height
towered over me like it was a hundred feet. My wolf cowered and licked his lips,
wanting to please him, to make him happy.

"Whatever it is," I told him then, "I'll do it. I swear. No matter what."

"Good." He nodded sharply. "Good boy."

Then he told me something that made me want to take back my words, even
though I knew I couldn't.

"No matter what, my daughter can never, ever return to Glass Pack
Territory. Never. I've made sure of it—done everything I can to keep her away,
with your help." His hands tightened on my shoulders. "But I won't be around
forever. I want you to promise me, no matter what, that if she comes back to town
you'll run her out. At all costs. No matter what it takes."

"But you'll be around for a long time."

"Promise me." His hands tightened enough to make me wince. "You said you
would, boy, now do it."

"I—I promise."

"That?"
"If Delilah ever comes back to town," her name was the ashes of hope in my
mouth, "I'll do whatever it takes to run her out."

"Good boy."

I made a promise, and I meant it. Though I'm not sure that I have the strength to
keep it. Turning her away the first time broke me so much that I've been a shell of
myself ever since.

If she comes back to Glass Pack Territory, it'll undo everything I've done. That
mistake I made seven years ago, the biggest one of my life, will be for nothing.
Every heartache since, every blackened piece of me—all of it won't matter if
Delilah sticks around.

So I'll do what I have to keep her away.

Even if it kills me.

Delilah
If there was one thing my father was bad at, it was organization. Cleaning out his
bedroom proves this. Once I'm done with the wretched witch shit—and all dead
things have been put in a trash bag and driven to the edge of town to be dumped far
from the house—I have to go through all the less pressing stuff. Which includes
the dirty laundry, empty bottles, piles of recycling, and of course, the unsorted
mail.

Bills, bills, and more bills.

That's what my father piled up on his nightstand and left in the cupboard of his
bathroom medicine cabinet. I find a water bill in the freezer, and a bunch of
overdue gas bills wedged in the bookshelf.

Really, it's a miracle his utilities weren't shut off. Niall probably made sure of that.
He may not have been able to pay them for my father, but clearly he got some deal
that kept the lights on and the water running.

Once I have all the bills gathered, I spread them out on the dining room table and
write checks for them. It hurts a little as I total up the amount and make sure I've
got enough in checking to cover it all, but some things have to be done. Hopefully,
once I've got the house in semi-working order I'll be able to sell it for a tidy sum
that'll pay for the trip here, the time off work, and all the unpaid bills.

I definitely know by now that I won't be seeing a single cent of inheritance.

Whatever money my father had, the last seven years has sucked him dry.
Because all the bills are overdue, I decide to post the checks at public works
instead of mailing them off. The building is right next to the records office where I
need to go to get the deed for the house. Once the checks are dropped off—after an
arduous wait in a long, long line—I pop over to the building next door to pick up
the deed.

The buying of selling of land in pack territories is strictly regulated. After a few too
many human investors tried to snatch our land away and sell it back to us at
inflated prices, we put an end to that. Now any house or land that's sold in pack
territory or even passed on to family members has to go through a bit of
bureaucracy to change hands.

Thankfully I fit the requirements to inherit pack land, even though I don't have the
wolf. I still have the runic tattoo on the inside of my right forearm that marks me as
a born member of the Glass Pack. The lines are faded, and more than once I've
contemplated getting it removed, but the pain and money always stopped me.

Besides, I'll always be a born member of the pack, exile or no. They can kick me
out and refuse to let me back in, but they can't change that. I refuse to let the truth
of my birthright be stripped from me the way all safety and dignity was.

The woman on the other side of the counter spends a long time staring at the tattoo.
She then takes my fingerprints, runs a quick background check, and makes me
produce two forms of ID. It takes an hour of waiting in the lobby of her office
before she calls my name and hands over the deed.

Taking it, I stare at the white paper for a moment. It's crisp and thin at the edges,
with a red seal of authentication. The woman slides a thick envelope over to me,
"for safekeeping," and considers her work with me done.

I can't believe that's it.

What was once my father's is now mine.

Something like grief rises inside me and chokes me. I have so many questions still.
No one knows if he forgot to take me off his will, put me back on it after Queenie
died, or worse—simply didn't bother because he didn't think he was going to die.

Sliding the deed into the thick envelope, I chase away the ghosts haunting me and
head out into the parking lot. The sun is already shining brightly overhead, and my
stomach is rumbling for lunch. Since I haven't had the chance to clean Dad's filthy
old oven, I decide to eat out somewhere—preferably in a human-run establishment
where I'm less likely to run into people who knew my father.
As I cross the parking lot, a shiny sleek black electric vehicle pulls into a spot. The
license plate reads FINN20, and I find myself dawdling at my car with a smile
tugging up the corners of my mouth. Of course the hot guy from the liquor store
would have an expensive electric car and a personalized license plate.

Finn isn't the one who gets out of the driver's side, though. A white man with
summer-tanned skin and bleached-blond hair gets out and pulls sunglasses over his
eyes. I stare at him, something like recognition thrumming through me, but I can't
quite place him. Maybe he's new to the pack, or maybe we never met as kids—
though the latter seems unlikely, since I knew every werewolf kid my age from
here to the mountain ranges.

The other door cracks open, and my eyes skip to it. Finn must be in the passenger
side. He'll know the guy who drove the car, and be able to introduce me—maybe
he can even help me place him. If the driver is someone who knew my father, I can
invite him to the wake I'm tentatively planning, and use that as an excuse to talk to
Finn again.

I head over, catching the driver's attention, and he frowns as he looks at me.
Approaching the car, I step towards the passenger side, ready to call out a greeting.
I see frayed blue jeans, worn leather boots—Finn must have come from some kind
of outdoor event to be dressed more casually than he was yesterday.

It takes him forever to get out of the car. I start to feel self-conscious, aware of the
way the driver is looking at me, fidgeting with my car keys.

Then the door opens wide, and a tall figure gets out, slowly and cautiously. He
sways on his feet a little, grabbing the car door for support with a grimace on his
lips.

I feel my heart drop into my stomach, and nausea roll through me. Taking a step
back, I can't stop the name that drops from my lips in a quiet squeak, "Kieran."

It feels like uttering a curse aloud. As soon as I say his name, I regret it—but I can't
exactly turn around and run away now. I've got his attention, and the driver's too.
So I square my shoulders and make myself face forward to stare my horrible past
in the face.

Kieran Salt always had auburn brown hair that curled when it got a little too long,
but it's even thicker and shaggier now that he's an adult. His broad chest once held
the deep, warm laugh that I loved to tickle out of him, but now that same chest is
thinner and bony at the shoulders, no fat stretching over his lithe muscles. Honey
brown eyes that would stare at me for hours sport dark circles beneath them, and
his once-tanned skin is now pale and lifeless.
As soon as I see his face I feel that draw. The undeniable tug towards him. One I
stamp down and refuse to give into because I know it doesn't make any sense.
During our ceremony there were no mating threads between us; we were never
fated mates or true mates.

And this Kieran isn't the boy I desperately wanted fate to push me towards.

I don't understand. He was going to be alpha—we all knew it. The man who stands
before me, straightening slowly with a deep grimace on his face, is still undeniably
handsome. But he looks like he should be doing a line of coke in

the bathroom between hard rock gigs, not tearing predators apart with his bare
hands and leading the pack with strength.

"Delilah," he says. My heart drops further at the deep tone of his voice, and my
spirit crumbles. This isn't the boy who I left behind; this is a man. "I'd heard you
were back in town."

"I thought you were Finn," I say stupidly, glancing to the license plate and back.
All I want is to turn tail and leave, but I refuse to let him see how weak he makes
me feel. "I guess we were bound to run into each other eventually. It's a small
town."

"It is."

My eyes go to the driver, desperate to find some kind of conversation to have that
doesn't make me want to fall to the ground crying and screaming with grief and
rage. "You're not Finn either. But obviously this is his car."

"Obviously. He lets me borrow it from time to time—mine was out of gas."

Taking off his sunglasses, the driver stares at me with summer-blue eyes that make
every bit of breath leave my body all at once. He leans against the car and gives me
a familiar grin, even as his gaze flicks briefly to Kieran and back, worry in his
expression.

He says, "It's good to see you, Delilah. Been a while."

"Right. It has," I tell him, with no idea who this absolute snack of a man is.

As he reaches up to push thick blond strands back from his forehead, he stretches
enough that a strip of skin is revealed at the edge of his shirt, and my mouth
waters. Even just that little peek is enough to show the dip by his hips and the flare
at his abdomen—I'm sure beneath the cotton of his simple white tee he's got a
carved six-pack of abs. Certainly, the thickness of his arm muscles, the stretch of
his biceps against cotton, shows he's no slouch.
I'm sure I should know who he was. Even though I only ever had eyes for Kieran
when we were young, I saw the other boys. But the one standing in front of me is
as unfamiliar as a stranger.

"So." I glance back and forth between them. "What brings you into town?"

"Well, we were—"

"You don't belong here." Kieran's acidic tone cuts across the friendly small talk,
throwing a bucket of ice water on me. I cringe back at the sudden hostility in his
normally warm honey eyes. "You should leave Juniper right away, Delilah. This
isn't a place for those like you."

I don't know what to say. My mouth dries up, and I flinch back, instinctively
curling away from him. After so many years, and so much time putting myself
back together, he still has the power to reach inside me, grab my heart, and rip it
out like it's nothing at all.

"Kieran." The handsome stranger rebukes him with a frown, his hand resting on
the roof of the car, muscles tensing with displeasure. "Get yourself together and
stop being rude to the alpha's daughter."

"You know I'm right, Roarke. She should stay the hell out of Glass Pack territory.
She's not one of us anymore."

I freeze at the name Kieran used, eyes darting over to give the stranger a second
look. It's nearly impossible to map the tall, bulky, muscular blond with a striking
tan onto the Roarke that I knew. Little Roarke Bell was a trickster, a jokester, with
skinny legs and perpetual braces on his teeth. He once pantsed Kieran in front of
the entire class. When the other boys threatened to beat him to death, Kieran stood
up for him, and somehow he and Roarke became friends.

That beanpole had no resemblance to the muscular and gorgeous man in front of
me. But there's something about those dancing blue eyes that seems familiar. Even
the tension in his jaw as he stares at Kieran brings me back to those halcyon days.
Out of all the young males in the pack, only Roarke ever dared stand up to his
friend. He was perfectly willing to tell him to go kick rocks even though Kieran
was often the only thing standing between him and certain destruction.

Now, it seems, everything has changed. But certain things stay the same—and the
best friend of the man who destroyed me is no one I want to spend much time
around.
"I wasn't planning on staying anyway," I tell Kieran, drawing his attention back to
me. "I have a life, you know. A job and a condo. The last thing I want is to slum it
with the likes of you."

Kieran rears back as if slapped at this, but his eyes still hold that same anger.
"Good. The sooner you leave, the better."

I snort a little, and give him a long look up and down. Inside, a part of me wants to
be concerned—the Kieran I knew would never be this frail and shadowed—but I
push that Delilah away. Instead, I give him a scornful, dismissive look, and enjoy
the way it makes him grimace.

"You're doing well for yourself," I taunt him sarcastically. "Some of your
packmates are looking for the source of the curse. I don't know why they bother—
it's clearly standing right in front of me. You look like shit, and you smell worse.
The vampires probably follow your stench straight into town.”

It's childish and stupid, but exactly what seeing him makes me feel like again. A
child. An idiot. And for a moment, I enjoy the burning irritation in his face, how he
reflexively twitches like he's wondering if he really does smell that bad.

Then Roarke says, in a quietly rebuking voice, "Delilah. That isn't necessary."

Suddenly, I feel two inches tall. Glancing at those summer blue eyes again, I take a
step back, then another. Grabbing my keys, I press the button to unlock the car—
then my eyes go to Kieran again. He's staring at me so hard you'd think he was
trying to bore holes in my skull with his eyes.

"You know, maybe I'll change my mind." Raising my chin defiantly, I let seven
years of anger coalesce inside me and force it all out with a dismissive tone of
voice. "Since you want me gone so bad, clearly the best thing to do is stay. So
maybe I'll do just that."

"Don't," he growls, the animalistic tone of his voice a reminder of what he has, and
what I lack: a wolf.

"Just try to stop me."

Before he can, I slip into my car, press the engine start button, and get as far away
from him as I possibly can.

Delilah
Ishould've come up with a better insult to spit in Kieran's face. Something less
immature, more deadly. Maybe a comment about how thin and weak he's gotten, or
something about... something about...

Wracking my mind for insults after I get back to the house, I come up with nothing
and nearly explode in a ball of frustration. All I wanted was to get in and out of
Juniper fast. To leave it in my rearview mirror like Niall left me on the side of the
road.

Instead, I find myself with an ache in my chest and a gnawing in my stomach.

What Kieran said echoes in my mind: you don't belong here.

I've never wanted to stick around more than I do now that I know he wants me
gone.

"Fuck you Kieran Salt!" I shout in the empty house, my words echoing across the
ceiling. "Fuck your stupid fucking face."

Stupid, still handsome, shadowed and hollowed-out face. I wonder if he looks that
way because his mate died like all the others. Maybe he loved her in a way Lance
never loved his mate, and now it's slowly killing him.

Maybe he loved her the way he never loved me.

Unable to sit still with my thoughts, I throw myself into work around the house.
I've picked up enough cleaning supplies to last through the apocalypse, and I put
them to good use.

The bathrooms get scrubbed, even the one with the leaky faucet. I scour the grout
and tighten loose screws. Hang up a shower curtain in the one good bathroom, and
throw the bedsheets in the washing machine. Scrub the oven until it shines again
and turn on its auto-clean cycle.

Soon I've run out of things to clean. Tapping my toes, I survey the kitchen. A
whistling sound catches my attention; wind whistles through the broken panel of
the stained-glass transom. Grabbing a kitchen chair, I stand up on its seat and tape
a panel of trash bag over the open spot—a solution for now.

But more is needed. So I pull out my laptop, hop on the slow ass Wi-Fi, and
navigate to the local hardware store website. It's expanded since I lived here, back
when Dad was always sending me on odd jobs and errands. They even have same
day delivery and next day labor availability.

Grabbing a legal pad and a pen, I walk the whole house looking for things to
repair. There's the leaky faucet in the half bathroom, the moldy tub in the hall
bathroom, the damaged flooring in the dining room, a broken porch railing, all the
issues with the siding, the roof, the gutters, and of course, the transom. I'm sure the
HVAC also needs to be checked out and repaired, and a few of the pipes could
probably use replacing.

Once I'm done, I have a list of work that would cost at least tens of thousands of
dollars. My heart squeezes; I doubt I could get that much together even if I dove
into my savings and my retirement fund. But I can at least get the place in working
order, deal with the floors, the stained-glass, and the bathrooms. That's better than
nothing.

List made, I find myself standing in the dining room in front of the bar cabinet. My
eyes flick to the clock; it's almost after five. Since yesterday's total failure with
Lance and the breakfast vodka, I haven't had a drop to drink, but right now I can't
contemplate the money pit I'm standing in without one. So I grab some limes,
simple syrup, and the moderately priced gin I picked up at the liquor store, and
make myself a gimlet.

That task done, it's a little less painful to bring up the hardware website and put an
order together. The money it'll take to fix the little things around the house is
enough to make me blanch.

Maybe if I'm lucky an odd relative or pack member will step in to help with the
rest—but only maybe. With the way things are around here, I doubt anyone still
standing has the funds. Even if they do, they're unlikely to want to help me.

The shiftless werewolf in exile whose own mate didn't want her.

Dark thoughts make me reach up to scratch at my neck again. Blood seeps from
the scar tissue, and I mutter a curse. Cat would scold me if she could see me now.
Good thing she can't.

He had a mate. The thought nags at me as I put the order in for labor to swing by
tomorrow and help out around the house. Just a few handymen is all I need, to help
me pull the washer and dryer away from the wall and check the old
connections. While you were all alone in the world, Kieran had a mate.

I could see it in his eyes. That hollowed-out look. There was a scent to him too,
one even my shiftless nose could pick out.

The scent of loss.

He had her. The one. Maybe even the only one, a true mate, so rare even in our
culture. Only to lose her to the curse.
And she wasn't me.

Unbidden, my mind lurches back in time to an old memory. As it does so, I find
my glass empty, and get up to make another drink. If I'm going to spend tonight
feeling sorry for myself, I might as well do it with the fog of alcohol in my mind.

Because Kieran wasn't supposed to go through the Mating Ceremony with some
random girl whose name I don't even know.

He was supposed to do it with me.

***

"Hey, look—it's old lady Francesca." Kieran elbowed me and laughed. "Do you
think she's here because she hasn't had any in years, and she can't remember what it
looks like?"

"Shut up!" I hissed at him, swaying on the branch we were clinging to. "They'll
hear you."

"They will not. They've got better things to pay attention to."

It was the middle of a short summer night, and I was up in a tree with Kieran,
staring out towards the Mating Circle. He'd dared me to come with him to watch
two intendeds finally complete their bond. I hadn't wanted to go, but the stubborn
jut to his jaw and smirk on his mouth made it impossible for me to say no.

He was always goading me to do things I didn't want to do. By the time the fun
was underway, I'd always forget that I said no at first. This was something he
reminded me of the next time I tried to say no to him.

We were twelve, and we weren't supposed to be anywhere near the Mating Circles
during the ceremony. But my father had to officiate them, at least when it was
someone important, whose position in the pack demanded his presence. In this
case, the daughter of his right-hand man was mating with the son of a rival pack's
alpha. He had to be around to make sure things went smoothly, for reasons I didn't
fully understand, mostly because I was twelve and the whole thing made me kind
of queasy.

"What do you think it'll look like?" Kieran's voice sounded smooth and relaxed,
something I envied as my stomach wound tighter and tighter. "I know he puts his
penis inside her—I'm not a stupid baby. I just don't understand how they get it in
there."
I eyed him awkwardly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..."

Words failing him, Kieran held up the first two fingers on his left hand, and the
index on his right. He made a weird grunting noise and parted his fingers, then
jabbed the opposite index in them. It didn't take me long to figure out what he was
miming, and I laughed so loud he slapped a hand over my mouth.

"Hush! Now you really will get their attention."

But as I turned my eyes back towards the ceremony, I realized Kieran had been
right earlier. No one was going to notice us. No one would be looking anywhere
else.

Things were underway.

The ancient Mating Circle, a series of stones set in the middle of a clearing in the
woods, was full of powerful earth magic. It was here that our pack's connection to
the earth was anchored. The tall, carved stones faced inward, runes carved into
their surface giving them meanings even our pack only half-understood. Our long-
dead ancestors who carved them hadn't left behind many instruction manuals.

What was easy to understand was the way the young couple, standing shyly in the
middle of the circle, were looking at each other. Torches burned at a dozen points
around the edges of the circle, and firelight flickered on their faces. But the heat of
the flames was nothing next to the look in their eyes.

Or the energy I could see coursing between them. Like a dozen strings, a
connection formed, coming up from the earth towards their feet, and channeling
back and forth between their raised palms as they faced each other. Closer and
closer they approached, the strings writhing and knotting, whirling and joining,
until the two were close enough to almost touch.

Mating threads.They marked two mates when they were joined. Most formed
between intendeds in the four years between their shifting ceremony and the
bonding ceremony. Familiarity, friendship, and flirtation fed them. For the few,
lucky wolves, the threads were already there from the beginning, marking them as
fated mates. The luckiest of the lucky had thick, unbreakable threads that marked
them true mates, the only mates for each other at all.

Any two werewolves could form mating threads with enough years of bonding, but
only the truest of mates had fate on their sides from the beginning.
In a loud, deep, booming voice, my father called out, "Eliza and Emmett, your
connection is recognized. You are mates, intended and bonded by spirit. Now you
will bond in the flesh and complete your connection with each other—and with the
sacred ground."

The witnesses to the ceremony all stepped out of the circle, faded into the darkness.
Their eyes still watched, though, to make sure nothing went wrong. While violence
during the ceremony hadn't been heard of for centuries, it was still a fear of the
pack—when mate turned on mate during the joining, mayhem followed.

What we saw that night wasn't violence, though I didn't understand it at the time,
as rushed and fervent as it was. When the couple tore their clothes off, hurrying to
be naked, I grimaced and scooted closer to Kieran. As the man grabbed the woman
to him and brought her to the ground, back on the earth, and rutted inside her—a
nauseous feeling rose inside me.

"Oh," Kieran said faintly, "I guess that's how." Then, as their bodies curved and
moans filled the air, "Gross."

"So gross."

As they continued, the male pushing into the female, her legs parted beneath him, I
didn't want to watch. But neither could I entirely look away. Instead, I saw bits and
pieces of it, little visions that seared in my mind.

His mouth on her neck.

The way her eyes glowed fierce, her wolf spirit rising within her.

How his moans and grunts turned to a visceral howl.

And the way he seemed to want to be one with her, to join with her completely.
How his flesh was hard and strong on top of her. Then, when she drew her legs
around him and flipped him over, how pleased she looked with her body as she
rode on top of him.

It made uncomfortable heat rise inside me, even though my own lanky, little girl
body looked nothing like hers. I didn't want that inside me, didn't want anything
like it anywhere near me, but it still awakened something within me. Made me
wonder if one day I would.

Afterwards, Kieran jumped from the tree and helped me down. We were awkward
and quiet as we walked back to my home.

Eventually he declared, "I don't think I'll ever want to do that."

"Me neither." I giggled. "They looked so..."

"Stupid."

"Yeah. That's it. Stupid."

"It won't look like that when we do it." He took my hand and stared at me with
those honey-brown eyes, all childlike earnestness. "I promise."

"I don't think I'll ever want to do it," I confessed to him. "Maybe I'm like Aunt
Sally, and I only want to do it with other girls. Or like my dad's cousin Ed, who
doesn't do it with anyone."

"That's okay too." Kieran shrugged. "As long as we get to be friends, I don't really
mind."

"You don't?"

"Yeah. Our dads say our wolves will show us that we're mates, but who knows—
adults are wrong all the time." He rolled his eyes. "They could be wrong about us."

A year later, though, it was obvious that they weren't. As our bodies grew and
changed, something else grew between us. Soon enough, my dad was insisting we
keep my bedroom door open when Kieran visited. It wasn't long after that when
one of our teachers caught us in the girls' bathroom, which we'd barricaded with a
stool, dry humping on top of the counter. She boxed our ears and reaffirmed
that those sort of things were for the Mating Circle and the mate bond, and not
outside of it—not until we could show the pack that we were ready.

But that didn't stop me from wanting it. I dreamed of what it would be like with
Kieran. Imagined how much better, less clumsy, it would be compared to what we
saw that night. How he would take his time and make me feel wonderful.

I thought we were meant to be.

Until I stood in the Mating Circle with his grey wolf and those piercing yellow
eyes he wore in wolf form, and realized that I would never be able to do anything
like that with Kieran, because I didn't have a wolf at all.

***

I hate him. I wish that I could punch him in the face. Go back in time and scream
in his stupid face.
"Stupid fucking face." My efforts to clean the shower grout redouble as I think
about Kieran that night seven years ago. "To just reject me like that... like I was
nothing..."

Tears stream down my face. I wipe them away and keep going with the shower
grout. That third cocktail was probably a mistake; the fourth one definitely is. And
the soaring heartbreak music playing from my bluetooth speaker isn't helping
matters.

The sooner I get this house back in working order, the sooner I can go home. Back
to my job and my condo. Back in Cat's arms. Somewhere I'm accepted by
everyone, not... not...

"I reject you! I will never be your mate."

By the time the music playlist peters out, the shower grout is sparkling clean. As I
peel off my latex gloves and grab my bucket of cleaning supplies, I give the
bathroom a good once over.

It needs some major remodeling: new tile, a better bathroom sink with more
counter space, an updated toilet. But its usable—barely. I got the toilet the flush
and the sink to stop dripping. Time to move on to other things.

As I pace through the house, though, I find nothing I can do right now. Every bit of
crown moulding is sparkling clean; the kitchen sink looks like you could lick it,
and the fridge has never been tidier. The only things left all have to wait until my
hardware order is delivered.

Sighing, I put the cleaning supplies away, scrub my hands, and turn the oven on.
While it’s reheating I grab a drink—non-alcoholic this time. Then I slide a frozen
pizza onto the oven rack and stretch, twisting until I feel my bones creak and pop.

If I'd known you were shiftless, I never would've said those things. I don't want
you!

Wincing, I banish the old memory away. Seeing Kieran earlier has brought up all
those old memories. I hate the way it makes me feel—how I find myself crying at
the drop of my hat, arms trembling, my stomach in knots. There's this horrible,
twisted part of me that wants to run to him, get down on my knees and beg for him
to love me.

Reaching up, I scratch idly at the scar on my neck only to find a bandaid in my
way. That's right—I put it there to stop me from tearing the skin away. Sighing, I
decide to find something else to do while the pizza cooks, and resolve to go
through my dad's things in his old office.
Lance may have taken much of the research with him, and I found all the old
unpaid bills, but there's more up there. Things that need to be thrown away, others
that should go to lawyers and accountants, and probably a lot meant for Niall or the
next alpha. But if there's anything in there I might want—like old letters, or family
genealogy—now is the time to grab it, before someone else shows up looking for
files.

As I go through the filing cabinets, I keep thinking about Lance. He said he would
be in touch. I haven't heard from him today, but maybe he's just... busy. Looking
through the files, or scanning them for me.

Hopefully, that's it. Hopefully, he hasn't been talking to others in the pack, people
who were there when I was exiled, who told him how sad and pathetic I was. How
I cried and begged for Kieran to accept me even without a wolf. I carried on so
long that even Queenie and Niall took pity on me and suggested something might
be arranged. Only for my own father to exile me in disgust for my complete
weakness.

It occurs to me, in my darkest hours, that he might not be my father at all.

But I shake that thought off as I always do, busying myself with his filing cabinet.
I've reached the locked drawer and decide to hunt for the key like I told Lance I
would.

Though I sometimes feel self-conscious about being shiftless, I know my father is

truly mine. We have the same heterochromia: one brown chip in two green eyes.
Besides, werewolves aren't easily fooled by bastard children like humans. The
bond, once forged, doesn't lie—and my mother was, by all accounts, truly smitten
with my father in every way.

Besides, I know his mind. I may never forgive him for exiling me, but I can predict
with unerring accuracy where he hides things he doesn't want to be found. That's
how I discovered the beer stash when I was thirteen—and threw out all his packs
of cigarettes when I was ten. And it's how, after only a few minutes of searching, I
find the key to the filing cabinet stashed behind a framed photo of Mom sitting on
the bookshelf.

The little silver key slides into the locked cabinet drawer easily. Turning it, I open
up the drawer expecting to find an entire treasure trove full of files—and instead
discover just a single dark green file folder with a few sheets of paper inside.

Frowning, I reach down, grab the file, and open it.

It only takes me a few minutes to read all the pages and study the diagrams.
But it takes several long minutes more for me to read them again, then a third time,
and a fourth. That's how many times it takes for me to believe what I'm seeing.

As the truth sinks in, I reach for my cocktail glass—and discover it empty. That
will have to be fixed. Soon. Tonight is a five or even six cocktail night.

"My whole life was a lie."

My fingers go up to my neck, and dig into the scar on the side of it.

I was never shiftless at all.

Delilah
Questions spin through my mind: why, how long, who did it, why, how, why!? I
want to scream in my father's face, but he's ashes in an urn by now. No one can
give me answers, but these cold black and white pages tell me plenty.

As I put the ingredients for a double cocktail into the mixer and give it an
aggressive shake, several key facts fall into place in my mind.

First, the scar on the side of my neck, with a large piece of scar tissue in it, is
actually some kind of inhibitor chip. It prevents me from being able to shift—it has
this whole time.

Second, my father knew about this, and it seems, based on the locked filing
cabinet, that he wanted to keep it a secret.

Third, he quite possibly knew from the very moment I was rejected that I wasn't
shiftless at all—I was just being prevented from shifting by foul anti-werewolf
technologies that are supposedly outlawed here in the states.

Fourth, the chip was put in there for a reason. At some point, for some reason, my
father—or the entire pack, for all I know—decided it was safer for me not to be
able to turn into a werewolf.

Fifth, I can take it out now that I know.

As I strain my cocktail into an extra tall glass, rage and anger fill me. But what
overshadows them is the overwhelming, sharp-edged pain. I've suffered for so
long, felt unlovable and unwanted for seven years. My only family, my own
people, turned me out. And the whole time—none of it was necessary.

None of it ever had to happen.

I was never broken.

Tears drip down my face as I take the first sweet and sour sip of cocktail. The pain
coalesces into a dense fist in the middle of my chest. Each beat of my heart aches
and rips at it, until I feel like I might go mad at any minute.

I reject you!

You are exiled.

Taking a long, deep gulp of the cocktail, I find a place in the living room and curl
up on the carpeted floor. Sobs wrack my body. Deep, wrenching gasps are torn
from my lungs. The tears pour down, one after the other, my nose running so much
that I grab one of the nice pillows off the sofa and wipe my nose on it.

"Why?" I lean my head back on the wall and stare at the ceiling, like it might give
me some sort of answers. "Why would you do this to me?"

Memories tear at my mind. I drink as much gin as I possibly can to make them go
away, but that only makes them bigger. Kieran's face earlier today. The sound of
his angry voice in my ears, hours ago and seven years ago. Every bit of pain and
agony I felt when I was out on the streets, alone and far from home, with no one to
help me.

The social workers who turned me away because I didn't have a human social
security number. Kind-looking people who refused to even glance in my direction
as I became no one in their eyes, because I no longer had a home. The unbearable
itch of filth on my skin in the days I spent bumming it from park bench to outdoor
tent, searching for a place to belong, only to find that even among the houseless,
exiled werewolves are still on the bottom rung.

A werewolf without a wolf inside.

Useless. Undesired. Broken. Unwanted. Rejected. Exiled.

But it was all a lie.

Crying out, I tear the bandaid from my neck and dig my fingernails into the chip
beneath my skin. I want nothing more than to tear it out and throw it away, but my
soft rounded fingernails are useless against it. I need claws, sharp and built for
ripping skin. Or maybe a kitchen knife would do the job.

Stumbling to my feet, I drain the last of my double cocktail and head towards the
kitchen. A woozy feeling starts in my body as my alcohol-filled stomach makes its
need for food known, and I belatedly remember the pizza I threw in the oven. The
timer is blaring when I make it to the kitchen. Grabbing oven mitts, I tipsily pull
the oven door open, yank the rack out, and slide the pizza onto the counter. More
than once I nearly singe my hair or my face or my skin in the oven, but I don't give
a shit—it doesn't matter.

What am I if I'm not a shiftless, not a werewolf, and not a human?

I'm no one. Nothing.

Grabbing a knife from the block, I hold it over the pizza—then reconsider.
Glancing towards the mirror on the living room wall, I shift the blade in my grip
and hold it near my neck. The scarred skin is already bleeding again from my
earlier scratches. It hurts a little as I put the tip of the knife against it, but I'm too
full of gin to really care.

As I dig the knife tip in, a little voice whispers in the back of my mind: This is a
bad idea, and you know it. That voice sounds suspiciously like Cat.

Thinking of her, tears well up in my eyes again, and spill down my cheeks. I
thought I was wrung out and dry before, but apparently not. My body seems
prepared to cry for a thousand years if need be.

This time, though, the tears are for someone who loved me. Who cared for me.
When my father turned me away, declaring me broken—yet another lie—Cat is the
one who took me in. She saw a filthy teenager on the streets, my hair rumpled from
another bad night's rest on a bench, and she took me in.

Cat didn't care that she'd get no money from the government for harboring a pack's
exiled teen—it didn't even occur to her to expect payment. She fought hard to get
me enrolled in the local public high school, and made sure I received grants and
scholarships for an associate's degree in hospitality. When the whole world turned
against me, including those who were supposed to care for me the most, Cat was
the one to turn my life again. She proved that love is thicker than blood alone.

And she'd be mad at me for shoving a knife beneath my skin. Hell, she'd counsel
me to spend a few days figuring this thing out before I make any rash choices. She
would probably even advise me to try to give my father the benefit of the doubt,
though I wouldn't listen to her.

I yank the knife away from my skin. Turn back to the pizza on the counter, and
slice up a large, thick piece. The cheese is hot enough to sting as I chew my first
bite, but it settles my stomach. By the time I've had three slices, I feel a little more
centered—though still thoroughly, and thankfully, drunk out of my mind.

My father put a chip in me, or let someone else do it for him. He made me weak
with it. Then Kieran rejected me, and I grew weaker—because of the rejection and
the exile. I feel the weight of it in my chest, and despite the food in me, the alcohol
takes over.

I won't cut the chip from my neck, but I don't want to wake up tomorrow and
remember tonight. I'd rather wipe from my mind the evening when I discover my
father betrayed me.

A few more cocktails should do it.

Setting the rest of the pizza aside, I head for the bar in the dining room. No matter
what tomorrow brings, I don't want to live in tonight for one moment longer.
Oblivion awaits, and I'll welcome it gladly.

***

There's a ringing in my ears.

I put my pillows over my head, blocking out the sound, along with the sunlight
streaming in through my bedroom window.

The ringing won't stop. Brrr-rrring! Brrr-rrriiing! It gets louder and louder.

Then suddenly fades away. I sigh, burrowing down into warmth and comfort, my
head still spinning from whatever I drank last night.

But just when I'm about to drift off into sleep again, a new and terrible sound
ricochets through my head. Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Di-di-ding-dong! The
doorbell.

I groan. There's an entire world outside my bed that I was hoping to avoid for... oh,
well, a day or two. But obviously that won't be happening.

I try to call out, "I'm coming!" But my voice won't seem to work. My throat is dry
and raspy, and my mouth tastes like something died in it, was resurrected, then shit
a little. I'll have to get up, shuffle down the hallway, and confront the deadly
doorbell ringer face-to-face.

Sighing, I screw my eyes shut, throw the sheets off my body, and manage to get
my legs off the edge of the bed before I run out of momentum. It takes me several
seconds to peel my eyes open. The doorbell rings a few more times, and then
someone starts knocking. I force myself up to my feet and try to take stock of
everything: my body, my pounding head, and of course, the doorbell ringing.
Somehow I managed to get to my bedroom last night. That's a miracle, given that I
don't remember doing it.

I'm still wearing last night's clothes—for the most part. My blue jeans have been
kicked to the bottom of the bed, and my bra is half-off and twisted up under my T-
shirt. Sighing, I stumble to my suitcase, grab the first outfit-shaped clothing I find,
and throw it on. Then I spare one more second to look at my reflection in the
bathroom mirror—ding-dong-ding-dong—before I give up and stumble downstairs
anyway.

My maroon hair is a mess. There are bags beneath my eyes. Every vein in my
eyeballs is red and throbbing. And I'm willing to bet my breath could wilt plants
right about now. I spare a moment to hope that the person on the other side of the
door isn't tall, dark, and handsome—a description that fits far too many men I
know in Jupiter—before I throw the door open and confront them.

It takes me a moment to recognize who it is.

At first, I think I must be dreaming.

Then I squeal and throw myself forward, wrapping my arms around a diminutive
frame. Cat comes up to my shoulders on a good day in heels, but her hug is strong
and tight, her fierceness nothing to laugh at. She smells like lavender and shea
butter, and the sound of her pleased laugh is like coming home.

"I thought for a second there you were dead," she says in her deep burr of a voice,
quite the contrast to her petite frame. "Tell me you drank water like I told you
before you went to bed."

I blink at her. "Huh?"

"On the phone last night?" Her brows rise so high they're hidden behind her blunt
blonde bangs. "C'mon, kiddo, I didn't drag myself out of bed at two AM just to
give you advice you didn't listen to. I swear I taught you better than to drink that
much without drinking a little water."

I squint at her, bothered by the sun peering out behind her shoulder. "How'd you
get here so fast? It's a sixteen-hour drive."

"Planes exist." She shoves past me into the house, taking a good look around. "You
need to dust more. There are cobwebs there, there, and there."

"I didn't notice."

As Cat moves around the front of the house, murmuring to herself and pointing out
things I missed, I take stock of her. She's bright and cheery as always, though
there's a frown line on her face and a wrinkle across her forehead. Most people
would wear a comfortable outfit on a plane, but not Cat—her black patent pumps
are all business, as is the suit and skirt combo with a silk blouse she's wearing,
though she's chosen emerald green and daisy yellow as today's colors, the opposite
of stuffy.

I follow her into the dining room, my headache subsiding to the soothing sound of
her familiar voice as she points out warping in the hardwood floors and lists a
number of tasks for me. She stops in the middle of the room and rounds on me,
taking me in for a long moment.

Finally she asks, "Did you bring my suitcase in?"

"Your—what?"

"It's out by the curb. I'd lug it in myself, but you look like you need the physical
activity." Her frown deepens, and she reaches out to tug on the bottom of my T-
shirt, smoothing it. "I know you're tired, Lilah, but you know the one cure for a
hangover: pretending like you don't have one."

I laugh at her, and it makes my head pound harder. "That's your cure for a
hangover, Mom. Most people sleep in."

"Nonsense. Some hard work is the best thing for you right now. That, and a big
breakfast with a glass of water. I'll work on the food—you bring my stuff in."

I know better than to make her ask me a third time. Cat is an endlessly kind and
caring woman, but she's always been no-nonsense. Her attitude was the best thing
for me when I was a teenager. Every time I got down about being rejected and
exiled, she took one look at me and gave me a list of chores that would make a
grown man sweat and moan. I'd complain the whole time, but by the point I was
done mowing the lawn, cleaning out the gutters, scooping our elderly neighbor's
cat boxes and vacuuming the carpet, I would have forgotten what bothers me. As
Cat liked to remind me, it's hard to be down in the dumps when you're hard at work
—because moping is a luxury for idle hands and empty minds.

So I do what she says, heading out to the curb to grab her suitcases—though I fetch
my sunglasses and slide them over my reddened eyes first. I can't tell how much of
my current pain is the hangover and how much is all the crying I did, but I know
my tears didn't help things. The puffiness in my cheeks and dry rasp of each blink
is a reminder that I moped too much last night.

Grabbing the suitcase also gives me time to think. Cat is here. I must have called
her while I was drunk last night. I have no idea what I said, but whatever it was—I
said enough to convince her to come here.
Maybe I made her feel sorry for me. But that doesn't sound like Cat. It's something
else I fear as I reach out to grab the suitcase handle and lug it up the front porch
steps one at a time.

I'm afraid I told her the thing I realized last night, as I was digging into a pizza and
considering how many cocktails would get me nice and drunk without sending me
to the hospital.

When I got the call from Niall, I only wanted to return to Juniper for a day or two.
I didn't want to stick around because it would be too painful of a reminder: that I
was rejected, that my father exiled me, and that this place would never be home.

All that changed when I found out what I really was.

I've never craved anything the way I crave home. Discovering that I might actually
have one—that a tiny piece of silicone separates me from belonging—was as
freeing as it was horrifying. But I don't know how to tell the woman who saved me
and raised me that I'm actually not her daughter at all.

As I drag Cat's suitcase inside and deposit it in the guest bedroom, that dilemma
sloshes around inside my empty stomach. It follows me to the kitchen, where she's
effortlessly turning the groceries I picked up into some kind of five-star breakfast.
Unspoken words gnaw at me as I take a seat at the table and grab the mug of coffee
she's already set out.

"Mom..." The word sounds strange in my mouth, though I've grown used to
thinking of her that way over the years. I never called her that here before, in this
house where my biological mom once lived. "There's something I have to tell you.
And I don't know how."

Cat wordlessly slides the quiche she's whipped up into the oven, then turns to face
me. Her heart-shaped face is grave, but her eyes are kind and knowing. "I knew the
day I saw you that I wouldn't get to keep you."

"What?"

I blink at her, and she comes to sit opposite me at the table. Her small fingers lace
together as she sets her hands down on the vintage wood. Setting down my mug,
I'm struck by how small she is next to me—making her so much smaller than any
one of the male werewolves in the pack that she might as well be a child next to
them.

"I took you in expecting it to be temporary," Cat says, sliding her hands across the
table and placing them over mine, her small cool palms cupping the backs of my
wrists. "At first I thought for sure someone would come to get you. Then I became
certain that eventually another pack would step in, or the government would. It was
a blessing when you got to stay with me—but even then, I knew my home wasn't
yours."

I blink slowly, then force myself to meet her ice blue eyes. "You made me feel
welcome. Nothing about your home wasn't mine, Cat."

Her name is wooden on my tongue. I start to take it back, to call her mom again,
but she smoothly interrupts me. "It

isn't that I don't love you, or think you don't love me anymore. We'll always be
close—closer than anyone can understand. But Lilah, I knew the day would come
when I had to give you back so you could become who you were always meant to
be."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I'm not here to fetch you and bring you home." Her fingers move
against my hands until I turn them over, and she curls her hands in mine. "I'm here
to help you settle into your new adult life as the woman you're about to become—
as the werewolf you have to be—and to say goodbye."

Delilah
Istare at her, tongue-tied. My fingers jerk towards my neck. "I told you about the
microchip?"

"You tried, in your own drunken way." She pulls my wrist down before I can start
scratching at the scabbed-over spot in my skin. "I'm not sure that you could
articulate the word microchip in your inebriated state, but you made it clear what
you'd discovered. My knowledge of history helped me put the pieces together."

"I'm so sorry." I duck my head and grab the mug of coffee, holding it in lieu of
finding the right words to say. "I had no idea."

"How could you? It was kept from you."

"And I don't know what will happen if I take it out," I confess. "I mean, I assume
I'll be able to shift again. That's what happened to the werewolves they used to use
inhibitors on—most of them, anyway. A few never... never made it."

The shiftless. A rare anomaly among those born werewolves, but once a more
common thing, especially in the 1980s. The US federal government would put
microchips into wolves deemed too "dangerous" to be allowed to shift—even if the
only danger they posed was simply being born the wrong way. That is, until a law
struck the practice down in 1986, and all the chips had to be removed.

Most of the shiftless could find their wolves again and form mate bonds once the
chips were out. Some, the ones who had the chips in for a long time, never shifted
again.

They had their chips in for six, maybe seven years. Mine has been in my neck for
that long, or even longer. There's a chance my wolf is gone forever.

"Why do you think he did it?" I look up at Cat, frustration making me tap the toe of
my boot on the floor. "I don't understand. Why wouldn't my father want me to be
able to shift?"

"Do you know that he did it? Or do you just know that he knew about it?"

I retort back, "Who else would've done it?"

"Fair enough."

"I just don't know why." My coffee is growing cold, so I take a long sip of it, trying
to beat back the pounding headache last night's gin gave me. "It seems cruel, to
exile me for something that wasn't even my fault. If he knew when he threw me
out..."

Cat's face turns thoughtful. "When you called last time, you mentioned you'd
discovered there was some kind of sickness here. A curse that strikes only female
shifters."

"Yes. But that's new—it only developed in the past few years. My father was
looking for a cure."

She nods, her eyes going unfocused for a moment before they flick back to my
face. "It seems entirely possible to me that if there's a chip in your neck, whoever
put it there did so to protect you. And if your father found out—whether he knew
when he exiled you or not—he left it there so you wouldn't die."

I inhale sharply. Memories play out in my head. I can't help but say, "If he knew
when he exiled me, then he's a better actor than I ever thought possible. The man I
knew couldn't lie—not like that."

"So maybe he didn't know then, but he found out later and put the pieces together."

"Maybe." Doubt creeps into me. "But that raises the question again: who put the
chip there, and why?"
"We may never know." Cat squeezes my hand. "You can't dwell on it."

"It's all I can think about," I tell her miserably. "What else is there for me to fill my
days with?"

She raises a sharp eyebrow, and I can already sense the lecture forming. "There's
an entire house to repair, for one thing. And the fact that you have no reason to sit
around feeling sorry for yourself—not now. There's a whole future in front of you,
and I think it's time that you start looking in that direction."

"Yes, Mom." I smile a little at her, feeling some of my moroseness vanish in the
face of her strength and fierceness. "How will I ever survive without you?"

"Poorly." Her timer dings, and Cat rises quickly to her feet, sliding the warm
quiche out of the oven. "This has to rest for a bit until it sets. Meanwhile, explain
to me why you haven't fixed that window above the door yet."

"It's called a transom," I inform her, ignoring the brow she raises in my direction.
"And I'm going to get it fixed. Just as soon as my hardware order is delivered. I've
been doing more than just moping around and drinking, Cat—I promise."

"Good. The girl I finished raising wasn't a louse who laid about doing nothing with
her days." She gives me a soft smile to go with her hard words, and stretches up to
kiss me on the cheek. "Now, let's talk about what in the world we're going to do
with those bathrooms."

***

After a few more cups of coffee and two slices of Cat's freshly made quiche, I start
to feel a little more like myself. The heartache and rage of last night is wiped away
by thoughts of the future. Suddenly I have more paths in front of me than I ever
thought I'd get, and the choices unfurl like petals of a blooming rose.

Of course, Cat's presence helps immensely. Her bright spirit helps pull me to the
present. Together we focus on each room in the house, one at a time, and create
plans for making over everything. She takes her tablet out and pulls up a program
she uses when she wants to remodel her businesses, and helps me see what this old
place could look like.

"The question is, who is the buyer we envision for this house?" Standing in the
middle of the living room, Cat flips between two different designs for the space.
"Are we hoping to sell to a family, or... are there other plans?"
"I have to talk to Niall about it. The deed is mine, but if the new alpha wants the
house after the Summit, they'll get first dibs—though obviously, I'll be paid if they
buy it." Taking a look at Cat's plans, I muse, "The neutral color palette would
probably be the better choice."

She eyes me over her glasses, which she wears for any kind of reading on a screen.
"So we're not making over the house for you to live in it?"

I glance away, biting my lower lip. "I don't know..."

"You don't have to answer right away. First, we need to make this place livable—
the rest of it, like paint colors and wallpaper choices, is all just a cherry on top of
the sundae. But if you're going to remove that chip from your neck, I imagine that
involves sticking around on pack territory for a while, and all that entails."

Discovering my wolf. Petitioning to find a mate. Becoming a member of the pack

that once turned its back on me.

And possibly dying of an ancient curse, if everything I've learned in the past few
days is to be believed.

"I might have to find a different pack," I tell Cat, though for some reason that
makes my heart twist. There's so much history here—and my parents are both
buried on this land. "I may bear the Glass name, but if the curse isn't fixed pretty
quickly by the new alpha, then there's no reason to stick around here."

"So we'll focus on getting the basics done and you can decide on the rest once
you've figured out what you want to do with the house. Neutral color palette it is.
Now—help me move this bookcase."

As we grab onto the edges of the bookcase in the living room, prepared to move it
away from the corner and towards the center of the wall, it wobbles a bit. So Cat
steps back and motions for me to help her clear the breakable items off its shelves.
As she does so, her hands pause in front of a small framed photo, and she holds it
up to the light with a smile on her face.

"You're so young here. I had no idea you were ever this short. And are these the
friends you had growing up?"

She turns the photograph towards me, and my heart does a mini tap dance routine.
It's a picture of me when I was maybe nine or ten years old, my cheeks reddened
by the sun, the peaks of a mountain range behind me. I'm holding up a rabbit I
caught in a snare, leaning up against Kieran, who stands to my right, while at my
left Roarke frowns into the camera, keeping several inches of space between him
and me.
The boys I see in the photograph are more like the ones I remember than the men I
ran into in town yesterday: skinny little Roarke, a beanpole of a boy, and young
handsome Kieran, whose cheeks were full, his eyes sunny and bright. It's hard to
reconcile this image of them—and all the memories I have—with what the past
several years have changed.

"That's Kieran and his best friend Roarke," I tell Cat, and she winces. "Don't
worry, it's fine—I don't mind remembering. This was one of the days we went out
hunting in the summer. My dad probably took the photograph... he insisted that we
all learn how to use snares and rifles to hunt. Said we shouldn't rely on our wolf
forms to do all the dirty work, especially since sometimes even pack members
have to hunt on human territory."

"It sounds like he was a pretty involved parent."

"He was," I admit. "Until the day it all changed."

She sets the photograph aside, then stares thoughtfully at the shelf. "I see a lot of
pictures of you as a child here, and a few of your father—this man?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"But there are none of your mother." Her eyes find mine, a question in them. "I
thought she died when you were five. So you wouldn't remember her, but surely,
she took photos with you while she was alive."

I swallow, the sting of an old memory lashing at me. This wound used to be the
only one inside me, the one that festered in my core, until the rejection.

Considering my words, I tell Cat, "My mother loved me, I'm sure of it. But she
didn't really seem to... bond with me. At least that's how my dad explained it. The
pregnancy was tough for her."

"How so?"

"I don't know," I admit. "He says she burned every photo taken of her while she
was pregnant so she wouldn't have to remember it. Then, after I was brought home,
she never bonded—probably postpartum depression, though as far as I know she
was never diagnosed. Apparently, my dad had to hire a human nanny to raise me
on formula."

"Oh." Cat's brows rise. "That's... I'm so sorry, Lilah. I had no idea."

"Yeah, well, I guess that's one reason why I'm able to call you 'Mom,' since I never
called anyone else that," I tell her, bumping my shoulder against her. "My mom
always insisted I called her Laura. She was funny like that. Even my stepmother
had me call her Mom, and I was too old to want to. But Laura was... she was
different."

"Well, you turned out great, if you ask me," Cat says, squeezing my shoulder as
she searches for a way to change the subject. "Should we move this thing
somewhere better?"

"Let's do it on three."

"One, two.."

"Three!"

Together we grab the bookshelf and slide it over. Once it's done, I grab a rag to
dust everything off with, and Cat carefully puts the photographs back. Glancing at
them, I spot a few others of long-ago times that bring up memories of a childhood
full of light and warmth, despite my mother's death, or maybe because of it.

Once she was gone my father and I bonded like two peas in a pod. We shared the
same grief, but we also had space for something new without her, a life without the
kind of rules an overbearing mother insists on. He let me eat ice cream for
breakfast on Saturdays, taught me how to skin a rabbit and clean a fish, and he was
there for me for every moment of my life—until he wasn't.

Cat's words from this morning echo through my mind. She thinks my father had to
have a reason for everything he did—that there must be an explanation, both for
the chip and for my banishment. Maybe she and Lance are right; maybe he wanted
to keep me safe from the curse. But if that's true, it makes no sense—because
surely he would've just told me, and not thrown me to the wild like I was nothing.

Unless there's something else he had to keep me safe from. A secret brimming
beneath the surface of our little world, one that would destroy everything. I shake
the dark thought off as soon as it crosses my mind—there can't be a good
justification for what my father did. I may have had a good childhood, but the day
that ended, it nearly broke me. I just have to accept that the father who filled my
early life with such warmth is also the same one who cast me out. There's nothing
else to it.

Grabbing the dust cloth and a step stool, I busy myself in the corners of the rooms,
gathering a few cobwebs. Cat declares that she's going to fix a few issues with the
pipes in the guest bathroom.

"Wait for the hardware delivery," I call out to her, twisting around on the step
stool. "It'll be here later today."
"There's plenty to do before it arrives. Like clean the clog out of this p-trap."

"Suit yourself. But I bet as soon as you're done, the order will arrive, and we'll
have to replace the whole thing."

As if my words were some kind of premonition, the end of my sentence is

punctuated by the ring of the doorbell chime. Jumping off the stool, I set my
cleaning supplies down, pull my messy hair behind my head, and do a quick face
check in the hallway mirror.

There's a smudge of dust on my cheek that I wipe away, but other than that—well,
I look about as okay as can be expected, given the night I had. Nothing about my
dark circles or dry skin can be fixed before I make it to the front door, so I just
resign myself to looking messy. The delivery man won't mind.

The doorbell rings again. "Coming!" I hop to it, spotting a silhouette in the leaded
glass window beside the door. "Just a sec."

Grabbing the knob, I twist it and fling wide the door, expecting to see a balding
middle-aged man with a few boxes and a checklist—normally Herb delivers from
the local hardware store—but instead I come face-to-face with my own personal
nightmare.

Lance is standing on one side of the door, looking impeccably handsome,

absolutely unruffled, and somehow taller than I remember.

He's not the only one, though. Every hottie from yesterday has made it their
personal mission to stand on my front porch with a ladder or a package of pipe
repair material under their arm.

Roarke is leaning up against the busted porch railing, his summer blond hair
rimmed by the late morning light, that muscular frame and soft face making him
look like some kind of angelic Adonis.

And Finn is on the other side of the porch, raising an eyebrow in my direction, a
bucket in one of his hands and a toolbox in the other. Somehow he wears the
casual clothing of a working man with the same poise he wore his button-up silk
shirt; his tan slacks are pressed, leather boots supple, and the white T-shirt he
wears only accentuates his brown skin and corded muscles.

My only saving grace is that Kieran is nowhere in sight. If he were, I'd probably
sink through the floor and into the earth. It would be my only choice other than
death.
Helplessly looking up into Lance's honey brown eyes, I stammer, "Wh-where is
Herb?"

"The old man needs to retire," Finn calls out, answering for Lance, who shoots him
an annoyed look. "He nearly broke his back at his last house call. So do-gooder
Lance over here signed us up to help him out."

Lance makes a tsk noise in Finn's direction, then glances back at me. I swear a
thousand butterflies grow in my stomach the instant he meets my eyes. "You put in
a work order to have some repairs done around the house, along with getting the
supplies delivered, correct?"

"I didn't—well, technically, I did, I guess."

"Then we're here to do the work." He glances into the house, eyes straying over my
shoulder, and I hear Cat moving around somewhere behind me. "We can come
back if now isn’t a good time, since you have a guest."

"It's just my foster mom."

Glancing behind the door, I search for Cat—and find her standing off to the side,
eyes wide, staring at me with an O shape to her mouth. She makes a motion
towards the front porch—then whips out her hand and fans herself dramatically.
Arching her back, she throws herself towards the counter and mimes being
overcome by attraction, fisting her hand in her skirt.

In a dry tone, I tell Lance, "She'll be right out to introduce herself to you."

"Oh yes, of course!" Cat drops the act, steps out in front of the door, and grins at
the guys. I try to shoot a warning look in her direction, but she doesn't pay me a
single moment's notice. "I'm Catherine Banks, Delilah's foster mom—though if
you ask me, I'm far too young for the role. Most people think we're sisters."

I have to swallow a laugh and a few choice words at that. It's true that Cat is young
to be my biological mother, and she looks younger than she is, but she's clearly
hamming it up for the guys. She blatantly checks them out, not even trying to hide
what she's doing.

Lance politely says, "Nice to meet you, ma'am. Do you mind if we bring all of this
in?"

"Not at all. You're welcome to come inside anytime." Cat shoots a grin in my
direction. "Isn't that right, Lilah?"

"Lilah," Lance muses, "that's a good nickname for her."

"Isn't it though?"

Clearly this is going nowhere fast. The last thing I wanted or expected today was a
few unexpected sexy visitors, but I might as well accept the guys in graciously.
Trio of hotties or not, they're here to help out—and none of them is Kieran, though
just having Roarke here is enough to make my stomach drop, as I know how close
the two of them were, and likely still are. It's hard to even face him, knowing that
he was there when I was rejected.

I steel myself for it, though. It helps that I know now I'm not shiftless and never
was. The rejection feels less brutal than it was at the time.

"Come on in." I motion the guys inside, barely able to stop the heat that crawls
from my neck down to my chest as I remember how filthy, tired, and hungover I
look. "Most of the bathroom stuff is for the downstairs half bath for guests. That
toolbox is for me, thanks, just put it on the kitchen table. You can leave those two
by fours outside, Finn—they're for the porch. Let me see the inventory list."

Item by item, Lance and I check everything I ordered off the list. The only thing
that hasn't arrived yet is the new siding shingles; that'll take a contractor to take
care of. Everything else, from the heavy-duty sander to the hardwood floor finish,
is here.

And seeing it brought into the house and piled everywhere just reminds me how
much still has to be done. The house has so much work that it needs, and I don't
even know what I'm going to do with it once it's all done.

"So, what do you want to take care of first?" Lance asks me, his voice a deep
rumble. "We'll be here all day."

"I have to think about it." Glancing at Cat, I ask her, "Can you?"

"I'll get everything organized for you, Lilah."

"Great. I just need a breath of fresh air."

It feels like I'm running away as I leap outside to the front porch, a knot in my
stomach and a lump in my throat. The number of tasks sitting in front of me is
daunting. But what really frightens me is just how many major decisions I have to
make about my life.

Hanging over it all is the cloud of mystery that surrounds the chip in my neck and
the choices my father made—about me, about the curse, and everything.
Stepping to the rotting porch railing, I lean against it—only to have to jump back a
moment later when it finally crumbles and falls off, leaving a gaping hole in the
porch.

"Great," I mutter, staring down at the wrecked wood on the ground, "Just my luck."

Turning away, I sigh—and come face-to-face with two impossibly handsome men
at once. For some reason I'd thought Finn and Roarke were inside with Lance, but
they're out here, leaning awkwardly against the side of the house near a pile of
unfinished wood they lugged up the stairs.

I blink at them. Roarke is staring at me with something like guilt on his face, while
Finn just looks thoughtful, his left brow raised a little in the middle.

"I just came out here to think," I blurt out, as if I need an excuse to stand on my
own front porch. "It's a lot of responsibility—this old house. A lot to... think
about."

Shit, I sound dumb.

But Finn chuckles a little, the warmth in his tone calming me. "We were out here
thinking, too. Or at least Bell over here was—I've mostly just been watching him
and saying a few words of encouragement."

"You're never encouraging," Roarke shoots back, an irritated expression crossing

his face. His voice, so much deeper and richer now that he's grown, sends
confusing feelings through me. I still can't reconcile the boy I knew with the man
standing in front of me.

He turns to me, and as those summer blue eyes land on my face, I feel my cheeks
heat up. "We were trying to figure out how to apologize for yesterday."

"Apologize? For what?"

"The things Kieran said." Roarke's mouth thins out into an unhappy line. "He
shouldn't have said them. It's not his fault—" Finn clears his throat, and Roarke
amends, "Well, it is his fault. But he wouldn't have said them if he weren't... going
through some things."

Finn snorts. "What Kieran's bestie over here means is that he's a drug addict."

The floor sways beneath me. "A what?"

"A drug addict." Roarke shoots Finn a frustrated look, but the charming man just
shrugs. "What, I'm supposed to lie about it? The whole town knows that Kieran lets
vamps bite him so he can get high off the venom."
"No." I take a step back, shock thrumming through me. "Vampire venom—no way.
That's impossible."

Not the Kieran I knew.

The strong, sunny boy.

With an easy smile and a charm that made every girl swoon. A charm that he
reserved just for me—his closest friend turned something more, the girl he planned
on forming a mate bond with.

My legs shake and tremble. I feel like everything is giving away around me. It's all
too much—too much change, too many revelations. Clearly it's getting to me. I
swear the world tilts for a minute.

Then Roarke is staring at me in alarm, and he reaches out a hand. "Delilah—watch

out!"

I realize what he means too late.

The rotted boards of the porch give way beneath me, and I fall through them
instantly, a strangled yelp leaving my lips.

Delilah
Iwince as the jagged edge of a broken wood plank digs into my thigh. Roarke
kneels several inches away from me, trying to stay off the bad wood as he reaches
out to me. I push his offered hand away, embarrassed.

"I'm fine," I tell him, the scream I just let out echoing through my ears. "I only fell
like... a foot or two."

Though I swear something just brushed against my ankle, and it was definitely
alive. A shudder goes through me. Leaning forward, I press my palms against the
porch to try to lift myself out—and fall back with a hiss as sharp pain goes through
the side of my leg.

"Don't try to get yourself out," Roarke says sharply, his brows furrowed in concern.
God, he's so close to me I can see the white and yellow rings in the middle of his
blue irises. "You'll just make it worse. You need to be lifted directly up—the way
you came. Finn?"

"Here—let me get around to the other side." Finn leaps down the steps, walks
around to the other end of the porch, and climbs over the railing. Boards creak
beneath his feet as he steps carefully towards me. "This damned thing needs to be
taken apart and rebuilt from scratch."

"Preferably today," Roarke agrees. "We'll get right on it as soon as we get Delilah
out."

Craning my neck, I look over my shoulder towards Finn—and nearly jump back to
discover myself staring at him from maybe a foot away. He's close enough that I
can smell his scent, even with my shiftless nose: a light bit of coconut, heady
vanilla, and a whiff of sharp campfire smoke. I'd call it a cologne on any human
man, but it's probably just his werewolf scent coming to the surface because of the
tight situation.

It isn't fair that werewolf males are impossibly strong, often quite handsome,
and also smell good. Evolution was being mean when it gave them all that.
Especially because I can look and smell, but I don't get to touch or taste.

I have to force myself to tear my eyes away from Finn and look straight forward,
somewhere over Roarke's shoulder, towards the sky in the distance. Just as I do so,
something that's definitely either a cat or a very large rat brushes against me, and I
squeal. "Sooner would be better than later!"

Roarke nods sharply to his friend. "Alright, let's get our hands under her. I'll grab
beneath her shoulders—Finn, you get her waist."

"Got it."

Before I can prepare myself, Roarke's hands slide under my arms. His strong
fingers stretch up to curl at the back of my shoulders, very sensibly, but his palms
are so broad that they brush up against the very edges of my breasts near my
armpits. Just as I'm trying to adjust to that, Finn's strong hands wrap around my
waist, his fingers nearly engulfing me.

A rush of tingles shoots through my body. My nerves are so alive you'd think I was
being electrified, not chastely touched by two werewolves. It almost hurts, the
energy—and I swear I almost think Roarke feels it too, because he winces and
draws his hands back for a moment, only to redouble his grip.

Finn murmurs, "Some kinda static shock on your clothing," his fingers wiggling on
my waist like he's trying to discharge it. "That's better."

As they lean towards me, getting the right angle to pull me up, their scents envelop
me. I swear, the boy I knew only ever smelled like sweat and unwashed
adolescence, but Roarke the man is all sharp citrus tang, deep bergamot, and the
slightly hard-to-place scent of cloves. Just being this close to him makes my mouth
water and my legs tighten with need.

Heat from Roarke brushes against my cheek. A tingle goes through me as he

murmurs, "Ready?"

"Ready," Finn responds.

Then, in a smooth motion that shows off their stunning strength, the two men lift
me smoothly out of the hole until my feet brush its edges. Roarke motions with his
head, and the two of them take a few careful steps towards the stronger side of the
porch, where they gently set me down.

All without letting me even so much as brush against the ragged edges of the hole,
or breaking a sweat.

Heat pools between my thighs as I imagine what that kind of strength could do in
the bedroom. I have to shake the thought off, though—now is not the time, and I
doubt either one of them are thinking those sort of thoughts, given the state I'm in.
Glancing down, I discover that my pants are ripped from the ankle to the knee on
one side, and the knee to the thigh on the other, but thankfully there's only a bit of
scraping and some bruising on my skin—no gashes or wounds.

"Thanks for the help," I tell them, grabbing the waistband of my torn pants and
holding it tight. "I should go get cleaned up... and changed."

"Are you okay?" Roarke hovers near me, his hands in the air like he wants to reach
out to touch me but is afraid of that static shock again. "I swear for a second I
almost thought you were getting electrocuted.”

I swallow. "I'm alright. Just a little embarrassed. I knew not to walk over to that
side of the porch."

Pacing around to face me, Finn stares at my torn jeans. "I hope those weren't
designer."

"You think I wear my designer jeans to sand the floors of my house?"

"I would." He shoots me a grin. "And don't worry, I'm not complaining about the
way you look. In fact, I quite appreciated the view from the other side of the
porch."

"The view—what?"
Feeling a slight breeze against my lower back, I stretch my head around and swivel
my hips. Staring down in shock, I feel the color drain from my face as I realize
what Finn was talking about.

There's a gaping hole in the back of my jeans.

One that shows every inch of my satin pink panties.

Including the frilly lace bits at the edges, and a generous handful of the back of my
thighs.

Blushing scarlet, I turn to face the guys—and catch Roarke ripping his gaze away
from me, too late to go unnoticed. A little whimper of embarrassment leaves my
mouth. It doesn't help that Finn is grinning, charm dancing in those eyes of his, his
brows arched playfully.

"Don't worry," he says in a low voice full of heat, "I'm sure you're glad that you
weren't wearing your granny panties."

"I—what!?"

"Finn." Roarke admonishes his friend, elbowing him in the side. "You—you
shouldn't say that."

"What? You were looking at them too."

My mouth drops open. "Finn! It—it isn't like that. Roarke wouldn't." My eyes flick
to Roarke, who is actually blushing, his strong jaw and summer tan skin splashed
with color. "We grew up together. It isn't like that with us. I was with—"

The sentence snaps off in my mouth. I was with Kieran. Not anymore, though. And
the Roarke I knew then isn't the one standing in front of me, his eyes looking
anywhere but at me, an embarrassed frown twisting his lips.

"Don't worry, I know all about that sordid history." Finn snorts indelicately and
shakes his head. "If you ask me, K should be hung for what he did to you."

"Finn." This time, there's a warning in Roarke's voice, his tone a deep rumble that
comes from his strong, broad chest. "Enough. Leave her be."

To my surprise, Finn listens. His mouth actually snaps shut, and the playful
expression leaves his face. Just like that—almost as if... as if he were a member of
the pack being ordered around by his alpha.

But no. That doesn't make sense. Roarke isn't a leader—is he? Lance's words come
back to me. I'm hoping Roarke Bell puts in a bid for alpha. That's what he said,
and I laughed because all I could see was the skinny beanpole of a boy Kieran was
always having to protect from bullies. But I changed—clearly, so did Roarke.

"I'll just... go inside and get dressed now." Unable to take one more second of
embarrassment, I grab onto the ragged edges of my pants and back up towards the
door, facing the guys so they don't get another eyeful of my satin-covered rear end.
"If you're able to help with the porch... that'd be greatly appreciated."

"It's a death trap," Roarke says gravely. "We'll fix it as quickly as possible. For
your safety."

"Right. Safety."

Feeling the urge to babble come on, I grab onto the doorknob—which means
letting go of my pants. They sag a little as I back up into the house, the door
creaking behind me, Finn's face full of amusement as Roarke refuses to look
directly at me.

One step back. Two. I'm almost inside the house, and I can taste the moment I'll be
able to slam the door shut and run down the hallway to my bedroom—when
suddenly I back into something very solid in my path.

Expecting it to be a bookcase that Cat moved, I turn around, confused.

And straight up into Lance's broad chest as he also turns, right behind me. It takes
a moment for him to face me and look down—straight towards my torn, ragged
clothing that barely hides anything. He quickly looks up and away, then smoothly
steps back from me.

"Are you okay?" He asks, voice grave. "I heard a commotion from the front porch,
but I thought it was just some loose boards getting pried up. Then you didn't come
back in, so I decided to come check—"

"I'm fine!" Throwing my hands up, I demand, "Will you guys just chill and stop
hovering over me?"

A moment later I realize that by raising my hands, I've let go of the ragged edges
of my jeans.

Which are now no longer held together by anything except a few stray threads and
the wishes of this one embarrassed girl. Because each step I took to get back here
pushed them to the edge—and now those edges are falling apart.

I feel it as the waistband slides down beneath my ass. As the torn panels give up
the ghost. And most of what I was wearing beneath the waist pools around my
ankles.
Leaving nothing but the pink satin panties edged with lace to cover my lower half.

Cheeks heating, I don't bother saying anything to Lance, who's staring in wide-
eyed shock with his lips slightly parted. Before I can do much more than breathe in
the scent of him—fresh snow, evergreen needles, and mint—I spring away and
dash down the hall towards my room.

By the time I make it inside and slam the door, my jeans are somewhere on the
ground outside, along with my dignity.

***

A good thirty minutes later, I'm standing in the bathroom wearing fresh clothes, my
hair blowdried and up in a ponytail, a reasonable amount of makeup on my face.
The only thing left to do is psych myself up to leave the room and face the three
men I just embarrassed myself in front of—easier said than done.

"You can do this, Delilah." My own eyes stare back at me in the mirror, full of
doubt. "Well, you probably can't do it with anything approaching dignity, but you
have to try. It's not like you can hide in here all day."

This should be nothing, damnit. I've been through far worse than this. I was
rejected by my mate, exiled by my father, and lived on the streets for months
before Cat took me in. But somehow that all pales compared to the freshness of
the incident, as I'm currently thinking of it.

It would be one thing to accidentally wind up half naked in front of Roarke; that's
horrifying to consider, but at least we grew up together, so he's seen me do dumb
shit before. Lance and Finn both just met me—and now I've made a hell of a first
impression.

Who am I kidding? It's almost more embarrassing in front of Roarke. I left town
for seven years and came back to discover he'd turned into a total smoke show.
He's probably going to tell Kieran all about it the first chance he gets.

"Delilah." There's a knock at my door, and Cat's voice carries to me. "Can I come
in? Are you decent?"

I groan. "Come in."

She does, and I watch through the open bathroom door as she settles on the queen
bed. Her face turns thoughtful as she bounces up and down on it—"they don't
make spring mattresses like this anymore"—before she gives me an appraising
look.

"I don't know why you're hiding in here," she declares. "I saw you run ass-first into
Lance with your pants around your ankles. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

I choke on incredulity and have to clear my throat. "Seriously?"

"You took the advice I've always given you." A wicked expression crosses her
face. "You wore the underwear you'd like to be found in if the EMT is hot."

Laughter bursts out of me. I can't help it. "Technically that's true. So why don't I
feel any better?"

"Because those young men are hot enough to climb," she says bluntly. "Hell, if you
don't try to get to the peak of one of those mountains, I just might."

"Cat!"

"They say cougars are in." Her eyes dance with mirth. "Besides, there are no
female werewolves around here. I can't have that much competition."

Groaning, I walk over to the bed and sit beside her. "Was it really that bad?"

"Darling. It was nothing." She puts her arm around my shoulders and squeezes.
"Besides, you made quite the impression. I'm pretty sure a fly flew into Lance's
mouth, he was so shocked. And not in a bad way."

"You can't be sure of that."

"Honey, you backed your half-naked ass up into him. Then he turned around.
I'm sure."

"I don't know how I can go out there again," I confess. "This feels like that dream
where you're in class for the exam, and you realize that you're naked."

"Lucky for you, you weren't naked, and this isn't high school." Cat gives me a kiss
on the cheek, then pushes me up off the bed—not gently. "You're an adult now,
Lilah. Get out there and face the slightly embarrassing music. Or I'll make you."

I smile at her. "I'm so glad I have you around. Don't leave me, okay?"

"Not until you're ready, I promise."

It's not until I've grabbed the door and forced myself out into the hallway that I
realize she didn't exactly say yes to my question.
One day, possibly soon, Cat and I are going to find ourselves standing in separate
worlds. Her on the human side. And me—well, I'm not entirely sure yet.

I just hope that whatever comes between us, our love for each other remains the
same.

***

Thankfully the incident seems to have been forgotten—or at least, no one directly
brings it up to my face. Lance offers to help me sand the floors down, and Finn
helps him clear the table out of the dining room so we can take care of some of the
damaged flooring and cracked crown moulding in there. Roarke lets me know of a
good insulation and siding contractor to speak to; he promises to put in a good
word so I get the family rate.

But each time I stare at them for more than a second or two, I feel that strange
fluttering in my stomach. My cheeks heat, and my thoughts go a little... slippery.
Because no matter how I try, despite how impossible and inappropriate it is, I can't
help but feel attracted to them.

It's almost a relief when someone rings the doorbell, and I'm able to spring out of
the room and put some distance between me and the three hulking hunks.

"I'll get that! It's probably just a delivery."

Sliding over to the front room, I take a moment to calm the beating of my heart
before I open up the door.

And come face-to-face to someone I was overdue to meet up with from the
moment I stepped foot in Juniper.

"Niall." I stare up into his face, which is more lined than I remember. His dark hair
has receded from his forehead considerably, and he has a new five o'clock shadow
that threatens to become facial hair. "I was expecting to see you sooner."

"I got caught up with something," he says without apologizing. "Heard you made it
to town okay, though. I'm glad. We missed you at the ceremony."

My father's resting funeral—the moment his body was burned to ashes, sealed in a
ceremonial urn, and placed in the Elder Tomb.

"It was a long trip," I tell Niall, which is my way of politely not saying that I didn't
want to show up for the ceremony. "I wasn't able to make it in time."
He politely doesn't point out that I could've flown in. We're doing this dancing-
around-the-subject thing quite well so far. Neither one of us mentions the last time
we saw each other in person. He doesn't ask how I managed to survive exile, and I
don't offer any kind of explanation.

"Well. I trust you found everything in order—your father's things, and the house
deed? I gave instruction for it to be given over to you."

"I had to stop by the public records office, but I didn't have any trouble."

"They were supposed to bring it by." He frowns for a moment. "But you got it.
That's good, that's good."

Clearing his throat, he looks at me for a long moment, and something like anger
crawls up inside me and lodges at the base of my skull.

"What do you want, Niall?" Glancing over his shoulder, I spot his pickup truck by
the curb. It isn't the one he drove me out of the territory in, but it's similar—and
there's someone sitting in the passenger seat, too far away for me to make out.
"Whatever it is, just get it over with. I have a lot of work to do. The house isn't in
the best shape."

"Ah—yeah." A flicker of shame crosses his face. "Your father wanted to do more
work on it. He ran out of time."

A lump forms in my throat, and I beat it down. Now is not the time for grief. Not
for my father, the man who left me in this mess in the first place, and especially not
in front of his right-hand man.

Finally Niall says, "I came by to see when you want to put the house up for sale. I
know it needs some work—I made sure you'd be able to get help at a discounted
rate, to fix up the place—but the sooner it can be sold, the better."

His words slot something into place for me: how it was that I got three of the
youngest, strongest, most available men as my "helpers" around the house.
Suddenly it makes sense. Of course they don't normally send men like those three
out on house calls—I was a fool to think they ever did. But as a favor for Niall, for
the old alpha's house, even the best young males would slum it with a shiftless like
me.

I shake the dark thoughts off and consider Niall's question. An answer comes to me
quickly, but before I can tell him, something gets my attention. The passenger in
Niall's truck has gotten out and is walking up the sidewalk towards the house—a
familiar dark expression on his face.
Staring directly at Niall, I let some of my hard-won anger towards him leak out.
"You brought Kieran with you?"

"Ah—yes." He glances over his shoulder, then back at me. "We were coming back
from some work just out of town. I thought he could put the sign up."

This is the moment when I see what Kieran is holding in his right hand: a hammer.
Tucked beneath his left arm is a folded-up red-and-black sign that surely reads
FOR SALE across it.

The anger inside me licks up into a flame that threatens to become a bonfire and
burn everything around me. I find I don't care, though. I can't believe they showed
up here ready to put the sign up and everything—to take the one thing my father
left to me, and pressure me to give it away.

Throwing back my shoulders and straightening my spine, I level Niall with a hard
look. He actually flinches a little, something like guilt crawling across his face, and
it gives me smug satisfaction. What I wouldn't give to make him feel even a
fraction of what I felt out there on the streets alone, scared and confused, rejected
and exiled.

It's good that Kieran is here to witness my decision, too. Let him see how much
stronger I've grown without him. I want him to know that while he hurt me, he
wasn't able to keep me down for long.

"I'm not selling the house anytime soon, Niall." I enjoy the confused shock that
settles on his face. "In fact, I'm never selling the house. Because I'm not going to
move out of here at all.”

I clear my throat.

"Today I made a decision: I'm staying in Juniper. And there's nothing you, or your
little errand boy, can do to change my mind."

Kieran
"You can't be serious." Frustration creeps into Niall's tone, and his hand clenches at
his side. "You're staying in this old falling down house?"

"I am. And it won't be falling down for long." Delilah raises her chin, eyes
flashing. "I'm going to fix it up and live in it."

"Your father exiled you. You're not supposed to be here for longer than it takes to
handle his things."
There's a warning note in Niall's voice, but beneath it I hear a hint of panic. I
wonder if William told him to keep Delilah out of Juniper, too—and if he might
have also told him why. It can't just be because she's shiftless. Humans live all over
town. There has to be more to it.

"I'm staying, no matter what either one of you thinks."

Delilah's eyes fix on me, and I feel the heat of shame licking at my heels. I ignore
it, lifting my chin and reminding myself of the promise I made. No matter how I
feel about Delilah, or how badly it hurts me to push her away, this is something I
just have to do.

"You're supposed to leave town, Dee." Stepping forward, I stand shoulder-to-

shoulder with Niall. "This isn't right. You don't belong around here."

"Don't I?" Delilah stares me down and crosses her arms. "On whose authority?"

"The alpha's."

"The alpha is dead." Her voice rings out, carrying across the space between us.
"What he said when he was alive no longer applies. Does it, Niall?"

"Well..." The older man hesitates, reaching up to scratch at his chin. "Technically,
you were invited back because he put you in his will."

"And I didn't hear anything about him putting a time limit on my ownership of this
house or this land. I get to stay—at least until the new alpha says something
different."

Niall tilts his head in acknowledgement. "You've got a month, then. Until the
Summit."

Then, to my complete shock, he turns around and walks away. "Wait! What about
the sign? You know, that thing we came here to do?"

"I'll bring it back." He holds out his hands, and I reluctantly pass the FOR SALE
sign over. "You should stick around here. Help with the house repairs."

"No! No way. I'm not—"

Niall fixes me with a look, and I realize abruptly that I sound like a petulant child.
Snapping my mouth shut, I swallow the words I was about to say, and whirl on
Delilah.

She's staring over my shoulder at Niall, a hard look on her face. "I don't want him
here, and I don't need him. Take him back to whatever ditch he crawled out of."
"Nah." Niall's voice is flippant, his tone uninterested. "I've got better things to do
with my time. Work out the bad blood between you two—or don't. I don't care."

Then he starts up his truck and drives away.

Leaving me standing on the front lawn of the woman who hates me the most in the
world.

"Dee." I stare up at her in frustration. "You can't honestly expect to stick around
here. Without a wolf, without a mate? It isn't right. That's not how we do things."

"Who's to say I won't get one?" she shoots back, ice in her gaze and she looks
down at me from her position on the dilapidated front porch. "For all you know,
the new alpha will welcome me back into the fold, and I'll have a new mate by
spring."

The thought makes my stomach do uneasy flips. It's impossible—it could never
happen—but just thinking of another man taking Delilah down to the Mating
Circle, stripping her naked, and rutting inside her... my wolf growls at the mere
thought. Bond between us or not, Delilah isn't someone I ever wanted to give up.

I have to convince her to leave, though, no matter what. And I can see now that I
won't accomplish that by reminding her she's shiftless. So I try another tactic.

"It's dangerous here," I remind her. "All the female werewolves die. You could be
next if you stick around."

"From what I've heard, they die when they shift." She takes a step forward, then
another, until she's standing at the edge of the porch, staring down into my face. "I
don't shift, though, do I?"

I don't know what to say to that.

She needles me. "I'm shiftless. Right?" There's a searching expression in her face,
and a question in her tone. "Right?"

Answering feels rude, but I don't know what else she's looking for. "I know you're
shiftless, Delilah. I was there when it happened."

She winces at the memory—then scowls, fixing a dark and angry stare on me. "I
remember you being there. As if I could forget."

As if I could. That night haunts my memories, waking and otherwise. The

consequences of what happened the day I turned her away have been like a demon
at my back, ripping and tearing flesh. An aching hole in my center burns with need
because of the choice I made that day, the order I thoughtlessly followed—and
when I look into her chipped green eyes, all I see is the dark hole I threw myself
down into.

I'll never be pulled out of that darkness. Never be saved from it. But maybe, if I
just find the right words, I can save Delilah.

So I take a step towards her, daring to get close enough that she could touch me—
or slap me, something her expression suggests possible. From the top step, she's a
good two inches taller than me, so I take a step up the stairs, then another, until I'm
facing her head-on, looking down into her cerulean eyes.

This close I can hear her heartbeat, can smell the scent of her, freshly washed and
scrubbed clean. The urge to bury my hand in her hair and inhale is overwhelming.
The seven years that kept us apart have never felt longer than they do the moment I
notice how much she's changed, and how little my feelings for her have.

She inhales, the breath sharp and shallow. My eyes fall to her parted lips. The urge
to grab her and make her mine is hard to resist. But I do. I know I'd only be pulling
her into the darkness with me.

"You need to go," I tell her, keeping my voice soft and low, trying to put every
ounce of pleading I feel into my tone. "Wherever you were, clearly you did well
for yourself. So go back there. Be happy. Stay far away from this place."

"Or you'll what?" Delilah narrows her eyes at me. "Reject me?"

"I don't know," I confess. "But I'll do something. Whatever I have to do to make
you realize that you don't belong in this place—it isn't your home. And it never will
be."

Her brows draw together, the fierce scowl only emphasizing the curve of her
cheekbones and the blue of her eyes. "You're not going to be the new alpha, so I
don't care about your opinion. It doesn't matter to me. You don't matter to me."

That stings more than it should. I remember a time when she came to me first with
every bit of news in her life, and I did the same, because it wasn't real until she
knew about it. Now I feel the ache of that space she left in my life—but she must
not feel the same ache for me, because while I was spinning out here in Juniper,
she was out in the world making a new life. Finding new people to fill it with.
Which is exactly what she should go back to doing.

"You might not care what I think, but the new alpha will." Leaning close, I pitch
my voice low as I tell her, "Your father left the house to you in his will. But he left
his totem to me."
Her eyes widen, and she takes a step back, reeling as if slapped. A pained gasp
leaves her lips. "His vote? It's yours?"

"His vote. His position. Every part of being on the council." I cock my head at her.
"You may not have a wolf, but you know what that means. I'll be one of three
people who gets to pick the new alpha—and I'll have a voice to guide them.

"When I make my choice, I'll be sure to pick someone who will exile you again,
just like your father. So I suggest you don't bother moving all your things here.
You'll be going home soon enough."

Delilah stares at me. The pain in her eyes makes me want to wrap my arms around
her, but I know better. Giving her any bit of hope, making her believe we could
ever be mates or anything like it, would just keep her around here longer.

And the sooner she's gone, the better.

For both of us.

I don't expect her to thank me for what I've told her. Curse words would be more
apt. Maybe a few threats or taunt.

But the last thing I expect is for her to twist her lips in a snarl, take two large steps
forward, and shove me backwards.

As I slip off the porch steps, my arms briefly, comically, windmill—then I fall
anyway. My ass hits the ground first, followed by the rest of me. A whumph leaves
my lips along with all the air in my lungs.

Staring up at the afternoon sky, I can't feel anything but shock. The Delilah I knew
would never do that. She didn't have that much anger inside her—or that much
strength.

"You're an asshole, Kieran." Stalking towards me, she leans down to glare at me
from above. The afternoon sun lights the back of her head, making her hair glow
like bits of magic. "I don't know why my father left you that totem—I'm sure he
knew, just like everyone else around town, that you've turned into a worthless do-
nothing of an adult. Maybe he just forgot to take you out of his will before he died.

"What I do know, with absolute certainty, is that one vote on the council doesn't
make you god. It makes you one of three. All I need is for the other two votes to go
to an alpha who will let me stay in town—something that'll be easy, considering
I'm beloved and missed around here.
"So make your empty threats. Say whatever insulting things you want. I'm not
leaving." She smirks at me, then kneels and reaches for my face. I wince, but all
she does is wipe a smear of dirt off my cheek.

In a low voice she adds, "Since you're going to be doing some work around the
house, you should know—I don't let trash inside on my hardwood floors. Stay out
here and pull the weeds instead. You can start with the six-foot tall one lying on
the ground like a dumbass."

Then she stands up, wheels around, and stalks back into the house—closing the
door behind her with a finality I feel all the way down to my bones.

Delilah
It shouldn't bug me, what Kieran said. He already rejected me; I've been exiled for
seven years, lied to about my wolf, and kept from my culture. But something about
him having one of the totems and vowing to keep me out of Juniper is just too
much on top of everything else.

So as I stalk into the house, I have to take a moment to shake the anger off me. Cat,
who's sitting in the kitchen, notices. She holds out an empty mug and raises a brow
at me.

"Need some more coffee? Or maybe a little tea—you look... irritated."

"Just more of the same nonsense."

My mind keeps replaying that conversation in my head. It didn't seem like Kieran
knew about the microchip, or that I'm not really shiftless. So he rejected me
because he didn't want a mate without a wolf.

That shouldn't still hurt. It shouldn't. But it does. Here he is, by all accounts a
broken man seeking a high in the arms of vampires, and still, he thinks he's too
good for me.

"You sure you don't need some tea?"

I shoot Cat a smile, taking a deep breath and mentally filing my worries away. "I
need something to hit with a hammer."

"That's my girl." She jerks her head towards the living room. "Roarke and Finn
went upstairs to fix the leaky plumbing, but Lance stayed down here. He's cleared
out the furniture in the living room so he can peel up the warped flooring and put
down some new boards. Bet you could join him."
"Sounds like a plan."

"First..." Cat's voice tugs me over to her, and she lowers her voice as I lean in
towards her. "Those three are absolutely smoking. If you're going to stick around
this place, I think you should avail yourself of a few of the perks. Like maybe
climbing one of them—or all three."

I wrinkle my nose, even though the idea has occurred to me more than once. "All
three? Cat, we don't all have your ability to multitask."

"Oh, my younger days." She sighs forlornly—like her days of wild dating
escapades are in the past, when I know for a fact she still gets up to trouble
regularly. "Take a page out of my book, Lilah, and don't pass up an opportunity for
a little fun."

"I'll consider it," I tell her, trying to ignore how nervous the mere thought of
hooking up with a werewolf male makes me. "Where's my tool belt?"

"Right here. Though if you ask me, it should be other tools you think about."

I roll my eyes. "No more dirty puns."

"Try and stop me."

Lance is in the living room, just like Cat said, kneeling at the edge of a cleared-off
space free of furniture. He's gotten a few of the warped hardwood planks up and is
working on more; the ruined wood sits to one side, while replacement boards are
piled up in a corner, unwrapped and ready to go.

He hears me as I step into the room, and looks up from what he's doing. "Who was
at the door?"

"Just Niall with some business." I watch him for a moment, my eyes straying to his
thick biceps, and have to jerk my gaze away. Cat is getting in my head. "He
dropped off Kieran."

"Oh." Lance's mouth thins at this. "I didn't realize he was coming."

This I like. Cocking my head, I dare to ask, "Do you have some sort of issue with
Kieran?"

Lance's eyes flick up to my face briefly. "I would've thought that you had an issue
with him, if anything."

My heart thumps. Of course Lance would know about my past with Kieran, even
as a new member of the pack. It still stings that I can't get a fresh start while
everyone else can. Wherever I go, I'll always bring my past behind with me like a
boulder.

"Kieran and I are... complicated," I tell Lance. My own sentence makes me snort in
disbelief. "Actually, we're toxic and not at all on good terms. But he can pull up
weeds in the backyard. That I'll let him do."

"I suppose you and I don't differ significantly in our opinions, then."

"We should stop talking about unpleasant things and get back to work." I motion
towards his area. "Need any help?"

"Actually, yeah. I could use some help with the staples I've been leaving behind, if
you could pull them up."

"No problem."

"Also, I wanted to ask you—where do you want me to cut the planks?" He motions
towards the flooring. "This part is warped, but I know you wanted to keep some of
the original. I was going to slice through some of it with the circular saw to get it
up. Then we can sand it down and stain it all the same."

"Let's cut the floors off right here." Pacing over, I nudge my toe against the line
between the living room and the hallway. "That'll make for a smoother transition."

"Got it. Now it's just a matter of doing the work."

I grab a nail claw out of the toolbox by Lance's knee and get down on the bare
flooring to pull up some of the nails still stuck around the edges of the room. There
are bits of glue as well; Lance passes me an old rag and a big bottle of solvent for
that.

As I work on the parts of the floor he's cleared, he uses a crowbar and a
sledgehammer to peel back the warped and rotten boards. What would be a
difficult job for any average human man is impossibly easy when a strong
werewolf is doing it—which means he's more than capable of carrying on a
conversation between thumps of the sledgehammer.

"So..." I glance up at him as I rock the nail claw back and forth, easing a staple out
of the floor. "I know why Kieran and I don't get along. I think everyone who lives
on pack territory does. But why don't you like him?"

Lance grimaces, bracing as he hits the crowbar with his sledgehammer. He waits
until he's peeled up the plank of wood before he answers, though I think the pause
is deliberate. "I don't necessarily have it out for Salt. I know what he's been
through. It's just the way he handles his grief that I don't like."
Remembering Finn's words, I murmur, "Vampire venom."

Lance's head jerks up at this. "Someone told you."

"Finn did. He and Roarke were trying to apologize for something Kieran said to
me. Apparently the venom is at fault."

Snorting at this, Lance shakes his head. "Not everything he does can be blamed on
the venom—though I know Roarke would like to use it as an excuse. Truthfully, I
feel for Kieran. I'm sure after what he's been through, the venom eases much of his
pain."

We fall silent for a moment as Lance peels up another of the boards, the sound of
his sledgehammer and crowbar filling the room. Once there's an opportunity to
speak again, though, I can't help but sate my curiosity.

"What has Kieran been through?" He looks up sharply at this. "I mean, we were
kids together. I know about all that, and everything up to the point I was exiled.
But when I knew him—he had a messy family, yeah, but that was it."

"Oh. I suppose it makes sense you wouldn't know." Lance grabs onto the loose
planks and shifts them towards the pile he's made on another spot of the floor.
"Someone will tell you sooner rather than later, so I might as well—though I hate
to gossip."

"It's not gossip. Just filling in a little backstory."

"If you say so. I'll tell you all about it... the reason why Kieran is the way he is—or
the excuse, depending on your way of looking at it."

Picking up his sledgehammer, Lance aims at another plank. I duck my head and
grab at the staples, trying to pretend like I'm not hanging on his every word.

"It all started after you were gone—at least from what I know. I didn't join the pack
until a while after you left." Was exiled. Potato, tragic poe-tah-toe. "Kieran was
paired up with a new intended mate. Her name was Tara. I met her after I joined—
nice girl. Young, pretty, not my type... a little simpering and weak, but nice."

His choice of words makes me wonder what Lance's type might be. Strong, maybe,
with dark maroon hair? A girl can hope. I'll probably regret hoping, but that doesn't
stop me.

"Everything went well enough between Kieran and Tara, from what I saw. Other
people claim they fought a lot—there was bad blood between them. Mostly about
you." I glance up at these words, but Lance swiftly says, "I put no stock in gossip,
though. Whatever they disagreed about, it was between them, if you ask me."
So I won't get more details from him. That's probably for the best. Every inch of
me craves to know more about Kieran and the mate who followed me, but I'm sure
that knowledge would just hurt.

Lance continues, "Then their time in the Mating Circle began. This was the early
days—before the curse had completely taken hold. There'd been a few... incidents,
but at this point everyone in the pack still chalked them up as isolated tragedies.
No one was expecting anything bad to happen."

My stomach turns. I make myself concentrate on the staples at my feet, prying

them up and brushing them aside, but I get the sense that this story won't end well.
Not that it's hard to figure that part out—one look at Kieran's sunken cheeks and
haunted eyes revealed that much, though his smartass mouth hasn't gotten the
message the rest of his face is sending.

Lance is silent for a long moment. So long that I wonder if he's done telling the
story. But I need to hear the ending. "What happened?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes."

He leans back, taking a break from the hard work of chiseling away at the
hardwood planks. "The truth is, we didn't really know the curse was a curse until
Kieran and Tara stepped into the Mating Circle. I went, because my mate and I had
just bonded, and new couples are supposed to attend. Finn was there too, and
Roarke... we all saw what happened.

"They gathered in the circle of torch light between the stones. The alpha—your
father—blessed their union." His voice takes on a reverent, slightly distant tone.
"Then they brought their hands together, and vowed to care for each other, as
humans and as wolves. I noticed in that moment that Tara looked miserable—I
thought because she and Kieran didn't always get along, but now I wonder..."

Lance trails off for a moment, then shakes his inattention off and jerks his eyes
back to me. "After the first blessing was said, they both shifted into their wolves
and bowed their heads. Then shifted back into human form. It was time for them to
mate, so I was about to leave with Finn and Roarke, when it started.

"There were screams. Tara first—then others. She was bleeding so much more than
seemed possible. A fountain of blood. It gushed down onto the sacred stones and
splashed them red."

I shudder, unable to imagine such a horrible thing happening in a place that's meant
to be holy. "I don't understand. She died in the middle of their bonding?"
"Tara was dead before the bond could be complete." Lance grimaces. "They both
opened themselves up, said the words to begin the bond, and then... just like that,
she was ripped away. I could barely believe it myself, but a few minutes after the
screams started, Kieran was holding her body in the middle of the Mating Circle. It
was then that we knew the pack was cursed."

My stomach churns. Suddenly I'm thinking of his shadowed eyes and hollowed-out
frame in a new light. "That must be awful. The bond... I can't even imagine what
happens when it's broken like that, right in the middle of being created."

"It's agony," he says bluntly. "Kieran went into shock right after Tara died. He was
a mess for months. We had to put him back together piece by piece—and even
then, his wolf was never quite right."

I rock back on my heels, staring off into the distance. Then I remember what
started this whole conversation. "I asked you why you don't like Kieran right now
—from what you told me, you have no reason to. What's happened since then?"

"Too much to explain easily. Far too much." He grimaces. "All I can tell you is that
while I stayed by his side for a long time, doing my best to make excuses for him,
to put the pieces of his broken life back together, I eventually realized that I wasn't
doing him any favors. That night may have messed him up—but he's walked off
the cliff's edges many times since then, and I can't keep catching him."

"Roarke seems to think he can be saved."

"That's because Roarke refuses to see the truth." Lance shakes his head. "There's a
hole inside Kieran, and he won't do anything to fix it. The rest of us have had to
deal with the passing of our mates, like me, or the breaking of the bond, like Finn
and Roarke. But Kieran acts as if he's the only one who knows trauma and tragedy
—he doesn't seek help, doesn't try to get better. He just... wallows.

"And that's why, despite all the love I once held for him, and the affection I still
have, I can't quite stomach spending much time in the same room as Kieran these
days. His attitude is infectious. It seeps into everything he touches. And I know
better than to let myself get dragged down with him. I just hope one day Roarke
realizes the same thing, too."

Because there's nothing much to say to that, I nod sharply, grab my tool, and turn
back to the work. Lance does the same, until a companionable silence fills the
room. It feels good to set myself a goal—to accomplish something.

But the whole time I'm working alongside Lance, I'm thinking about Kieran.

About the hole inside him.

And how desperately I wish that I could be the one to fix it.

***

It's a good thing my father's house has fallen into a state of complete disrepair,
because right now I need the distraction more than anything. Fixing all the broken
and damaged bits of the house gives me something to do besides dwell on the
microchip in my neck. It lets me have breathing space to think and consider my
options.

And it's a damned good excuse for having the guys around.

Well—Finn, Roarke, and Lance, that is. Kieran stays away after the first day; the
morning that follows his visit, Roarke passes on some message from him.
Apparently he'll be "too busy" hunting up near the mountains to help with the
house anymore. Based on the way Roarke won't quite meet my eyes as he repeats
Kieran's message, I get the feeling it's at least mostly a lie, but I decide I don't quite
care.

Anything to keep him away from me, so I don't have to look at the way he's turned
out and feel bad for him. It's foolish of me, I realize quickly, to think he can be
fixed. Men don't change just because we want them to—and despite our childhood
friendship, Kieran is broken beyond repair.

Better to turn my attention to things that can be fixed, like this house. And things
that don't need to be fixed, like the three hunky men spending their time inside it.

"You should go flirt with Finn," Cat murmurs to me over cups of coffee, as we
watch the guys carefully slide the sofa back onto the repaired hardwood floor. "He
seems pretty eager to catch your eye, and he's no lightweight. I bet it'd be easy to
get with him."

I roll my eyes at her words, though I don't deny myself a little look at Finn's ass as
he braces beneath the weight of the sofa. "They're just here to fix the house, Cat.
Slavering all over them isn't exactly hospitality."

"How did you grow up to be such a prude? I thought I raised you better than that."

"You did. But this is different." I take a long sip of my coffee, letting its warmth
trickle down my throat. "These are werewolves. They don't do flings or half-
commitment. At least... not with other werewolves."

Cat raises a brow at me. "Have you told them about the chip?"
"No!" My hand goes to my neck, and I have to drag my fingers away. "I haven't
decided what to do with it yet. So I'm not telling anyone until I do."

"Well, then that means they still think you're shiftless. Which makes you basically
a human—they can't mate with you, right?"

"They could," I admit, wincing at the old memory of my father's refusal to even
consider having his shiftless daughter find a new werewolf mate. "But it doesn't
always work, and plenty of werewolves don't want to try."

"So you could have a fling, then. I mean—what's the harm? It's not like sex and
marriage are the same thing."

They're not. Even werewolves have been known to have dalliances and affairs. Not
all mate bonds are true bonds, and not every mated pair spends their life together in
nonstop bliss.

But the thought makes my stomach churn, and it's not because I want to settle
down with someone. It's because something about hooking up with a werewolf
feels so much bigger than any of the dates or hookups I've had with humans. This
world, the one I was born in, was closed off to me for so long. I was denied love
and commitment by the one person who was supposed to be my one and only. We
were never supposed to have anyone except each other.

Some part of me still feels like it would be a betrayal of Kieran to even so much
as look at another werewolf male.

Which is exactly why I should do it—though I'm not exactly sure how. Wincing, I
admit to Cat, "I'm no prude, but... how in the world would I make the opportunity
happen? I mean—it's always all three of them here, and they're never doing things
that aren't... hammering and nailing."

Cat squeals and squeezes my arm. "I'll take care of that. You just keep yourself
open to an opportunity—leave the rest to me. No one knows how to get two people
together like your ol' foster mom."

I narrow my eyes at her, unsure exactly what she means. "Do I want to know what
you're planning?"

"No," she declares with a feisty grin, "but you will soon anyway."

Her words aren't reassuring. My mug of coffee is soon drained, though, and it's
time to get to work. As a sheen of sweat gathers at my back and dust compacts
beneath my fingernails, Cat's words get forgotten in the back of my mind. There's
just too much wallpaper to peel back and crown molding to replace.
We get a good rhythm going. With three strong male werewolves at my side, it's
much easier to knock out the work fast. Cat helps out here and there, by feeding us
when we're hungry and lending assistance with certain plumbing topics, but for the
most part, she sticks to the cleanup crew.

That means I get plenty of time with the guys—but there's very little deep
conversation, ever since Lance opened up the other day. I barely get more than a
word or two from them before it's back to business, and I get the sense that Roarke
is uncomfortable around me for some reason.

"I'm going to work on the peeling wallpaper in my—in the downstairs bedroom for
a bit," I tell the guys, after a backbreaking morning and afternoon spent sanding the
floors. "Let me know if you need anything."

I'm walking down the hallway when Finn calls out, "I'll help you!"

"That's okay, I don't need—"

"But I do." Catching up with me, he shoots a grin my way. "I can't listen to that
industrial sander for one more minute. Or be near Roarke and his general
brooding."

"Was he brooding?" I ask innocently, already hungry for even a tiny taste of
gossip. "I hadn't noticed."

"Oh, please. He's been acting like a kicked puppy dog all day." Finn strolls into the
downstairs bedroom with me—I force myself not to think of it as my room
anymore—and takes a look around. "I swear, that boy thinks the whole world rests
on his shoulders. But he won't even put in a bid for alpha. Can you believe that?
All the sense of responsibility, none of the actual perks."

"It's hard for me to imagine him in any sort of leadership role," I admit, pacing
over to the wall near the old bed and fixing my eyes on the old wallpaper. "The
Roarke I knew wasn't exactly the type to tell others what to do."

"Oh, he's passive-aggressive about it, but he'll look down his nose at absolutely
anyone—except, of course... well, you know." Finn frowns, watching me pull out
the scraper and scorer from the bucket I lugged in here. "Is this your room,
Delilah?"

"No." I pause, feeling guilty about the lie as soon as I tell it. "Well, technically it's
not my room now. It was, though, growing up. I guess Dad didn't change
anything."

"Wow. I'll say."

The hermetically sealed nature of the room feels like a burr beneath my skin.
Everything in here is the same, but not in a good way. If I'd had a close relationship
with my dad before his death, it would've felt sweet. Instead it's more like a shrine
to the Delilah he mourned after my exile, a girl who was always stuck in time just
before the moment she disappointed him.

"I've been sleeping in what's technically the guest bedroom," I tell Finn, tossing
him a roll of painter's tape so we can cover up the electrical outlets in the room. "It
feels too weird to sleep here. I mean—I don't even listen to these bands anymore,
or any of... well, any of this."

"Yeah." Finn glances around one more time, then gives me a wry look. "Want to
tear this room down to the studs?"

"God yes."

"Let's do it then." He holds up his roll of tape. "This is for the outlets, right?"

"And the crown molding. Plus we need to pull all the furniture away from the
wall." I drag my finger down the pink embossed floral wallpaper and cringe. "The
sooner this crap is gone, the better."

"Then let's get to work."

I could've done all this on my own, but as Finn sets his shoulders and drags my old
bed to the center of the room with a flick of his wrist, I admit that it's much easier
with a male werewolf at my side. We get everything covered up in no time, which
means we just need to scrape at the edges of the wallpaper to get it peeled away,
score whatever doesn't come up easy, then spray it down with hot water until it
sloughs off the walls.

Just as we're about to finish up taping off the crown molding, and I'm in my head
again, wondering why my father left my old room this way, a sound jerks my head
up. The door to the bedroom just closed suddenly, almost like a draft of wind
slammed the door.

"That's odd," Finn comments, going to the door. He grabs the knob—and it falls
off into his hand. "That's even odder."

I'm about to make a joke when I hear the front door slam. Jumping to the window,
I pull it open to stick my head out

—and spot Roarke's truck pulling away from the curb, along with Lance's sedan.
In the passenger seat of the truck is a familiar face. Shoving her head out the truck
window, Cat calls out from a distance, "We're going to run some errands and pick
up lunch! Be back in an hour."

I curse and open my mouth to say something rude back—only to remember Finn is
standing right behind me, completely oblivious to my foster mother's
machinations.

She's just trapped me in a room with an absolute hottie for at least an hour,
possibly more if she gets her way by delaying the errands. I have no doubt that if I
scream anything at her, she'll just pretend she didn't hear, and Finn will think I'm a
nutjob.

Turning to him, I sigh. "Looks like we're stuck in here. Guess we might as well get
the job done."

"That's one way to pass the time," Finn murmurs, his eyes dancing as he tosses the
doorknob onto my old twin bed. "I can think of a few others, though."

Delilah
"Other things?" My voice comes out a squeak, which is uncharacteristic of me,
damnit. Normally, I'm the one making the moves and double entendres—
something about these werewolf males just turns me into a stupid puddle. "I don't
know."

"You don't?" Finn cocks his head and gives me a smooth once-over. "I think you
do, Delilah."

There's nothing I can say to that but, "Oh." Also, "Uh."

Finn chuckles, smoothly approaching me. He stops a few steps away, reaches out,
and brushes his fingertips against the side of my arm. Just the fingertips—trailing
up and down my skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake.

I shudder as my skin tingles.

Finn purrs, "As I said, I think you do, Delilah."

"Yes, but—" Groaning, I make myself take a step away from him and get some
space between us. "We shouldn't, uh, do anything... like that."

"Oh?" He raises a brow. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."
"Girlfriend?"

"No, but—"

"So you're single. Free." A smile curls up his mouth, and his eyes trawl across the
blush spreading down my neck and chest. "And attracted to me. Don't deny it—I
can smell it on you. Tell me, then, why we can't enjoy ourselves, as two single
adults?"

There's some kind of objection, but my mind can't seem to come up with it. Being
so close to Finn is draining every thought from my brain. So I try to get some
space from him. But as I shift to the right, he prowls to the left, circling me in a
loose and relaxed way that reminds me of a predator even though I don't feel a bit
like prey.

I try, "You're friends with Kieran, and we have a history."

"A bad one, as I recall. Somehow I doubt he'll lodge an objection. If he does, fuck
him."

"It would complicate things."

"What things? We're not friends."

"But we're... working together?"

"On the house. That will be over with soon enough. And it's an easy job—if things
get complicated between us, I'll just have someone replace me."

"Then... I don't know why."

Finn cocks his head one way, then the other, and leans up against the wall opposite
me. I stop my pacing; he watches me. His gaze feels like that of a lion crouched
and ready to pounce.

Except I'm very, very certain he won't snap my neck when our bodies collide.

If anything I'm more afraid of what he will do than I would be of a physical attack.

Because I'm absolutely certain that the instant his touch collides with my body, I'll
be unable to resist. To say no. To do anything but mold myself to him physically
and sink into pure pleasure.

Something that's dangerous to do with werewolf males. Especially given the ways
in which they can discard you.
After a long moment of studying me, Finn's face clears. Something seems to occur
to him, and his eyes soften towards me. "I think I know why you claim
we can't, shall we say, enjoy each other."

"Oh?" I snort. "Do tell, then, because I'd love to be illuminated about my own
thought process."

"You're afraid." Two short, succinct words that eat right through my fragile shell
and sink into the heart of me. "If we have fun today, you think I'll abandon you
tomorrow. But Delilah—I'm not him. I don't give a shit if you can shift into a wolf
or not. To me, it's a bonus that you can't, because it means I'll never have to watch
you die a tragic and painful death."

The sudden seriousness of his words, after so much playful banter, makes me
reconsider him. Finn has presented himself as a light, charming, playful man so far,
but everyone has more than one side. This other more serious side is a part of him I
didn't think I'd get to see.

What sucks, though, is that he's right about me. I'm afraid—because of Kieran. But
I don't want to be. I keep vowing to myself that I won't let his actions affect me,
only to break that promise.

Isn't it time I lived a life that wasn't defined by the hurtful actions of a fourteen-
year-old boy?

Making my decision, I stride across the room until I'm right in front of Finn—then
stop, suddenly uncertain. He watches me, his eyes slightly wide, but he doesn't
make a move towards me. Just leans against the wall like some kind of statue.

"I think you're hot as sin," I blurt out, feeling like a fool as soon as I say it. "And
yeah, I'd like to know what it would feel like if you... and I... well. Uh. Let's not
make this awkward? Let's just..."

Finn chuckles. "I think you're hot too, Delilah. But you should try finishing your
sentence.”

He reaches out to curve his hand against my waist, and despite the fabric of my T-
shirt separating his skin from mine, I shudder with overwhelming vulnerability and
desire. Even this little sends a jolt of feeling through me like I'm being shocked by
a live wire.

In a low voice he asks, "What should we do first?" A rhetorical question he soon

answers. "Kiss, yes—I want to taste those soft lips of yours. Touch, obviously.
Your skin practically begs for my hands."
He shifts his thumb beneath the edge of my shirt as he speaks, voice low. "The
question is, how far are you ready to go? How much of your desire are you willing
to give into? Should I put my mouth on your breasts..."

My chest hitches, and Finn's eyes narrow, his pupils black depths. "Maybe I should
suck on your nipples until they form soft peaks. I could trail my mouth between
them..." His fingers trail around my waist towards my belly button. "Then bring
my mouth further south, to the soft flesh of your stomach, where I'd hook my
fingers in your panties and..."

"Let's just start with the kissing," I interrupt hurriedly, the heat between my thighs
like a furnace, my heart beating as hard and fast as a teenager with a new drum set.
"We can go from there."

Finn's eyes crinkle as he chuckles. "You didn't even let me get to the best part. I
was going to tell you how my cock would be hard from the taste of your pussy on
my lips, and I could bury myself in you and make you mine so thoroughly every
wolf in town would smell me on you. But sure, Delilah—let's start with a kiss."

His hands move quickly, shifting to my lower back and pulling me against him.
Our hips collide and our stomachs press together, the outline of his arousal digging
into my hip. Dipping down his head, he brings his mouth to mine as a whimper
leaves me.

I've watched Finn speak, admired the curve of his mouth, the thickness of his red-
brown lips. Just looking at him this whole time brought a blush to my cheeks.
That's nothing compared to the heat of his body on mine. His lips consume me,
stoking fire in my chest as I melt against him. The brush of his harsh stubble is a
sharp contrast to the softness of his mouth and the stroke of his tongue between my
lips.

His hands press up against my back, moving beneath my shirt and brushing against
my bra strap. I curve against him, drawing up onto my tiptoes to get a better angle
on his openly greedy mouth. My own hands hover in the air for a moment before I
settle them on his chest—and feel the rumble of a growl deep inside him as his
primal wolf rises to the surface.

Finn walks us back, together, towards the too-small bed. My knees collide with it
and I fall onto its springy surface, gasping as his lips are wrenched from mine.
Grabbing onto the waistband of his perfectly pressed designer pants, I glance
briefly at the outline of his erection, then force my eyes up to his face.

The cool brown of his irises has almost disappeared, replaced by wide black pupils
—and a thin, glowing rim of silver just around them, the wolf inside his human-
shaped body rearing to the surface as his arousal grows.
"Finn." My voice comes out rough; he growls, low and quiet, and I lick my lips. "I
don't know if I'm ready for—I mean, I want to, but maybe we shouldn't go all the
way."

"Whatever you want, Delilah."

He takes my hands in his and kneels so I don't have to crane my head up so far to
look into his face, but even on his knees he's tall. Not as tall as Lance, a little taller
than Roarke, and well over the minimum six feet of height human men brag about.

Leaning forward, his nostrils flare, and I get the sense that he's sniffing me. The
heat in my belly flares at the sight of it. Finn murmurs, "If you'd like, I can go
down on you. Make this all about you and your orgasm—nevermind mine."

"That doesn't seem fair," I tell him, even as I shift on the bed, thighs sliding
together as an uncomfortable amount of arousal pulses between them. "I mean, I
don't want you to have to hold back."

"Technically, I'd have to—unless you kept condoms in your childhood bedroom, I
don't have any." He raises an amused brow and cocks his head. "Or do you have
any in that little tool belt you put around that hot little waist of yours? Don't think I
haven't seen how it bounces against your ass when you walk."

My whole body feels like it's blushing. I didn't even think he was looking at me. "I
don't have any condoms."

"Then I'm afraid it wouldn't be responsible for me to fuck you sideways today," he
murmurs, leaning forward to nuzzle my cheek as he adds near my ear, "though
don't think I don't ache thinking of it."

I swallow, hard. Now that he's said it more than once, in plain and undeniable
words, I can't pretend like I don't want it too. Here I am sitting in my childhood
bedroom, not a single piece of my clothing on the floor, and I've never been so
turned on in my entire life.

Inhaling the coconut-sweet and fire-sharp scent of him, I murmur low, "You could
come on my breasts, if you want to. Or my ass, if you're more inclined."

Finn groans. Turning his head, he lightly nips at my jawline. The suddenness of it
startles me—and flares heat and pleasure deep inside me.

"God, you're stunning." He moves his mouth over to hover above my lips. "I don't
know how anyone could ever let you go. Kieran is an ass."

Though I respond to the hungry kiss that follows, hearing that name is like a
bucket of cold water on my hot and aroused body. Finn's hands move across my
back as he lowers me towards the bed and crawls up on the sheets to hover above
me. Staring up at his handsome face, I try to summon the heat I was just feeling
before he said that last sentence.

Instead I can't stop dwelling on how much worse it will feel if he discards me too
—especially if it comes right after a moment of intimacy.

Sensing my sudden tenseness, Finn moves back. His hands fall to the bed on either
side of me. Our legs, tangled together at the edge of the bed, ease apart as he
moves his knees to the side.

"I said something wrong," he murmurs, eyes roaming my face. "Was it too much?
Did I get too explicit? I thought you enjoyed it, but if you didn't—"

"You mentioned him." I hate the little hitch of my breath that follows the words.
Fisting my hands in the sheets beneath me, I try to let the tension and anger go.
"I'm sorry, it's stupid. We were having a good time. We should get back to that."

"Fuck. I'm sorry." Finn reaches up to brush his thumb against the side of my face,
and I lean into the touch. "I'll make it better, Delilah. Just forget what an idiot I
am."

He dips his mouth down towards my neck and presses a soft kiss to the hollow
there. My breath hitches again—this time, for a different reason entirely. The ghost
of a kiss trails across my skin as Finn's breath skims my clavicles. Then his hands
reach up under my shirt, and he pulls back just enough to yank it up over my head
and off my arms.

Heat pools in my stomach as he presses his mouth between my breasts. I let my

eyes close, giving in to the moment, getting out of my head. Finn's hands push
between my back and the sheets, his fingers curling around the clasp of my bra.
Almost as soon as I feel his touch there, my bra is undone, and he's pulling that off
too, tossing it to the floor.

Now that my upper half is naked, suddenly everything feels so much more
vulnerable, as if all of me is on display. Finn pulls back, his eyes roaming my body
with clear pleasure.

"You're so goddamned beautiful, Delilah." The heat in his voice turns the words
low and deep. "I want to make you feel that more than anything."

He reaches down towards the apex between my thighs and brushes his thumb
there, making me gasp, my hips lifting off the bed. Rubbing little circles on me
through the fabric, he draws down against my body and hovers his mouth across
my skin. It's like he can't choose where to touch me first—then, all at once, he
decides.

First he sucks and kisses my left nipple. Then my right. As I moan and gasp, his
thumb digs in deep between my thighs, and he palms me through too-thick fabric. I
groan, wiggling as he draws my flesh into his mouth.

Slowly, teasingly, he moves his lips down, first just below my breasts, then lower.
My stomach tightens and my abs flare in anticipation. Finn glances up at me
briefly, and I see that his irises are all silver now, the wolf inside him like a
predator pacing just beneath his skin.

He slips his hand out from between my thighs, reaches for the zipper of my pants,
and unzips their closure. Then his thumbs hook under everything—denim and
panties alike—and he pulls it all down towards my knees with a flourish.

I squirm, momentarily embarrassed at being exposed, even as aroused as I am.

Finn's strong hands cup my knees and push my legs apart, his gaze inexorably
roaming my bare naked flesh. His lips part, and the sound that leaves his mouth is
a growl—pure, primal desire.

Then he's on me, his lips parting and mouth opening wide as he descends on my
naked flesh. I cry out and arch against the bed as his tongue, lips, cheeks—all of it,
press against my pussy and spark deep pleasure.

He doesn't go slow or warm up at all, just licks up until the tip of his tongue
presses against my clit so hard that I practically scream. Once he's found it, he
strokes at it steadily, working it as his lips clamp down on me and suck tight.

I moan, pressing against him, shaking and trembling. His strong hands come down
on my thighs and push down as if to keep me there, like a rancher breaking in a
wild mustang.

My legs clamp tight around his head. Pressing up with my elbows, I stare down at
his handsome face, that lush mouth opened wide and pressed against me. His
tongue strokes hard against my clit and I moan, reaching out to cup the back of his
head, my hair flying loose over my shoulders as I buck against him. Strong arms
circle beneath my legs and pull me against him.

The orgasm that he brings me to is a rush of heat and light. It's an opening of some
kind, one that tears me apart and makes me tremble. I fall back onto the bed and
cry out, unable to silence myself, unwilling to even try. He holds me and strokes
me through it with his tongue, working me to a peak so high that my entire body
arcs like a live wire and my mind whites out completely.
I've never felt so close to someone, so completely opened wide and invaded. Finn
dips his tongue inside my pussy as the pleasure rolls over me, and I moan so loud
I'm sure the neighbors can hear it. The growl he makes rumbles against my skin
and curls my toes.

Then I come down from it, slow and steady, still twitching and jerking through the
waves of pleasure. Finn pulls his mouth back gently, his eyes black and wicked. He
lips his lips and licks me one last time, making me shudder.

"Stunning," he murmurs.

Pushing my legs apart, he rises from the ground, reaches down, and unbuckles his
belt. His zipper follows, exposing the dark blue silk of his briefs. They do nothing
to hide the large, curved erection just beneath them.

"Simply stunning."

Finn crawls up onto the bed and braces himself above me with one hand. He
breathes in deeply, as if taking on my

scent, and groans quietly. Then he reaches down, slips his cock out of the slit in his
boxers, and jerks its long shaft.

I only get a brief sight of his length—stunning, hard, and perfectly shaped—before
he's groaning and thrusting into his own hand as he comes in a long spurt on my
breasts and belly. I gasp at the warm splash of his cum, eyes wide, barely able to
believe that it only takes a few more short strokes before he's done, and my skin is
painted with him.

"God, you're gorgeous." Leaning down, he kisses me slowly, and I wriggle in

arousal at the taste of my pleasure on his lips. "I nearly came in my pants just at the
taste of you. Wouldn't that have been embarrassing? I wouldn't have been able to
walk for the rest of the day because of the mess."

I giggle, biting my lower lip and staring up into his eyes. He smirks down at me, a
playful expression on his face, his irises slowly easing back to cool brown from
silver.

Glancing down at my chest, I observe, "That's going to require some cleanup."

"Thankfully for both of us, there's a bathroom attached to this bedroom," he

murmurs, nuzzling my neck and pressing another kiss to my skin. "Too bad it
doesn't have condoms in it, because I'd love to show you what else I can do."
Pausing to kiss me again, he murmurs inquisitively, "It doesn't have condoms in it,
does it?"
"No." I groan, head lolling back on the sheets as he sucks a small spot on my neck.
"That's another task to add to the home repair list."

Finn grins as he pulls back from me, then glances down to stare at his handiwork.
His brows raise a little, as if he's impressed with himself. "I've got good aim."

I roll my eyes and smack him playfully in the chest. His grin widens as he climbs
off the bed and rearranges himself inside his bottoms. Then he goes into the
bathroom to grab a towel and throws it at me. I use it to wipe off much of the mess,
but Finn is right—further cleanup is necessary.

I get the sense that if he joins me in the shower, though, we're going to forget about
a few things. I'm already forgetting my earlier caution—and all the reasons why I
shouldn't have done this. Holding the towel in front of me, I stand up, try to ignore
the shivering jelly in my thighs, and study him for a moment.

"What is it? Want a better look at me?" He motions towards his unzipped pants. "I
know I didn't give you much of a show, but you know what they say, keep the
mystery alive."

"That’s not it." Panic rises inside me. I feel like a crack is widening at my feet, and
any minute I'm going to fall down into a deep, dark pit. "Why did we do this? I
mean—it's such a mistake! We're not bonded, and we don't even know each other,
and—"

"I'm going to stop you right there." Pacing over to me, Finn puts his hands on my
shoulders and looks down into my face, his expression suddenly earnest and
serious in a way I'm not used to from him. "This doesn't have to be anything,
Delilah, except a little fun. It isn't a mistake. We may not be bonded, but neither is
anyone else in town, in case you missed it, and we can get to know each other."

"I don't think I'm ready. For—whatever this is."

"Again: it's just a little fun." He cocks his head at me a little. "I see this all the time
in the pack, you know. One little dalliance and suddenly, there's an existential
crisis because it didn't start in the Mating Circle. That's one reason why I tend to
date the townies—or at least, I used to. Something about you makes me want to
stop that entirely."

"But you don't know me," I object. "You shouldn't stop dating other women for
me."

"So you'd like me to keep dating around?"

The image of some random human woman throwing herself at Finn rises in my
head, and I have to bite back the impulse to growl. "No. I just—it's all just so
complicated."

"Is it? Or is that just in your head, Delilah? Because you know, it doesn't have to
be."

Staring at his face, I feel a sudden easing of the tension inside me. He's just so calm
and laid back, everything the opposite of what I am. It's hard to keep freaking out
when he steadfastly refuses to do the same.

Still, I feel like we have to clarify a few things. Including one big, important thing
that I'm afraid might come between us.

"I like you a lot, Finn."

He grins. "Me too—I like me a lot."

"But I don't know if I can settle down with you," I tell him, shifting my weight
back and forth uneasily. "I mean—it just might not be in the cards for me. Because
I don't know if I have a mate. When I was in the Mating Circle at fourteen, they
said I didn't have any bonding threads coming out of me at all."

Finn's brows slant together. "So? How would that matter? You're shiftless, after all.
You could choose someone just because you wanted them, regardless of what the
circle says. Plenty of werewolves don't get one mate, even if they do have a wolf."

I open my mouth to tell him about the chip, but instead all that comes out is,
"You're right."

Thoughts nag at me, though, and in my mind I see Lance's steady face, and
Roarke's unexpectedly handsome adult frame. And though I hate it, I also see
Kieran's wounded expression and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

So I can't help but add, "I just worry that it'll get complicated. I know you say it
won't, but—you're not the only werewolf around here that I'm attracted to."

Both of Finn's brows go up at this. In a quiet tone he murmurs, "Oh, I'd noticed."

My blush starts up again, and this time I know there's no use in trying to hide it.
"Oh? You had?"

"I am a werewolf," he points out. "I can smell attraction and arousal pretty easily.
Not all werewolves can—some are pretty bad at sorting out the meaning of
different scents—but it's one of my specialities."
All I can do is squeak out, "Oh."

Of course that's not all he has to say. "That's one reason why I wanted to take this
opportunity while we were alone to show you what I can do to your body. Before
any other male gets the chance. So just remember as you're soaping up—there's
nothing you can do to erase the scent of me so thoroughly that Lance and Roarke
can't smell me on you."

Before I can even process that, the sound of a truck pulling up to the curb hits my
ears, and Finn gives me the most wicked grin in history.

"Better hurry and wash up," he tells me, "or you'll be saying hello to
your other two crushes with my cum on your chest."

I swear I'm going to catch on fire and burn into a thousand little pieces.

That would be a useless act, though. So instead I burst past Finn, run into the
bathroom, and turn the shower on—doing my best to ignore the peal of rich, deep
laughter from the other room as he revels in the indelible mark he's left on me.

Delilah
"You've been squirrelly all day." Cat eyes me over the kitchen counter that evening
as we unpack a brand-new set of dishes that just arrived, courtesy of another much-
needed shopping spree. "Actually, it wasn't all day—just after we got back from
lunch. I swear I didn't see you from then until now. What were you up to?"

Scrubbing my skin until it was raw and fresh, for the most part. Once I felt
anything approaching clean, I kicked Finn out of my bedroom, furiously scraped at
the wallpaper, and waited for the kitchen to be empty before I snuck out to grab a
sandwich.

Even just the thought of Roarke or Lance smelling something like that on me was
enough to make me shudder.

"I had stuff to do." I avoid Cat's eyes as I hand a white plate over to her for drying.
"It's a big house. Guess I just got lost in it."

"Mmm-hmmm." She puts the dry dish away in a cabinet. "So nothing happened
between you and Finn, then? Nothing that would account for this squirrelly attitude
of yours?"

Only a session of pure pleasure that somehow satisfied me yet left me wanting
more. "You're relentless, do you know that? I can't believe you removed the
doorknob from my room. You know we had to use a screwdriver to get out? It's
like someone made you in a lab to create mischief."

I feel like I sounded convincing as I evaded her question. But as I glance over at
Cat, I catch her grinning at me like the... well, the her that caught the canary.

"You did it!" She whoops and fist pumps in the air. "You finally jumped one of
those hotties. I have to say, I'm very proud—not sure I would've picked Finn
myself, but he's definitely a looker."

"I didn't jump him." Not exactly. He was the one who did most of the prowling and
jumping. "Yes, you're right, something happened. But! I'm not gossiping about it.
And I definitely don't want anyone to know."

Cat takes the next clean dish from me and shoots a speculative look in my direction
as she dries it off. "So you don't want Lance or Roarke to know. Still keeping your
options open? Wait—" A horrified look crosses her face. "Please tell me you're not
still holding out hope for that piece of trash Kieran."

I wince, trying not to think of the other day when I pushed him onto the ground. It
felt good at the moment. Most of those good feelings evaporated as I found out
more of what he went through while I was gone.

It isn't fair that I still care for him. Something as awful as what he did to me, and
the things he's said since I came back to town, should cut off all those feelings I
have for him. Unfortunately for me, my emotions don't seem to operate via an
on/off switch.

While I'd gladly shove Kieran off my front porch again, I can't help but wonder
how much of the ass he's turned into is because of everything he's been through.

Then again, if it weren't for the curse, he'd be living happily in Juniper with a new
mate, completely uncaring that he hurt me. Maybe I shouldn't spare him so much
sympathy.

Cat is still staring at me expectantly. "I don't want to get back together with Kieran,
if that's what you're asking. But it's still awkward, me dating one of his... friends.
Even though they aren't close."

"You shouldn't even factor him into your choices." Cat shakes her head as she puts
another perfect white plate away in the cabinet. "He rejected you, Lilah."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because it seems like something changed for you the moment you found
out you had a chip in your neck." She frowns unhappily. "I can't help but worry
part of you is thinking that if you just get that chip out and find your wolf, you'll
get to be with him, and it'll be like it never happened at all."

A spasm of pain goes through me. Pulling my hands out of the soapy water, I set
aside the final clean plate, then yank up the chain to unplug the sink. Then I turn to
Cat and level her with a head-on stare.

"There's nothing in this world that can make me forget what happened to me that
day. Nothing."

Cat takes the last plate, wipes it off, and stacks it with the others. "But you have to
admit that it's something you still want. Don't get mad at me—I've been there, girl.
I just... worry."

"I know you do." Wiping off my hands, I pull my fingers through my ponytail and
yank it loose, easing some of the tension at the back of my head. "I worry too,
okay? It was one thing to hate him from afar. Somehow it's harder up close.
Especially knowing that he's suffered without me."

"He's suffered. But it had nothing to do with you, Lilah." I wince, and she gently
grabs onto my arms. "Don't fool yourself into thinking he mourned you or missed
you when he hasn't said a thing about it."

In a quiet voice I tell her, "I have to believe that he cared a little. Otherwise, so
much of my life was a lie that it's like it never happened."

"I know." She squeezes my arms. "He probably was sad. But don't let a man's
sadness for you be mistaken for love, or sorrow, or understanding. Okay?"

"Okay." I nod sharply, and take in a steadying breath.

"Also, don't let an opportunity pass you by," she adds. "There are
three extraoridinarily handsome men knocking at your door on the regular, none of
which ever treated you like shit. Don't ruin a good thing by pining for someone
who hasn't been pining after you."

"I won't."

"Especially because if you don't take them, I will." Her eyes glimmer as she takes a
step back from me and moves over to the fridge. "If Finn really is the one you're
choosing—"

"I didn't say I'd made a choice!"

"—then I want Roarke to myself. Those blue eyes of his?" She fans herself as she
grabs a bottle of white wine out of the fridge door. "Heavens, I swear he looks like
a celebrity."

"I know. It's hard for me to believe he's even the same boy I knew growing up. He
always used to get teased because he was such a softie."

"Knowing he's got a kind heart and a sad past just makes him that much more
attractive." She grins at me over the wine glasses she pulls from the cupboard. "I'll
gladly let him tell me all about his sad childhood so I can comfort him until it all
goes away."

I roll my eyes at her and accept a glass of wine. "You stay away from him, cougar.
He's too young for you."

"And you want him for yourself?" She shakes her head at me and pours a little
more wine into her glass. "Don't get greedy, Delilah. Just because you're the only
eligible female werewolf in town doesn't mean you'll get all the pack bachelors.
Maybe us human women want a werewolf or two for ourselves. I've heard they
howl when they come—ah-woo-wooo!"

She tips her head back to make the sound and everything, pantomiming a man's
finishing thrust with her hips. I laugh so hard that I choke on my wine, cough half
it out into the sink, stumble on the tile, and have to pour a new glass because I've
spilled mine everywhere.

But at least, I realize as Cat and I fall into helpless giggles throughout the night,
I'm finally happy.

Something I thought would never happen for me in Juniper.

***

The next day another order of hardware supplies comes in, and the contractor
shows up unexpectedly with a few workers. A miscommunication in scheduling
put him ahead of the curve—and he shows up ready to fix some of the interior
walls up with new insulation so it doesn't drop down to freezing.

"I should be able to fix up the upstairs bathroom walls, and the kitchen
downstairs," he tells me after a brief consult. "After that, we'll redo the exterior
insulation and siding—get the house in better shape for next winter."
Meanwhile, though, we need to make space for all his men and equipment. While
Roarke and Finn are already in the middle of a project in the living room, which
will be free, Lance and I won't be able to work on the floors upstairs while the
contractor makes small holes in the wall and sprays in insulation. That means
moving ahead to a different project: landscaping the backyard.

As we grab the shovels and potting soil from the front porch, Cat pokes her head
out the door. "Do you two need anything—lemonade, maybe, or some scones?"

I shoot her a suspicious look, wondering if she's up to something. "You could do

my laundry. I've run out of clothes to do handiwork in—all I had left today is a
white T-shirt, and it's going to show every single speck of dirt."

"I'll get right on it!" Her voice is way too cheery for me. Something is up.
"Anything else?"

"You've been very helpful, Cat," Lance says magnanimously, not mentioning all
the times she's lazily ordered us about instead of stepping in to help. "I really
appreciated the breakfast this morning. And the fresh coffee. I'm sure lunch will be
delicious too."

"Oh, Lance—you'll have me blushing!" Or scheming, more like it. "Just shout if
you need anything."

As she disappears into the house I call out, "Laundry!"

"On it!"

Lance shoots me an amused look. "She's quite the character, isn't she?"

"Cat? She's a character and then some. But I appreciate it." Grabbing a tray full of
seedlings, I carefully walk them down the front steps of the newly repaired porch.
"One of the wonderful things she taught me is how to survive."

Lance is quiet for a long moment, following behind me with two heavy bags of
potting soil. "I'm sure that skill came in handy out in the human world."

"It did. Without her I don't know where I would be right now."

"There's something I've wanted to ask you."

I glance up at him as we set out supplies down in a part of the yard that's been
cleared out for gardening—courtesy of Kieran, who I'm trying not to think of right
now.

Lance clears his throat. "It's kind of a sensitive question, but..."

"What is it?"

"I've heard that you're going to stay in town. Is that true?"

His eyes, such a warm honey brown, study me as I stand up, brush my hands off
and face him.

"It is," I acknowledge, "but I don't think that's sensitive, unless you wanted to ask
something else."

"Are you sure that you should?" As soon as he says it, Lance winces, as if
embarrassed by his bluntness. "It's just, with the curse—we never know what
might happen next."

"It affects women who shift," I tell him, straightening my back to face him and
trying to ignore the tickle of doubt in my chest. "I don't plan on shifting. Ergo, I
should be safe."

"Hopefully. And obviously, you're more than welcome to stay in your father's
house as long as you want or need. It's just that—well, if I had a nice life outside
this place, I would probably go back to it."

"You'd leave Glass Pack?"

"I'd leave pack territory entirely," Lance says bluntly. "If I knew there was
somewhere out there where I could fit in."

His words stun me more than a little. I'd never considered that any werewolf might
want to leave pack territory. From the time we're little, we're raised to revere and
protect the separate life we've carved out for ourselves. Our land protects us, and
we feed it with our interconnected bonds. That's our culture, our way of life—the
thought of leaving it behind willingly is hard to understand.

Studying my face, Lance observes, "I'm guessing you feel differently."

"I do," I admit. "And to be honest, I didn't think I would stick around. That was
before I found out that... well, I don't entirely understand it yet, but—"

Before I can even find the words to confess the chip in my neck to him, it suddenly
starts raining out of nowhere. Jumping back, I shut my eyes and hold up my hands
to keep water out of my face—and immediately realize that the sprinklers have
gone off.

It's not raining; water is spraying at us from every direction. Lance takes a step
back too, getting out of the direct spray of a particularly active sprinkler head.
Before we can find dry land, though, more and more water jets out of the
sprinklers, until the arc of their spray overlaps everywhere.

"Everything is wet!" Lance shouts, wiping water out of his eyes helplessly.

"It is." I grab my wet ponytail and squeeze it out, laughing back at him. "Guess we
might as well just let it happen."

Laughing, I give in to it and take a run through the sprinklers, letting the water
spray me from head to toe. Lance joins me, though his run makes mine look like a
skip, every step of his like two of mine, his strength propelling him forward. We
shoot back and forth through the backyard for a few laps—and then, as the ground
grows soggy, I race to the house, open up the controls for the sprinkler system, and
shut them off.

"That was weird," I mutter. "The timer wasn't even set."

"Let me see," Lance says, coming up behind me.

"Be my guest."

I step back and turn around to give him room, and he takes a step forward—only to
suddenly freeze, blanching. At first I don't get it. Then I realize that his eyes are
open and fixed in shock.

He's staring directly at my chest.

Following his gaze, I glance down—and nearly jump out of my skin when I realize
what the water has done to my wet T-shirt.

The only bra I had to go with this shirt was a similar white one, and everything got
soaked through in my mad dash, my clothing does nothing to cover up my breasts
at the moment. If anything it's worse than being naked. Because every wrinkle,
every dripping inch of see-through white fabric, clings to my curves illicitly.

And molds to the peaked pink flesh of my nipples.

I blush scarlet, hurriedly throwing my hands over my breasts. Lance has already
jerked his gaze away; he awkwardly steps back, clearing his throat.

"I'm so, so sorry," he blurts out, staring up somewhere into the clouds. "I shouldn't
have looked—I mean, I wasn't expecting—it's not your fault of course... god, I
sound stupider with every word. To think I swore I would stop putting my foot in
my mouth around you after the day we met."
"It's okay," I tell him, half blushing because of what he just saw, but the other half
—god, he looked away so quickly. Is it really that terrible to accidentally see a
peek at my body? "You were just... surprised."

"Yes. Surprised." His tone is weirdly strangled, and he's angled his body away
from me. "Taken aback, even."

"Of course. I should get something to cover up with." My eyes dart around, and the
laundry occurs to me, but of course: Cat has probably put my dirty clothes in the
washing machine. She's no doubt the one who turned the sprinklers on too. My
only option is... "My dad kept some old jackets in the garage, I'll just go get one."

"I'll wait."

Stepping around Lance, I hold my breasts tight as I walk by him. But I can't help
glancing over, wanting to see the expression on his face. Maybe if I read him I can
figure out how bad this embarrassing moment really is, and why he's acting so
weird about it.

The first thing I notice when I look at him isn't his face.

My eyes fall to the long, very healthy curve of what can only be an erection against
the inside of his right thigh, just beneath his dark wash denim jeans. Lance doesn't
notice me looking—his eyes are fixed on the sky—but I definitely spot it before I
jerk my eyes away. Turning back towards the path to the garage, I take a few more
steps and... stop.

What am I doing? I'm attracted to him. He's attracted to me, apparently. And Cat is
right—I shouldn't ruin this opportunity from the start. Easy going, charming Finn
may be an option for me, but his mention of the townies he's dating has made me
reconsider having another go around with him. Maybe steady, kind Lance is more
my speed.

And maybe, once I've figured out if it's safe to remove the chip and try to find my
wolf, he would even be the kind of man to forge a mate bond with a rejected exile.

Feeling daring, I suddenly drop my hands, spin around, and face Lance fully. He's
still craning his head towards the sky, but his eyes move around restlessly, like he
can't find a place for them to land.

"What's the worst that would happen if you looked at me?" I ask him curiously.

"It's inappropriate."

"You're already hard. It can't get much more inappropriate than that."
Lance shifts uneasily, and I wonder if he's feeling the tightness of his pants
trapping his arousal. "An unfortunate reaction. I'm sorry if it makes you feel
uncomfortable."

"That's not the word I would use to describe how I feel," I tell him honestly.
Taking a few steps towards him, I look up into his handsome face and smile a little
at how hard he's fighting to restrain himself. "Look at me, Lance."

"You're still—"

"The nipple genie is out of the white shirt bottle. I'm tired of talking to your neck.
Look at me."

A long moment passes. Finally, sighing, he looks down. But his eyes definitely
focus on my forehead and don't move one inch down at all—making him nearly
crosseyed.

In a low voice he asks, "Do you need me to go inside to fetch you a change of
clothes? I can get you one of my jackets, if that would work."

"In a moment. For now, I want to talk to you about other things." I grin a little at
the way he swallows. Then I dip my head down, glance at his continued erection,
and murmur, "I wasn't sure until just now whether you were attracted to me."

"It isn't obvious?"

"Not when you haven't said or done anything," I retort, shaking my head a little.
"Though I guess Cat was right when she said that no man would show up at a
woman's house day after day to fix the gutters and broken porch railing if he didn't
think she was at least a little cute."

In a very serious tone, Lance says, "I would if the woman were my grandmother."

A grin plays on my lips, which his eyes dip towards briefly before he jerks them
away. "You can look at them, you know."

"At what?"

"My breasts." I enjoy the way those words make him shift his weight around
restlessly, like he's trying to find a way to ease the tension on his growing arousal.
"You may not get to see them again, so take a good look at them now, Lance. I've
already looked at your pants three or four times—it's the least I owe you."

His brows draw together, but his eyes roam hungrily down towards my chest. The
way he takes them in, how he licks his lips and twitches a little, makes me feel
bold and attractive. He wants me—is having difficulty restraining himself, even. I
can almost imagine a version of him, pushed to the edge, who might rip my clothes
off here and now and rut me into the ground like an animal.

"You can touch them too," I whisper, arching my back so my chest is lifted up
towards him. "Go on. They're not going anywhere."

"I don't understand why you're offering this to me," he murmurs, his hand hovering
in the air between us before he reaches out to cup my right breast. "We're in your
backyard, you know. It's not exactly private—or appropriate."

"Maybe I like being a little daring," I tell him, stepping forward until his broad,
strong hand is pressed against my chest. "Mostly, though, I just enjoy how
uncomfortable it makes you feel. And how hard your cock is for me."

Lance winces. "You're not making this any easier, you know."

"I know." I grin at him wickedly, then reach out to grab his other hand and draw it
up towards my chest. "Don't forget to brush your thumbs against my nipples. I like
that."

A sound leaves his lips, something like a strangled growl. I put my hands against
his broad, damp chest and enjoy the rumble I feel there. His eyelids flutter closed
at my touch, and he inhales deeply, then opens his eyes and does exactly what I
told him to do. As the large, calloused thumb of his fingers brushes against the
peaks of my nipples through two soaked, thin layers of clothing, my breath
catches, and heat sparks between my thighs.

"This is so wrong," Lance murmurs. "I should've kissed you before I fondled your
breasts."

Then he swoops his head down to claim my lips with his. I draw my hands up
towards his shoulders, and he places his against my back. Pushing up onto his
tiptoes, I chase the brush of his lips, which taste like coffee and sugared pastries. A
rumble travels through his chest as he draws me against him—and I slide my leg
between his, enjoying the raw, primal pulse of his desire through the fabric that
separates us.

His tongue darts out to push at my lips, and I open my mouth to his with a moan.
The kiss is a slow, deliberate thing, like everything Lance does. He takes his time
with it, exploring my mouth with the sweep of his tongue, each exquisite motion
drawing heat up in me.

I feel like a miniature doll in the broad strength of his arms, pulled against his
massive form, feminine and dainty. The attraction between us sparks until I find
myself rubbing my leg up between. He moans into my mouth as I increase the
friction, desperate for release, wanting all of him all at once.

Lance breaks the kiss off and stumbles back with a harsh gasp. His eyes, as they
land on my face, are a fierce and flashing blue. The wolf inside him makes a low,
animal sound at being denied pleasure—but Lance just shakes his head and pushes
the animalistic side of himself off until his irises are cool brown again.

"Go get dressed, Delilah." His voice is calm, staid; he wipes ™his mouth and
reaches out to brush wild strands of hair away from my face. "That was wonderful,
but it can't go any further."

"It can't?"

"We're out in the middle of your backyard in broad daylight. There isn't even a
fence."

I glance over my shoulder. "The garage is available."

"Gods, you're a tempting, gorgeous thing." He shakes his head, though, even as his
voice and body say yes. "I'd love nothing more than to do just what you suggest,
Delilah, but it wouldn't be right. If anything is going to happen between us, it
should happen the correct way—not like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're nothing but a plaything, when you're so much more." He bends down
and kisses my forehead, gentle and warm. "Now go on. Find some clothes to put
over that wonderful, infuriating white T-shirt. Take care of yourself."

My eyes flit down to his still-tight pants. "And you? Will you take care of
yourself?"

"I was a middle school boy once," he points out. "I know how to make an erection
go away without coming in my pants. Just—do me a favor and take that body of
yours elsewhere for a minute or two."

I grin at him, enjoying how much his attraction to me has made him lose control.
"Will do, Lance. Just don't go changing your mind while you're getting rid of that
not-so-little problem of yours."

"Oh, it won't be easy, trust me."

As I turn around and walk towards the garage, a skip in my step, Lance calls out to
me in a strangled voice.
"And stop swaying those hips of yours! I swear, these pants will tear if you keep
that up."

I do as he says—after a moment of thinking about the image he conjures up.

Delilah
Ice cold water streams over me from the shower head. Teeth chattering, I lather up
and do my best to quickly rinse off, the cold water dripping down my back and
thighs. It's almost a relief to dry off—though of course, as soon as I do, my earlier
problem rears its ugly head.

I'm not taking a cold shower because the pipes don't work or the water heater is
busted. On the contrary—ever since that contractor showed up and fixed the
insulation in the walls, showering in this old house has been nearly luxurious.

No, I'm taking a cold shower voluntarily. Because, try as I might, the past few
nights all I've been able to think about, dream about, or daydream about is the two
gorgeous men I didn't quite get to sleep with.

Almost as soon as our little moment outside was over, Lance gravely announced
that he couldn't let something like that happen again, because it was too important
to him that things be done officially. And until the curse is fully cleared, he doesn't
want to risk doing things officially—which means no cookie for this famished
cookie monster.

Finn, meanwhile, has been just as flirtatious and charming as ever, but I haven't
gotten a single moment of alone time since Cat forced the issue. Either he's with
Lance, he's with Roarke, he's with Cat, or—most often—he's with the contractor
and his men pitching in on the exterior insulation and siding. Apparently that area
is one of Finn's unusual skills, so they've taken his offer for help.

And, as much as I'd like to proposition the drop-dead-handsome werewolf in front

of three onlookers with tool belts, somehow I don't think it's the sexiest way to do
things.

Besides, by the time the day is over and the sun sets, physical exhaustion sets in.
We've been hard at work fixing up the house, and the benefits are already showing
up—working with super-fast and extra-strong werewolf men will do that—but it
takes its toll. I never thought I'd be the type to put my head down at eight o'clock
and fall into a deep sleep. Apparently, that's exactly the kind of eighty-year-old
twenty-one-year-old I've turned into.

So it's cold showers for me. Toweling off quickly, I comb out my hair and aim the
blow-dryer at it. My magenta hue is already fading; I'll need to refresh it soon,
before my hair turns back to the boring dishwater blonde-brown it is naturally. As
soon as I'm dry and dressed, I pick up my phone and put in an order for the dye I
normally use.

The checkout screen prompts me for a delivery address. Feeling a little strange
about it, I type in the house in Juniper, set it as my new default address, and put the
order in.

Glancing into the mirror, I ask myself if this is it. If I'm really going to stick around
in pack territory and deal with all the complications that ensue from that. Leaning
over the sink, I reach up to probe the scar on my neck and the chip I know now sits
just beneath the skin, and wonder if I'm making the right choice.

I should just take the chip out now, get it over with, and see what happens. Maybe
I have a wolf, and I'm meant to stick around here forever. Maybe I don't, and I
should plan on returning to San Diego as soon as the Summit is through.

Because while I defiantly told Kieran that I could stick around here and make it
work, now I can't help but wonder if the ass was right. Maybe I don't belong here.

I could have a perfectly happy life in San Diego.

Or stick around here only to have to fight for every ounce of happiness there is.

Sighing, I shake the thought off. There's no reason to decide anything right now. I
can wait to take the chip out—it's been seven years, so a few weeks won't be much
more. And there's too much work to do on the house for it to be put up for sale
tomorrow.

Besides, I like making Kieran sweat. Even if I don't wind up staying here, it's nice
to defy him. Maybe I'll go to another pack's territory, go back to San Diego, or find
my own way in the world. But no matter what I won't be leaving Juniper
because he said so.

I grab my leave-in conditioner and squeeze some out onto my palm. Flipping my
hair over, I comb my fingers through it until every strand is nice and slick, then
wrap it in my small hair towel and wind it around. I flip my head back and tuck the
tail of the towel under the rest of it. There's an entire day's work ahead of me and
the guys will be here in thirty minutes, so I'd better get dressed and prepare for
another day of physical labor.

Last night I moved all my things from the guest bedroom to my childhood
bedroom. Now that the room looks less like a museum it's easier to sleep in, and I
want to reclaim the space. If there's time this morning, I want to get rid of all the
old clothing in my teenage dresser and fill it with the stuff I brought from San
Diego.

As I reach for the bathroom door, I hear footsteps in the hallway. Cat must be up
and getting ready for the day. Maybe she's even brought me a mug of coffee so I
won't have to head to the kitchen to get my caffeine fix.

Stepping out into the bedroom, I glance towards my door, expecting a knock.

The door swings open.

It isn't Cat who steps through.

Instead it's Roarke, bright and early, his sun-bleached blond hair tousled. His eyes
are fixed on his phone screen as he steps into the room, earbuds in his ear.

"Roarke—I'm in here! I moved rooms."

He doesn't hear me. Glancing over his shoulder, he calls out, "I'm going to finish
up the wallpaper in here!"

Then he shuts the door and turns in my direction.

His eyes widen as he takes me in.

I panic, grabbing onto my towel and taking a huge leap back towards the bathroom
floor. Wet linoleum hits the toe of my foot and my ankle twists. Yelping, I try to
grab onto the doorframe for purchase, but my hands are still coated with the
detangler I put in my hair.

I can feel the moment when I'm going to go down.

My eyes meet Roarke's summer-blue gaze, and I know he senses it too.

All the breath leaves my body, and I go down. My legs flail, my hands grasp for
air, and I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating pain.

My back hits something solid. But it doesn't hurt. Because somehow, in the
moment it took for me to fall, Roarke managed to leap over and catch me.

His strong, muscular arms are wrapped behind my back. One of his legs is wedged
between mine, and the other is folded up beside me, his knee on the linoleum.
Wide blue eyes stare down at me, his lips slightly parted as our gazes lock.

The earbuds fall out of his ears and onto the bathroom floor.
I gasp for air and inhale his scent: sharp bergamot, heady cloves, and an underlying
whiff of citrus. His eyes flutter closed briefly, then peel open again, and he pulls
me up against him.

"That looked like it was going to hurt," he says, his voice roughened by his sudden
actions. "You okay?"

"Super." I reach up to brush a bit of his blond hair back behind the curve of his ear.
His skin is impossibly warm against my fingertips. "Thanks for the fast reflexes."

"Perks of being a werewolf."

"Yeah."

His eyes dip down to my lips. My hand rests against the side of his head. Jaw
tightening, he looks for a moment like he might jerk away, might resist what's
flaring to life between us. I can see a thousand thoughts running through his head,
most of them no doubt about his best friend, and I can guess why he's holding back
from me.

I'm afraid that if I lose him now, I'll never get him back.

So I move my hand down to the spot where his hair brushes against his neck and
pull his head down towards me. In the same moment I lean up to press my lips
against his, and draw my free hand up to steady myself on his strong bicep.

Roarke freezes against my touch. A heartbeat passes, and fear rushes through me.
Maybe I was wrong—maybe I'm just embarrassing myself for no reason at all.

Then a rush of breath leaves him, and along with it, a growl of desire. He grabs me,
pulls me against his body tight, and ravages me with his mouth. There's no
slowness or deliberateness to his movements—just a sudden rush of tongue and
lips opening my mouth and claiming me. I'm enveloped by him, his leg rubbing up
between mine, his lips and teeth nipping at my mouth.

I grab onto him for dear life and kiss him like it might be my only chance. His
stubble brushes up against my skin and leaves a burn behind. My hand moves
down his bicep towards his chest, where I feel a deep and powerful rumble starting.

Pulling back from my mouth, he growls so loud it's practically a word, then grabs
my head and gently pulls it back to expose my neck more. His mouth moves down
to the sensitive skin there, and he parts his lips to suck and nibble until I feel a rush
of pleasure.

Gasping, I arch against him—and he moans just beneath my ear, his leg shoving in
harder between mine. I part my thighs further and clamp them around him, rubbing
up against him, seeking friction as the towel falls open and my naked body meets
his denim-clad leg. Wetness grows between my thighs and my clit throbs with
desire.

There goes that cold shower.

"Delilah." His voice is low and roughened. Jerking back, he looks down into my
eyes, his fingers pushing my wet hair

away from my face. There's a rim of deep black around his blue irises that must be
his wolf's eye color. "We shouldn't do this."

"Yes we should," I tell him, though a moment later I have to laugh with bitterness.
"Actually, you're right, we shouldn't—because you deserve so much better than
me, Roarke. You're going to be alpha, and you need more than a broken she-wolf
who can't even shift and might never be able too."

His brows knit, and he looks away, then back at me. Roughly he says, "I don't care
about that." Then, "I'm not putting in a bid for alpha. There's no future for the
Glass Pack anyway."

I freeze beneath him, then pull back, grabbing onto my towel and leaning up on my
arms. Roarke stiffens and pulls back as well, until we're facing each other on the
bathroom floor, his leg still awkwardly between mine, the towel doing little to
separate my naked body from his clothed one.

"What do you mean, no future? Are you talking about the curse?"

"I am. And the only way out of it." He frowns, glancing away for a moment. "You
don't need to hear about this, Delilah. It's not something you should worry about.
The curse won't affect you."

"And what if it could?"

My fingers go up to my neck. Roarke's gaze follows the movement, and I realize

with a heady rush of pleasure that the spot he sucked onto my neck is going to
leave a mark. Just beneath it is the scar where the chip went in.

Licking my lips, I murmur, "What if things changed, and I could shift?"

"I don't understand." He frowns, brows drawing together in a serious expression.

"How would that even happen?"

"Humor me, Roarke."

"I—well. If you could shift, I would tell you that you should hope I'm right."
"What? Why? No one wants their pack to die."

"This pack is dying, Delilah. In fact, it's already dead." There's a deeply unhappy
tone in his voice. "The land pulls back from us. Prey is hard to find—we have to go
on hunting missions that last days or even weeks, like the one Kieran is on now, to
find anything worth bringing home.

"Vampires hunt openly. Some have even begun to drain townies enough to leave
marks and memories behind. And there's no one in town who is up to the task of
being alpha—don't look at me like that. We both know that an alpha has to have a
mate, and I'm not putting a woman through that."

Blinking, I ask, "What happened to your mate? The one you would've gotten
shortly after I left?"

"She's still alive, thank god," he says bluntly. "After Finn's mate found a witch to
dissolve their mate bond for her and prevent the Mating Ceremony from ever
taking place, I went to the same witch and did the same thing. I wish I could say
my mate was mad at me for ending things, but she was relieved—last I heard she
took up with another pack and is about to give birth. Something that could never
have happened for her here."

I take in a deep breath, absorbing all that. I'd wondered what happened to Finn and
Roarke's mates, but it isn't exactly the kind of thing you ask about over breakfast.

"Lance is looking for a cure," I tell him. "The pack could come back. A new alpha
might even be able to fix things—you never know."

"A new alpha could, and will," he says, the contradiction in what he's said
confusing me. "I've already reached out to other packs and asked them for their
help. A few have responded. If we're lucky, and the fates aligned, one will show up
soon to take over completely, dissolve the old bonds, and restore the land—ending
the Glass Pack forever."

It takes a moment for his words to catch up to me and understanding to dawn.

What he's suggesting hasn't been done in centuries. Taking over a pack, dissolving
its bonds—that doesn't just change things between people. It destroys the pack
connection to the land and alters it forever. The old pack name is erased from
history, and the new pack forges bonds that take over everything.

Sometimes, when it's been done in the past, even true mates have been ripped from
each other, their bonds dissolved, forced to bond with new mates whether they
want to or not. An abomination—but one that most new alphas insist on to create a
pack that's truly theirs.
Horror fills me. In a sickened voice I point out, "My father would never have let
something like that happen."

"Which is exactly why I had to wait until he was dead to get it into place." A true
expression of regret crosses Roarke's face. "I didn't think you'd find out about it,
though. At least not for a while—by now, I expected you to be back in San Diego
for good, and happy about it."

"You can't do that, no matter where I am." I shake my head, tears pricking my
eyes. "It's an abomination to dissolve pack bonds."

"There are almost no living mates left around here," Roarke points out. "The only
ones left are same-sex couples, and the new alpha will let them remain. It's
reproducing mates that present the problem—no mated female werewolf of
reproductive age is left in Glass Pack Territory."

"I am," I point out, curling my legs up under me and drawing the towel tight
around my naked body. "You forgot about me."

"I guess that's true." Leaning back on his heels, he studies me. "But Delilah—
would you even really want to form a mate bond? Sure, it's technically possible.
There's no reason for you to want that, though, when you don't have a wolf calling
out for it. Craving the security of a mate. I know if I didn't have to stick around
here I would be gone in a flash."

"That's the thing, though." My fingers draw up to the spot on my neck again, where
the skin is raw from so much idle scratching, and my thoughts go constantly. "As it
turns out, I do have a wolf. If she's still under here. And I've been thinking for a
while that I want to find out who she is."

"Wait, how?" His eyes fall to my fingers and widen slightly. "You're not saying
that—but no, it isn't possible. The shift-suppressing technology was outlawed."

"It was. Yet I have a microchip in my neck that prevents my wolf from coming
out."

This makes Roarke shake his head in horror. A growl rumble in his chest. "It
shouldn't even be possible. Those microchips tortured us. Whoever did that to you
should be shot."

"It's entirely possible that it was my father." At his shocked look, I add, "Though
I'm not completely certain it was him. All I know is that he was aware of the chip
—and he chose, at some point, to keep it a secret."

A secret under lock and key in the drawer of one of his filing cabinets.
"I wish I could go back in time and rip it out of you. Living without your wolf,
lacking a connection to its soul—that's an abomination to do to anyone, much less
without their knowledge or consent."

"I appreciate the horror." I reach up to brush my thumb against Roarke's cheek.
"Do you see what else it means, though? There has to be a future for the pack,
because otherwise I don't know where else I'd go."

Roarke grimaces. Turning his head, he lightly kisses my palm—then pulls away,
leaving me with empty air all around me.

"You'll be better off in another pack, with another alpha," he vows, full-throated
conviction in his voice. "Trust me, Delilah. Glass Pack shouldn't continue on, no
matter what that means."

I gather my towel tight against my body and get up, staring at him with a mixture
of emotions in my chest. "You really think that's better? Destroying the pack—
letting it fall into another alpha's hands?"

"I know it's better." His mouth is a harsh line, his jaw tight with tension, those
summer blue eyes of his cold and flinty. "I'm sorry, Delilah. Glass Pack's time
must come to an end."

"I don't know what to say to that."

"Don't say anything." He shakes his head and combs his hair back with his fingers,
glancing away from me. "Just know that I'm sorry for everything you've suffered,
and I'll make sure that your suffering is over with soon. Whoever comes forward to
take over the pack, I'll make sure that they leave a place for you among its
members. You deserve better than what Glass Pack has given you."

As I'm standing there in the bathroom, a thousand thoughts in my head, he gives

me one last pained look full of longing—then slips out the door and out into the
hallway.

I suppose he didn't really need to say goodbye.

His words make it clear where his priorities lie.

He's going to destroy everything my father built. Everything our name stands for.
And as much as I want to cheer him on, as revenge for my fourteen-year-old self if
nothing else, I can't stop the lump of grief in my throat.

Some silly, childish part of me always wanted to believe that one day I would
come home and be welcomed into the pack. That part of me gained new strength
when I discovered what the scar in my neck really was.
But I can never be welcomed into Glass Pack if it ceases to exist.

Delilah
"It should be a relief, right?" I stare at Cat over my glass of wine, hating how
miserable I feel. "This means my father's entire empire will crumble. Everything he
built—gone. But it doesn't make it happy."

"Why should it?"

"Because of what he did to me. He exiled his own daughter to protect the pack, but
it changed nothing. I should revel in that." I punctuate the sentence with a sip of
wine.

Cat considers me for a long moment. "Maybe you're just mourning what you lost."

"What do you mean? I've lost nothing. I'm not even a member of the pack—I won't
be until there's a new alpha and I convince them to re-enroll me."

I stare at my empty wine glass and hold in a sigh.

"You lost the potential for something, though." Getting up from the table, Cat
paces over to the fridge, pulls out the bottle of wine we've been working on, and
pours me a glass. She also tops off her own before settling back at the table
opposite me. "Until today, you could genuinely believe that it was possible to be a
member of your father's pack again, especially once you get that chip out of your
neck. If the pack is subsumed by another, that hope goes away."

My fingers reach up to scratch at the scar, and it's only Cat's narrow-eyed glare that
makes me pull them away. "I'm afraid it's worse than that."

Her brows draw together. "What do you mean?"

"There's a little part of me that..." I have to close my eyes because I can't quite
admit this while meeting her gaze. "There's a little part of me that still thinks if I
just do or say the right thing, Kieran will accept me as his mate."

"Oh honey." I feel Cat's hands gently cover mine. "We all have those little voices
inside our heads that tell us the impossible is possible. It's nothing to be ashamed
of."

I peel my eyes open. Somehow the pure sympathy in her expression is harder to
face up to than scorn would be. "It's stupid, though. And it isn't doing me any
good."
"That's true. But can I ask that you do something for me?"

Her sudden request startles me. "What?"

"Forgive yourself." Those two words are spoken so succinctly, but they carry so
much weight for me. "There's nothing wrong with a hopeless fantasy. Just as long
as you recognize it, let go, and move on."

I swallow, staring down at the spot where our hands meet. My fingers feel restless,
so I grab the wine glass and down a sip from Cat's fresh pour.

After a long moment I tell her, "I'm not sure if I know how to move on. But I think
I have an idea."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It starts with getting this damned thing out of my neck." I crane my head to
the side and feel along the edges of the scar. "It's been in there too long. If there is
a wolf inside me, I want to find out, and I want to meet her."

"I think that sounds marvelous."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Somehow I thought you'd disapprove."

"Oh, I fully approve. Just on one condition."

I narrow my eyes at her. "If you're cooking up another scheme to get me half naked
and locked alone in a room with one of the guys, I swear—"

"No, not that," Cat says, though I swear her eyes dance with wickedness. She's
definitely going to try something at some point. "I just want you to promise me that
you'll let me make an appointment at a sterile, hygenic clinic or doctor's office
tomorrow so someone professional and sanitary can have it removed."

"Huh." I cock my head at her. "That's actually a good idea. It hadn't occurred to me
to do it that way."

"I know it hadn't," she answers dryly. "Which is exactly why I'm making you
promise before you're a bottle of white wine deep and decide to grab the bottle
opener to do it yourself."

I shoot her a mischievous grin. "Obviously I'd use a paring knife."

"I've seen you in the kitchen." She snorts and shakes her head with disapproval.
"Considering your knife skills, I'd be mopping arterial blood off the ceiling."

"Aw, it wouldn't be that bad."

"The thing with the carrot?"

"That one time! One time I mistook my finger for a wild carrot and nearly sliced it
off. It could happen to anyone, anyone!" I pound my hand on the table to
emphasize my point. "Though I guess that thing with the bread loaf that happened
the next day probably proves your point."

Cat throws her head back in laughter. "Oh, Lilah. What are we going to do with
you?"

"Find out who I really am, I guess."

"Sounds like a plan. And tonight?"

"We drink!"

I raise my glass, and Cat clinks hers to it. As soon as she's drained her glass, she
grabs the wine bottle again—and this time, she leaves it out on the table.

It doesn't feel like drowning my sorrows to spend the night polishing off a good
bottle of white wine with my foster mom and my closest confidant.

What it feels like is the start of something new. An unloosening of my inner,

hidden self. There's something unknown just around the corner, and while I'm
more than a little anxious and uncertain of it, most of what I feel is excitement.

Soon enough I'll discover what was hidden from me my entire life: the truth about
my deepest, most inner self.

***

The morning sun cracks through my window way too early considering how much
wine I drank last night. Yawning and stretching, I shake the sleep off my face and
grab my phone as I step into the bathroom. Tired lines criss-cross my skin, but a
good splash of warm water, gentle cleanser, and all my AM skincare products
takes care of most of that. The rest of the under eye circles and bagginess
disappears with a swipe of concealer.
While I'm brushing on eyeshadow, I check the weather forecast—still unusually
warm for Oregon, but a cold snap is coming—then swipe over to the news.
Nothing good to report but a few fluff pieces about baby penguins being born at
the local zoo. Cracking a yawn, I swipe open my messages app and thumb down
until I find the group text started with the guys.

It's nothing but back and forth about this hardware supply order or that paint color.
I've been too nervous since getting their numbers to make a one-on-one thread with
any of them. They haven't reached out individually either, which I would normally
take as a brushoff if they weren't werewolves. Mates like them care about the
harmony of the pack. If I get a one-on-one text from any of the three that's about
something deeper than screwdriver bits, it'll only happen after he's cleared it with
the other two.

Something that could happen any day now if I don't do the choosing first. Too bad
for me, and for these three hotties, I can't seem to decide which one to pick—or if I
should even pick in the first place.

So for now, I just type something slightly brusque and non-personal to all three of
them: I've got an appointment to make first thing this morning. We'll have to push
back work on the house until noon or later.

A couple of bubbles pop up, one from Roarke and one from Lance. Lance's goes
through first. Anything we should be worried about?

Roarke's bubble hovers for a moment, then subsides. I type back: Nothing of
concern. That's a lie, so I add, I'll tell you if anything serious comes up.

Will I? Do I have to? I can't help but feel that I should. These past days with the
guys, we've developed a kind of camaraderie. It's barely been a week since I got to
town, but I still feel as if we're at least a little bit friends. And obviously, quite
possibly, more than that.

A new message pops up on my phone, this time from Roarke. Surprised to see that
he didn't text me through the group chat, I tap on it and read his words with a
racing heartbeat.

Is this about that microchip in your neck?A moment, then, I haven't told Finn or
Lance about it yet.

Or Kieran? I assume he hasn't, but I still feel the urge to ask: Did you tell Kieran?

A bubble pops up. I wait anxiously for the message to follow. Glancing at my
reflection, I realize that I've only done half my eyeshadow, so I quickly swipe a
monotone color onto the empty lid. In the time it takes to perfect that, Roarke's
bubble still hovers without conclusion.

He should be done typing up a sentence by now. Unless he's writing a few

paragraphs. Or erasing just to retype again and again. Oh god—he didn't tell
Kieran, did he? I was mostly half-joking about that, anxious at the thought
of him finding out, but it didn't actually occur to me that he might say anything.

If Kieran knows, it changes everything.

But it shouldn't. So it doesn't. Because he doesn't matter—he never has, and he

never will. Lies. Maybe if I tell myself that, it'll eventually be true.

Finally a message pops up from Roarke, one shockingly succinct. I didn't tell him.
Assume you didn't want me to. Right?

Right,I type back immediately. Then, I just don't know what will happen next. It
may not end well. Maybe I don't have a wolf at all.

Would that disappoint you?

Yes. Obviously.

A long, hovering bubble. It disappears. I stare at the screen, waiting for it to pop
back up again—but Roarke's side just stays blank. Meanwhile, my thoughts race
around and around, desperately trying to figure out what he was about to say but
didn't.

Maybe he doesn't want me to find my wolf. That makes no sense, though. It

wouldn't be bad for him—would it? While it's true that female werewolves have
died of the curse here in Juniper, I have every reason to believe that I'm safe from
sharing their fate.

I'm not a member of the pack, with the bonds that bind us to the land. If there's a
curse on the territory it won't affect me. All I'll have to do to avoid dying is refuse
to join the pack and share in its bonds until the new alpha reverses the curse. That
shouldn't be more than a month away—and if he fails, or if Roarke is right and the
pack has no future, I'll just join another pack.

Would that disappoint you?

I don't know why it wouldn't. Having my wolf means being free, and being
accepted by the very land I was born on. There's nothing more than that to it.

"Delilah!" Cat's voice calls around the corner, far too chipper considering the hour.
"We've only got fifteen minutes before we have to go. Are you ready?"
"Is the coffee warm and fresh?"

"Always."

"I'll be there in a sec."

Grabbing my mascara wand, I give my eyelashes a good once-over, and decide to

ignore Roarke's mysterious question and even more mysterious unsent text
message. Whatever he was going to send to me, it doesn't matter.

Because I have better things to do than worry about a man.

As I'm heading around the corner with my socks on and my hair pulled back, my
phone chirps. It's a text from Finn—another one outside the group chat.

I hope whatever your appointment is, it goes well.Followed by a more clearly

flirtatious, Make sure you don't change too much, if this mysterious conflict is in
fact a hair appointment. I like... purplish red? Whatever your hair color is.

A little smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I sweep a coffee mug off the
kitchen counter and fill it from the pot. It's not a hair appointment, though if it
were, I'd pick whatever color and style I want and you'd deal with it.

Now I'm intrigued.Pause. You wouldn't happen to be pregnant with my baby,

would you? Because I'm good, but even I'm not that good.

I roll my eyes. Should I be concerned that you don't know how procreation
works? Cat is watching me smile at my phone, a single eyebrow arched in my
direction, but I ignore her. Flirting is fun, I'd almost forgotten.

Someone gave me the birds and the bees talk, I'll have you know. Though it wasn't
until I'd already snuck to my pack's Mating Circle and seen things in person. Hard
to keep a lid on the mechanics of sex when your culture revolves around public
fucking.

He has a point there. The amount of human men I met who seemed incapable of
honestly talking about sex—who were more likely to playact things they'd seen in
porn than inquire as to what I like in bed—was, well, all the human men I met.
What seems primal and savage to the outside world is just us werewolves being a
little honest about what works in the bedroom. Often that includes a man saying
sinful things in a woman's ear before he holds the back of her neck and screws her,
preferably in her favorite position with his fingers on her clit.

This train of thought just leads to me imagining Finn as the male in the Mating
Circle who has one hand on the back of my neck and the other on my clit. Not a
place I want my mind to go at seven in the morning, with no outlet in sight.
Especially since I still have Lance and Roarke in my messages inbox, with a big fat
question mark next to them.

Good point,I text Finn, followed immediately by, I have to go to my appointment

though. Putting my phone on do not disturb. See you later!

Haha. Swift subject change, Delilah.I bite my lower lip. See you later, dollface.

Dollface. That's one word for me. Another would be flat-on-her-face-face, because
I feel like I'm going to trip over my own two feet trying to make it out the door.
That's how flustered Finn makes me feel, even through the screen of my phone.

Cat notices my distraction as we head out towards her rental car. "You look
positively giddy. It couldn't be more obvious that you're texting with one of the
guys. The only question is: which one?"

I glance at her as we slide into the car. "Finn."

"Nice choice. I like his sense of humor."

"And before that, Roarke." My phone flashes, and I glance at the screen, feeling
dizzy. "Now Lance too."

His text simply reads: Let me know if you want anything for lunch. Think I'll swing
by to pick up some food before we start work. Maybe get you that chocolate pie
you mentioned from Berty's?

He's so impossibly sweet. I text him back to let him know I'd appreciate a slice of
chocolate pie—no doubt this microchip removal will leave me sore and shaky—
then meet Cat's eyes.

She couldn't be more amused. "Gonna play your options a little bit, huh Lilah?"

"It's not like that," I grouse, even though it totally is. "I just feel like I barely know
them. How can I pick one when I have no idea which one I might want?"

"Mmm-hmmm. Don't give me that line. I was alive in the eighties, I know all about
playing the field. Back in my day we called it swinging, not 'being poly,' but it's all
the same."

I do the math in my head. "Weren't you a teenager in the 1980s?"

"So you can count."

I snort. "And you weren't swinging in the eighties, you were probably dating older
men. The same thing you told me good girls don't do when that professor tried to
hit on me while I was getting my associate's degree."

"Someone's too smart for her own good." Cat shakes her head as she points the car
down the road towards the local clinic. "I told you to be careful then, and I'll say it
again now. You're playing with fire—tall, muscular, dominant fire, and you're
likely to get burned."

"I'm sure it won't go that far," I argue. "The three of them are friends. They must
have talked about it."

She snorts. "You think men talk to each other about their boundaries and feelings?
If they did, we wouldn't have war. You're going to have to be the one to broach the
topic of sharing and caring with those three—otherwise, you'll be painting over the
bloodstains they leave behind on that freshly sanded down hardwood."

I'm not sure that Cat is right, but as I settle into the passenger seat and unlock my
phone, I reflect that she does have a point. I need to talk to the guys about what's
going on between us... at some point.

Until then, I might as well have a little fun flirting via text message.

After all, what's the worst that can happen? I'm still a shiftless exile, and might
remain one even after the chip gets removed from my neck. There's no reason to
fight over a prize like me—they're just as likely to fight over who has to keep me
as who gets to.

No one can blame me for wanting to kick that can down the road a little while
longer. Cat always said to savor the moments in life we know won't come around
again. Being pursued by three drop dead gorgeous men is one of them, and I intend
to keep it going for as long as possible.

Delilah
The nurse at the clinic doesn't seem to understand what's going on. "How do you
know she has an anti-shifting microchip in her neck? Who put it there? I don't
understand."

I sigh, meeting Cat's eyes. Though I'm legally an adult and don't exactly need her
here, I had the feeling she'd be necessary for the appointment. "We don't know who
put it there, but it needs to be taken out. Didn't Federal Act 221 stipulate that
medical professionals have to remove these things if anyone asks?"
"Yes, but—" Her eyes widen as she realizes what I've just implied. There are
serious fines and jail time if a medical professional puts an anti-shifter microchip
in someone's neck, but if they refuse to take one out, they can also face suspension
of their license and a fee. "I'll go get one of the doctors."

The nurse disappears. A few minutes later a woman in a lab coat comes in. The
newcomer glances at my neck and tightens her mouth. She's young for a doctor,
with honey brown skin and a fashionable hijab over her hair. Given the average
age of the clinicians in the pamphlets they keep in the waiting room of the clinic,
I'm guessing they sent in their youngest and newest doctor to do this job for them
—since the rest of the old fogies probably aren't willing to risk censure if
something goes south.

"Hello, Delilah. It's nice to meet you. I'm Doctor Bashir, I'll be treating you today."
I watch her scrub up then grab a hermetically sealed instrument tray—all while the
nurse hovers behind her. "I've heard that you need to have a small foreign object
removed from your neck."

"Yep."

"If you could, please just jump up onto the examination table, and I'll take a look."

I do as I'm told, the crinkle of paper beneath me bringing me back to my

childhood. This clinic is where all of Juniper goes to get our yearly checkups and
vaccinations. The faces change, but the smell of antiseptic in the air stays the same.

"Which side of the neck is it on?"

"The left side." Tying my hair back, I stretch my head to the right and motion to
the scarred skin. "Right here."

"I see now. I'm going to probe it just a little."

She hovers at a respectful distance as she reaches out to brush cool, clean fingers
against the knot of scarred flesh on my skin. I feel the slight flare of discomfort as
her touch connects with the area; I've been scratching at it so much the past few
days it's a wonder any skin is still there. Slowly she works at the muscle above and
below it, prodding and pinching, her lips slightly pursed in concentration.

"I can't confirm what it is through size alone, but it does seem that your guess is
correct. It seems to be a shift-repressing device."

Going to the cabinets set into the corner, the doctor opens up a drawer and pulls
out a small plastic device. "These haven't been used in a long time, but we're
legally required to always have one on hand." She pulls it out and holds it up. "A
microchip scanner."

My stomach turns. Pushing the power button, the doctor stares at a dim green
screen. I glance over at Cat, uncertain.

"Good news: it's just had the batteries in it replaced, and it seems to still be in good
condition. With this we should be able to confirm what the thing in your neck truly
is."

Cat pipes up. "Is that important? Either way, you have to take it out."

"I'll remove it as soon as possible," the doctor says reassuringly. "It's important that
we know the make and model of it, though. Some of these things have a tendency
to break during extraction." To me, she adds, "This won't hurt one bit."

As she approaches me and holds the scanner up, I feel the tingle of anticipation and
uncertainty pass over me. To distract myself, I focus on the doctor. "You sound
like you know a lot about these microchips. Have you removed one before?”

"Yes." Her tone is succinct, but she goes on to elaborate as she presses at some
buttons on the scanner. "I did a residency in Japan. They still use them there. So
I've seen a few. Now, hold still and stretch your neck out some more—yes, like
that."

She doesn't sound like she wants to get into more details. I can fill in some of the
blanks, though. Japanese werewolves are required to have the shift-repressing
microchip until and unless they're medically sterilized. The thought makes me sick
to my stomach.

After a long moment, the doctor murmurs, "It's horrible that someone would put
this in you. Especially if you didn't consent?"

"I didn't. I've never even been abroad—there's no reason for me to have one."
Some countries require them, which makes international travel dicey, especially
outside of the European Union, which banned their use just like Canada and the
US. "I don't even know when it was put in, or how long it's been there."

"That was going to be my next question. If it's been there for a considerable
number of years, we'll have to monitor you—sometimes, with long-term use, there
are side effects post removal." She pulls the scanner away. "You can relax now. I
know what model of chip it is, and the good news is we can take it out without
sedation."

Cat pipes up. "What side effects?"

Exactly the question I was going to ask.

"Mostly dizziness, a sudden drop in blood pressure, and sometimes fainting spell.
A few rare cases cause anaphylactic shock, fever, and rash—the body gets so used
to the werewolf prions no longer circulating through its blood that the return of
them can cause the immune system to go into overdrive. But that's very rare, and if
it does happen, you'll be inches away from a medical team prepared to get you
through it to the other side."

"Thank you." I take a deep breath. "I want it out. No matter the risks."

Saying the words feels monumental, but as soon as they're out a huge weight lifts
off my shoulders. All my life, everything has been decided for me, from this chip
in my neck, to getting rejected, being exiled, and even winding up with Cat. Now
for the first time I'm making a choice for myself. Good or bad, I live with the
consequences—and there's something freeing about that.

"I'll start with a local anesthetic. It'll be a small sting, then we'll wait a few minutes,
and once the area is numb, I'll remove the chip."

To help me through my nervousness, I meet Cat's eyes. She senses my distress and
starts telling a riotous, laugh-out-loud story about the time she went backpacking
after college. Cold antiseptic is applied to my neck, and a moment later I feel the
bite of a needle.

Minutes pass by. Cat keeps up her story. Even the doctor laughs a little at the
anecdote about her spending a whole afternoon in a small French villa, smiling at
passersby—only to realize when she got home that there was a three-inch hole in
the butt of her pants.

"The area should be numb now. Let me know if you feel this."

The doctor presses her fingers to my neck, and numbness washes over me. "Not a
thing."

"Alright. This will only take a minute."

She opens up the tray of surgical implements and pulls out a scalpel. I swallow and
do my best not to think about it as she approaches my left side. Thankfully, the
doctor stays out of my line of sight, and I don't have to think too hard.

There's pressure at my neck, and a slight discomfort. I meet Cat's eyes again. She
doesn't tell a story this time, but she does give me a soft, encouraging smile. I feel
like my heart is beating so hard it might just thump right out of my chest.
"Hold on just a moment." The doctor grabs a set of large tweezers off the tray and
gives me a reassuring smile. "It'll be out in just a few seconds. Are you ready?"

"I don't feel anything. It's okay."

"Then let's get this out of you."

I close my eyes as the tweezers come towards me, barely visible in my peripheral
vision. They press against my skin, and I wince a little as pressure hits me. There's
a small tug. A tingling sensation goes down my left arm, and I grasp onto the edge
of the exam table, breathing in slowly through my mouth.

"There we go! All out." Taking a step back, the doctor holds the bloodied tweezers
and the microchip up in the air. I feel sick looking at it—so small, yet so large. She
grabs a small bag and deposits it inside. "I'll have to turn this in, for tracking
purposes. We're not allowed to return them or dispose of them ourselves. It looks
like it came out effortlessly, though—you're lucky."

I blink at her as she grabs some gauze and dresses the small cut on my neck.
"When will I know if it's worked?"

"Ah." She grabs the instrument tray, sets it aside, and takes off her bloodied gloves
before turning back to me, her expression serious. "That part isn't something I can
give you much guidance on, unfortunately. There's very little we know about the
prions in your blood that enable the shift—how they work, why they work, and
why it is that they're not transmittable to other hosts. Even the chips aren't fully
understood; the inventor who created them stumbled on their utility as much as
anything.

"All I can tell you is that your body naturally produces the prions, and will begin
producing them again soon. Whether or not they'll reach the threshold to enable
your shift is really up to your body. They say most find their wolf again, but some
struggle. Your fellow pack members will be more help with that than I can be.
Some things are too spiritual for even the most advanced modern medicine."

That's a long way to say I don't know, and I can't help you, but her smooth, cool
voice is somehow reassuring. From now on, the rest of this is in my hands, for
better or for worse.

"Thank you," I tell her. "So much."

"Don't thank me yet." The doctor gives me a wry smile. "We're going to have to sit
here and wait for another thirty minutes or so, just to make sure you're not about to
have some kind of allergic reaction. After that, you can leave, so thank me then."
I glance at Cat. She sighs, and clears her throat.

"This one time in undergrad, I was studying in my dorm late at night..."

Trust Cat to be capable of filling up thirty minutes of empty air.

***

"Feel anything?"

I glance over at Cat as we roll to a stop sign several blocks away from the house.
"Nothing. But it could take days or weeks. Or never."

"At least you've got a chance now." Cat sighs and shakes her head. "I hate the
waiting, though. I'm not made for this kind of suspense."

"Me neither. I think I should get my mind off things—maybe do some work at the
house."

"Didn't you text the guys to come over after noon? It's currently... ten thirty."

"I can always do some of the small jobs. Test paint samples, start the tile
backsplash in the kitchen, twiddle my thumbs." My hand goes up instinctively
towards my neck, like it always does in times of stress, but instead of a scar to
nervously scratch at there's a huge gauze bandage. "Guess I need a new nervous
habit."

Cat's eyes flit to my neck then back to the road. "I don't know how I didn't figure it
out sooner. I should have—maybe if I had, I could've gotten you help while you
were a teenager."

"It's not your fault. No one in the US has seen these chips in decades. Besides, I
didn't notice, and it was in my own damned body."

"Yeah, you're right." Cat turns her rental car onto the main street the house is on. "I
should do some work on the house too. I've got all this nervous energy and
nowhere to put it."

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to go mad if I don't find something to do."

Cat waggles her brows at me. "I can think of three things you could do."
Just the thought of the guys currently makes my stomach turn at the moment. Not
because I don't want to explore things with them any further—I desperately do—
but because suddenly, everything is up in the air.

Either I find my inner she-wolf and claim one of them as my mate, if they're
willing and the curse is lifted.

Or everything around me crumbles and shatters as I'm well and truly shiftless, with
no hope for anything else.

As we arrive at the house, I spot an old pickup truck in the back drive. I frown at it
a little; the contractor isn't expected back, and the new appliances I ordered for the
kitchen aren't due for delivery. As I get out of the car, humid late-winter Oregon air
hits me, and my eyes land on the front porch. I feel a tightening in my chest.

Kieran is standing there, hands in his pockets, leaned up against the side of the
house.

His eyes find me, and even from hundreds of feet away I can feel his gaze.

Cat spots him as well. She glances at me. "I can get rid of him."

"No, he and I need to talk." I give her an apologetic frown. "Mind driving around
the neighborhood for a bit?"

"I've got one better—I'll run errands. We need some more snacks and frozen pizza.
Text me if I need to come back sooner rather than later."

"It won't take long," I reassure her.

"That's what you said about coming up here," Cat reminds me, "and look how that
ended up."

Point taken. But I don't want it to take forever to lay the ghosts to rest between
Kieran and me.

The sooner I can feel at ease inside myself, the better. I don't want to be looking
over my shoulder anymore, chasing the ghosts of what could have been between
me and the boy I grew up loving.

As Cat pulls away in the rental car, I step up to the front porch and study Kieran
for a moment. He looks tired still, the shadows under his eyes prominent, his skin
dry and his shoulders bowed inward. But his cheeks have filled out in the days
since I saw him last. Maybe the hunting excursion was good for him—at least he
seems to have eaten while he was out with Niall and the others. And no doubt they
kept him away from the vamps.
"Kieran." I stop at the foot of the porch, feeling strange at how similar this feels to
all those afternoons growing up, when I would come home from school to find him
waiting for me. "I guess we should talk."

"That's why I'm here."

He steps out of the shadows of the porch and into the late morning light. Sun
strikes his cheeks and chest, nestles in his hair and curls around his arms. For a
moment, the breath knocks its way out of me as I stare up at his face and see the
features of the first boy I ever loved. The memory of that face dogged me for years,
but it's nothing compared to standing here in person.

Something in me shifts and coalesces. My heart beats its heavy thud: thump,
thump, thump. Around us the wind shifts, and a breeze curls beneath my nose,
bringing with it the smells of the house: fresh paint, unfinished wood, and hard
work.

Along with that scent comes another, suddenly distinctive smell so strong I take a
step back.

It's the scent of sweet berries warmly nestled in a pie crust, maple syrup fresh from
the tap, rum sharpened with spices, and an undeniable iron tang of fresh blood
from a hunt.

Kieran's scent, one I've smelled before, sharpened and mellowed with age.
Stronger than it's ever smelled. Wrapped in something that curls in my belly and
strikes tinder between my thighs, like the start of a bonfire that leads to acres of

forest burning down.

He smells like coming home. Like fate wrapping its big strong arms around you
and crushing you to its chest. There's a rumble deep inside me, a kind of feral
yawning, and as I blink the world comes into deep focus.

Suddenly, the shadows on the porch are lighter and full of details I've never seen.
The earth beneath my feet smells like clay and plant rot. And I feel the tingle of
one last winter cold snap in the air, the sky pregnant with the promise that snow
could come tomorrow. It's like the ground is shifting beneath me and reality is
changing.

I want to go to Kieran.

Like a wire between us, something tugs at my center.

The ground beneath me shifts, and I feel like the earth itself is tilting. Any moment
I'll stumble forward and fall—directly into his arms.
Slowly, I breathe out. Try to make the world go right-side up again. As soon as I
breathe in again I'm struck dizzy by a world of scent and living emotion. So I part
my lips instinctively to taste it, letting the air into my mouth. Kieran's eyes widen
as he stares at me for a long, frozen moment.

"Your wolf." His voice comes out choked; hands hovering in the air, he grasps at
nothing. "I can smell her. How?"

Moving my left arm—it suddenly doesn't feel like my arm—I turn my wrist over
and stare down at my palm. Clenching my fist, I feel strength move through me:
from my shoulder to my bicep, to my forearms and my hand. I'm suddenly certain
that if I wanted to, I could bound across the space between me and Kieran in a
single step.

She's here. Inside me. My wolf.

"It worked," I whisper to myself, hearing the awe in my voice. A wicked smile
curls up my lips, and I can't help but share some of my joy with Kieran, who
was supposed to be there the first moment this happened. "It really, actually
worked."

He stares at me. I can't tell what he's thinking. In a low, suddenly husky voice he
murmurs, "Your eyes have changed."

"They have? I want to see!"

Leaping forward, I race past him towards the house—and have to steady myself
against the door frame as his scent suddenly washes over me, too close for comfort.
Fumbling with the key, I glance over at him, tension rippling through me at the
mere inches that suddenly separate us.

His eyes, normally the brown of sweet honey, are rimmed with glowing yellow.
"Delilah." There's a tone in his voice that I don't recognize; his hands clench and
unclench at his sides. "What did you do?"

"Something impossible," I whisper, tears gathering in my eyes as I unlock the door

and stumble into the house, feeling Kieran at my back as he follows closely.
"Something big."

My legs carry me to the mirror hung in the front hallway. I turn to it with my
breath lodged in my throat—and see my eyes, suddenly so different, the irises
glowing with the color of another being within me. What are normally two deep
forest green rings, one with a single chip of dark brown at the bottom, are now blue
on one side—and silvery white on the other, where the brown chip normally is.
I reach up to touch my face—then feel a sharp pang in my middle. Something
yawns inside me, something big and hungry. Heat pools in my center and flows
down to my thighs, sparking in the space between them, my apex throbbing with
desire.

I turn to Kieran and inhale. The sweet and spiciness of his scent is like a warm
blanket around me. Staring at him, I can see that his pupils are black and deep.
When I inhale again, I catch a scent I didn't recognize before, and realize with a
startled wonder that it's arousal.

I'm smelling it on myself.

And also on him.

The thing inside me—the her inside me—is very, very pushy with desire. What she
wants, more than anything, is to sink her claws into a big slab of muscular man,
and she wants to do it now. Even better: there's a man in front of her that she
wants. So like a shark scenting blood in the water, she thrashes and attacks.

There's a wolf inside me alright. And now that she's out, she wants to fuck.

"Let's talk later," I tell Kieran, dimly remembering that there was some kind of
conversation we were supposed to have. "There are other things I want to do right
now."

"Delilah—" He swallows, and I find myself, like someone having an out-of-body

experience, close enough to see the tension in his jaw, because I've grabbed onto
his shoulders and pressed my body against his. "We shouldn't do this. It's not what
you want. Not really."

"Oh yeah?" Hitching up my hip, I throw a leg around him and gasp at I rub against
his muscular thigh. There's tension in his body alright, and it's rubbing up against
the tension in mine with the most delightful friction. I moan. "I'm pretty sure this is
what I want."

"But—it's just—"

"Shut up," I snap at him, sudden anger coiling in my belly. "We were supposed to
do this years ago, weren't we? And you fucked that up, because you're an asshole.
Don't fuck it up again, Kieran."

He stares at me. The moment stretches. For the span of a heartbeat, I almost think
he might leave me in the cold again.

This time, I think I might kill him.

And I'm pretty sure the wolf inside me is capable of pulling it off.

But he reaches around, grabs onto my ass, and hitches me up against him. A
rumbling growl leaves his chest—and I part my lips to find a panting mewl leaving
mine. Walking me backwards, he slams me up against the wall and presses a deep,
scorching, hot kiss against my lips.

I wrap my legs around him and moan as friction catches between us.

Finally, I'm going to get what I've always wanted.

I'm going to have him.

Delilah
Kieran's kiss is better than I could have ever imagined. More adult, more skillful,
his lips soft and hungry, his tongue stroking fire inside me. He presses his hips
forward until I can feel the outline of his erection against my inner thigh, and all I
want is the clothes off now.

Dimly, I'm aware of the thrum of energy in my blood. The sharp curve of my
fingernails. How I moan and it comes out throaty, full of a strange growl. My skin
feels hot and tight, and my scalp pricks with sensation. This is my wolf calling the
shots now, and probably the human side of me should stop her.

But I. Don't. Care.

Kieran Salt was supposed to be mine. We were supposed to wrap our hands around
each other and make a promise. He was meant to meet me on sacred ground, take
my body in his loving hands, and claim me as his own.

This may not be my best idea. Or my most thought-out one. But it is something
that I've deserved for seven wretched years, and I will make it happen.

"You smell so good." Kieran pants against my neck, his mouth skimming my skin.
He thrusts his hips forward and snarls as his teeth brush up against my throat.
"God, you smell so different. Like wood smoke and crushed lavender."

I throw my head back and pull his mouth against my neck, panting. "Touch me. I
want you everywhere—I want you inside me. Fuck me, Kieran."

There's a rumble against my skin that thrums through me. Heat curls around my
thighs, and my lower lips throb in anticipation. Kieran's hands press up beneath my
shirt to grab onto my waist, grabbing hold of me and shifting my weight. He jerks
as I reach between us to undo the waistband of the comfy fleece-lined sweatpants I
wore this morning. One of his hands moves to his waistband to fumble open his
jeans. We both pant and moan anticipating the bare skin growing between us.

For a moment, it looks like our clothes might get between us. Then Kieran jerks at
my pants, his face twisted up in primal desire, and a riiipppp rings out. They flutter
to the ground in two pieces, and I don't even care—I'm wrapping my legs tight
around him and rubbing myself against his abdomen. His eyes are the bright
yellow of his wolf as they stare into mine. Jerking down his pants, he grabs his
cock through his boxers and watches me as I pant and writhe against him, turned
on by the fact that he can hold me up in one hand.

"God, Delilah. I've wanted you for so long." His eyes flutter closed as his mouth
falls to my neck, and he sucks a tight kiss against my skin. "I can't wait to be inside
you."

"Neither can I." I moan at his touch. "So fucking do it already."

A snarl leaves his lips at that. I feel the tension in his body, the curled strength and
pulsing desire. His cock rubs up against my lower lips through the thin cotton of
my panties and fabric of his boxers. Grabbing onto his waistband, I pull them
down over his length and yank it out, enjoying how the tightness of our position
rubs him against me. Precum spills from the head already, and as I stare down at
his molten length, I have to admit that it isn't the boy from yesterday with his arms
wrapped around me.

This is a man. An entirely new and different man from the one I expected, changed
in ways I never could have imagined. And while I don't forgive him for the hurt
he's done to me—I don't ever think I will—I want him more than anything.

I want to own him and claim him. There's power in the way his arousal hardens at
my touch, how he moans helplessly and jerks against me as I stroke his warm
length. I'm no longer the heartbroken teenage girl at his mercy. As I dig my
fingernails into his shoulders and tear my panties over to the side, exposing my
throbbing lower lips and the entrance between them, I know I'll never be that girl
anymore.

Especially as my fingernails lengthen and dig into his shoulders until blood flows.

"You're so beautiful." Kieran kisses me, wraps his hands around me, and shifts
until the precum-slick head of his cock is right up against my bare skin. "I can't
wait to meet your wolf. First, I want to feel your pussy all around me."

I grab onto him for purchase and relax my abdomen, preparing for the moment
when his girth will pierce me. All of my senses seems sharpened and alive. I lick
my lips and feel as if I can actually taste his arousal as well as smell it.
Kieran stares down between us, grabs his length, and lines it up until I groan at the
brush of his cock head against me. My eyes fall closed, and I press up against him
with my legs.

I've never wanted anything more in my entire life.

Even as a little part of me knows that it will destroy me.

I hear his breath hitch. Feel warmth stir between us. There's a thudding sound, like
my heart is beating just as hard outside my chest as it is inside me. I gasp a little in
preparation for the moment he'll enter me.

Instead, he's suddenly ripped away. His hands are jerked from beneath me and I
slide down onto the ground on my ass. Shock and confusion make me tense up and
leap to my feet, half-naked and wild-eyed, looking around me for the threat—oh.

That thudding sound wasn't my heartbeat. It was someone running through the
hallway at full speed and colliding with Kieran in a tangle of limbs. I was too
horny and out of it to realize. Everything comes into sharp focus as I desperately
try to pull my torn clothes together and cover myself up.

Finn is straddling Kieran, holding him down on the hardwood. He stares down at
the other wolf with narrowed eyes, tension rippling through him. There's a deep,
angry growl in the air, followed by another—Finn holds Kieran's shoulders down
with strained hands.

Beneath him, Kieran bucks and struggles, still exposed and aroused. "Fuck you.
What gives you the right to do that? I was just about to—"

"I know what you were just about to do," Finn cuts him off. "You seriously thought
we were going to let you do that? When we all know what would've happened to
her?"

There are footsteps behind me. Shuddering with embarrassment, I reluctantly look
over my shoulder to find—yep, Lance and Roarke are here too. Roarke is staring
helplessly at his two friends, fists clenching and unclenching. Lance has his eyes
averted as he approaches me and peels off his jacket.

"Here," he says, holding it out to me while somehow staring at the ceiling. "It's
cold out."

That's one way to point out that I'm currently half-naked and still very, very
aroused. "Thank you."

As I take it from him and pull it around me, thankful that its length and size cover
me up from my shoulders to my thighs, a hard slam catches my attention. Jerking
my eyes back to Finn and Kieran, I find the situation has suddenly reversed itself.
Kieran is on top of Finn and holding him down, eyes flashing with anger, hands at
the other man's neck and chest.

"Stay the fuck away from Delilah," he says, his voice half-growl, his eyes glowing
yellow. "And from me. You have no business—"

"I have all the business, as a member of this pack!"

Finn twists, ripples, and somehow manages to get out from under Kieran enough to
punch him in the side. An oof leaves Kieran's lips. I shift my weight uneasily from
side to side, uncertain what to do next.

"Fuck you, dude! You don't get a say!"

"I think that I do!"

"We weren't hurting anyone. How did you even get in here?"

"You left the door open, because you don't think."

Finn flips Kieran around and pins him to the ground with his legs. His eyes are
glowing now too, and his lips are peeled back from his teeth, a snarl in his throat.
The hands he uses to hold Kieran down are tipped with pointed claws.

"Finn. Kieran." There's a warning note in Lance's voice as he steps forward, his
bulk filling the hallway. "Cut it out, now."

Head jerking up, Finn narrows his eyes at Lance. "You saw what I saw. He was
going to mate with her."

"Yes, and—"

"What's the fucking problem with that?" Kieran demands, twisting around and
kicking at Finn without effect. "I swear to god, you're so controlling!"

Roarke's quiet voice cuts through the air like a knife. "There were mate bonds
glowing between you two. Silver threads that pulled and tied together. If you'd
mated with her, Kieran, you wouldn't have just been having sex."

Kieran suddenly goes limp, all the fight leaving him at once. His face pales. I stare
at him, confusion, embarrassment, and frustration are whirling around inside me.

"You can't be serious." I stare at the guys, angry and confused.

"Kieran rejected me. There were no mate bonds between us, and we were never
fully declared as each other's intended. I didn't even have any mating threads at
all when I stepped into the stone circle. How is it even possible?"

"I don't know," Roarke confesses. "But I do know that if you two have sex, it
would doom you. Anyone can smell the wolf inside of you—and the second the
full moon rises, you'll be called to shift. That's when the curse will kill you."

I swallow, glancing around at each of them. "It sounds like you all understand the
curse far more thoroughly than I thought you did."

"It's just a theory," Lance confesses. "But every mated female wolf dies, and we're
starting to think it's not the pack bonds, or the land itself that kills them. It's the
mate bonds."

"How would you know that? How can you be sure?"

Lance looks down and away, his fists clenching, then back up at me. "Last summer
a pair of bonded female wolves asked to have permission to sever their connection
to the pack and the land. It was granted, and they went off on their own to be a
bonded pair in the wild, as their own pack. We were sure they'd escaped the curse
by doing so."

"They didn't make it," Roarke says, voice raw. "They were found this morning,
dead and half-decayed hundreds of miles east of here. Both hemorrhaged to death,
probably a few weeks ago, around the time of the full moon."

Finn grabs onto Kieran's chin and jerks it up, forcing him to look into his eyes. "So
you see, fuckface? You were about to kill Delilah because you're led completely by
selfish impulses. Just like you kill the land by attracting vamps because you're too
weak and cowardly to face the rot inside you."

"Hey!" Roarke's voice rises in anger as he prowls towards Finn, his fists clenched.
"Watch it."

"You watch it. I'm tired of watching this useless asshole ruin things." Finn rises to
his feet, his face hard. "Just because you think he's redeemable doesn't mean the
rest of us have to agree."

I sigh, raking a hand through my hair and trying to put everything into place.
Shame and embarrassment gnaw at me—I can't believe the guys saw me like that,
and with Kieran—but as the hormones flow through me and I feel the wolf within,
I admit she's one horny wild animal. I'm not sure I wouldn't have
fucked anybody who came within smell distance of me just because she wants to
get some.
Finn is still angry. "If you ask me, he should be the one who's exiled. Maybe if he
got some sense knocked into him—"

"We'll talk about Kieran's place in the pack later," Lance says smoothly,
interrupting what was working up to a very fevered rant. "For now, there's just one
thing I want to know."

He turns towards me, and I feel the full weight of his honey brown eyes on my
face. "How in the world do you have a wolf inside you now, Delilah?"

"About that." My fingers go up to my neck, and then I feel a draft of cool air about
my legs. "Let me get dressed, and I'll tell you all about it."

Roarke
She smells... different.

My wolf notices it even before I do. There's a vivaciousness to Delilah that was
missing before. God knows she had beauty and charm in spades, but now there's a
little something extra.

Her skin glows. Her eyes dance. I can hear the strong beat of her heart, and watch
her gracefully move around the kitchen, a mug of coffee in her hand.

But the smell. God, the smell of her is something else entirely. Like dark molten
chocolate, sharp herbs, and a burning bonfire.

The wolf inside me wants to grab hold of her, pull her to the ground, and rut inside
her.

The man does too—who am I kidding? There aren't two parts of me that want to
fuck Delilah Glass. It's all of me that wants her. Man. Beast. Both.

Which is why my heart is so full of despair. Because the instant I saw her with
Kieran, their clothes half off, him pinning her wildly against the wall, silver
threads all around them—I knew. I can't have her.

Especially because it would mean taking her away from him.

I glance over at him as Delilah explains the details of how the microchip was
removed from her neck. Half-listening to her words, I study Kieran for a long
moment while he isn't watching. He's sitting opposite me at the table, his eyes
absolutely glued to her face, his pants freshly zipped up and his arousal lessened in
the air, though there's no hiding to a werewolf what he just almost did with her.
I've grown so used to a shadowed version of my best friend in the past few years.
There have been endless painful nights looking for him in the woods, dragging him
to the clinics, pushing him into his shower stall and turning on the water, all of it
just to try to bring him to some semblance of the older brother figure I use to have.
Before the hunting trip, he'd grown so gaunt I worried he wouldn't come back, but
Niall reassured me he'd look out for Kieran.

Now he's finally got color in his cheeks. There's still messiness to his hair and dark
circles beneath his eyes, but he sits up straight, and when he picks up his mug and
brings it to his mouth, his hands don't tremble at all. As Delilah makes some quip
he actually laughs, the sound low and quiet but achingly alive.

My heart feels like it might burst into a thousand pieces. I've never felt lower in my
life, or more sick.

The best and only friend I've ever had in the world is falling in love with his
childhood sweetheart all over again. He's finally starting to come out of the darkest
phase of his life, and he might actually survive because of her. I look at his eyes
and I see hope for the first time in years.

And because I'm a terrible, awful, selfish friend, I can't even appreciate it at all. I
should be dancing for joy and congratulating him.

Instead, I want to rip his throat out.

All to make room for me in her heart.

"So that's it, I guess. I didn't think it would work so quickly." I look at Delilah's
eyes, so full of joy, their forest green depths shimmering with merriment. My lungs
feel so tight I don't think I'll ever take another easy breath in her presence. "There
are a lot of questions I still have about how it got there, who put it there, and why
my dad never told me, but—I'm excited, not gonna lie. This changes everything."

It does.

It really, really does.

Delilah
Iwon't pretend that I understand half of what I'm reading, but Lance seems so
hopeful that we'll find something in my father's office, and I don't want to bring
him down.

"There has to be an answer here," he argues, arranging several books and thick
manila folders around him. "I photocopied most of what I thought was important,
but clearly I missed something. There's no way our alpha would've accepted a
shift-repressing microchip in his only daughter if he didn't know about the curse in
advance."

Chewing on my lower lip, I weigh Lance's words carefully. "Wouldn't he have said
something, though? I mean—if he knew. There were so many lives that were lost,
and he did nothing."

"He didn't do nothing," Lance argues, glancing over at me. "Your father tried
everything he could think of. He changed the rules of the pack to allow mate bonds
to be broken. He hired witches and occultists to walk the land and look for a
physical source of the curse. He even let wolves leave the pack if they chose—
though most chose to stay. I'm sure that if he'd had more information, he kept it to
himself for good reasons."

Maybe. I thought I knew my father, until my fourteenth birthday, when the warm,
loving father I'd once had became someone wholly different. After that day I
considered him a cruel and heartless man—and it's hard to see him as anything
else.

The more I learn, the more I realize I don't fully understand him and never did.

"There were things in his bedroom," I admit to the guys. "It was all witchy odds
and ends, so I cleared it out because it gave me the spooks. But you're right. If
there was some way to get rid of the curse, he would've tried it—his room certainly
made it seem like he was looking for something."

"I'm glad you agree. Now we just have to find it."

Glancing around the room, I observe that not everyone looks as convinced by
Lance's theory. While Kieran and Roarke are gamely going through every one of
Dad's filing cabinet drawers, looking at even the most mundane financial
documents, Finn is leaning up against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, balancing a
golf ball between his knuckles.

Since I'm not doing Lance much good curled up on the floor with all these pieces
of paper about microflora and prions that I barely understand, I excuse myself and
join Finn near the books. He raises a brow as I walk over, then turns to put the golf
ball back in its little case.

"Some important golfer signed that in the nineties, you know," I tell him. "Can't
remember who. I'm sure it's worth something online."

"You should sell it, then. It's not doing any good up here."
Looking up into his face, I ask, "What'cha thinking?"

Finn glances away from me, a frown settling on his mouth. Then he jerks his eyes
to my face, brings his head close to me, and murmurs in a low voice, "He's going
to get you killed, you know."

I know who he's talking about, though I still ask, "Who?"

"Kieran." He narrows his eyes in the wolf's direction. "Out of respect for you and
Cat, I've decided not to eviscerate him inside your house, since the mess would be
unpleasant. But I wish I had the guts to be rude."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

"I thought the two of you were friends—at least a little. Once upon a time.”

"Maybe." He grunts. "For a while. But that was before I could see what a coward
he can be."

Looking up into his eyes, I ask him, "Do you really think it's the mate bond that
kills the females? Not the pack bond, or shifting on the land, or anything else?"

"It's not something I can definitively prove. But it's the only thing they all had in
common, other than the shift. And if those two female wolves died far from the
land without any bond to the pack, what else could it be?"

"Maybe the curse already had them before they left town. Or... maybe it only
affects bonds that are finalized in the Mating Circle."

"Some of the early werewolves who died joined the pack already part of a couple.
One of the females was bonded accidentally while out on a hunting trip. Something
about having a mate bond and being part of the pack does them in, some sooner
rather than later, some faster or slower, but they all die." His eyes roam my face.
Quietly, he asks, "Can you really say that he is worth all that risk?"

He isn't. I know that. And before I saw him again with my wolf's blood thrumming
through me, I wouldn't have even imagined we'd wind up nearly screwing up
against the wall of my father's house.

Some part of me still wants him, though. It's like there's a wound in me that only
he can help heal. Even though he made the wound in the first place—he's the knife
and the healer all at once.
Still. As I tell Finn, "I'm not going to die just to get laid. It just... happened. I blame
the wolf, if that's something I can get away with doing."

"You can." Finn shoots me a jaunty smirk. "I blame my horniest moments on the
wolf all the time."

"Good. So just... forget you ever saw me... doing that... with him."

He raises a brow. "Oh, I plan on forgetting alright. I was also hoping to

make you forget too—though it looks like that'll have to wait, considering the
pressing question at hand."

Glancing over at Lance, I ask Finn, "Do you think he'll be able to figure it out?"

"That guy? For sure. There's nothing he's not able to absolutely crush if he puts his
mind to it."

"I hope you're right. We should probably help him, though. You take the big book
on plants, I'll take the one on fungi?"

"Do we have to?"

"I think we do. My father wrote notes in the margins of both, and if he figured
something out, I want to know. Especially since it's life or death for me now."

"Of course. I just don't pretend to understand half of this stuff."

"Me either. Good thing we're not the only ones figuring it out."

We grab our respective reading assignments off the pile Lance has stacked up on
the desk, and find places on the carpeted floor to settle down and read them.
There's technically only one chair in the room, my father's old desk chair, but it's
beat up and in bad shape; no one sits on the daybed, probably because it's the kind
of thing that sinks and grabs you in its embrace.

Peeling open the book on fungi, I flip through until I find some of my dad's notes
in the margins. Most of the scribblings are nonsensical. Spores involved? Maybe a
growth agent. This one looks promising. Bit by bit I scan through them, wishing I
knew which notes he wrote years ago, and which are more recent. For all any of us
know, he figured out long ago which information is useless.

I'm halfway through a chapter on Black Witches' Butter, a type of mushroom that
seems to have nothing to do with actual witches, when Roarke speaks up. "Lance.
Did you take these files? There's half a drawer missing."

He glances up and frowns. "I didn't. That cabinet was full of personnel stuff."
"This drawer has some bits and pieces on the females who died," Kieran says, "but
there's a good chunk of it gone. No sign of the files anywhere. I wonder if maybe
this was something he was pursuing before he died."

Lance gets up and glances into the drawer. "Anything else?"

"There's also a few files missing in another drawer, one mostly full of odd bits and
pieces of history," Roarke says, "but I wasn't sure if it might have anything to do
with the curse. He left little flags where he took stuff out."

"I can't believe I missed that."

Kieran says, "They were crumpled down in the drawers, barely visible. We
wouldn't have noticed if we hadn't just spent nearly an hour looking through these
drawers and doing little else."

But Lance might have noticed earlier—if I'd encouraged him to spend more time in
the office, instead of trying to find what he needed and leaving without looking
deeper. It isn't my fault, given he was a stranger when he first came here, but I do
wish that I'd been a bit more curious about my father's research into the curse.
Especially now that I'm full of questions about its possible effect on me.

Lance turns to me. "Do you know where your father might've put files he was
working on? I've checked in his desk drawer and there's nothing there. Maybe we
can check his room, if that's okay with you."

"I didn't find anything in his bedroom when I was cleaning it out," I tell him, biting
my lower lip as I consider all the options. One occurs to me, and it makes my
stomach sink. "But I know exactly who would have the files, or at least know
where they are."

"Niall," Finn supplies. "You're saying we should ask him?"

Lance frowns. "I asked him if he knew anything about the curse. He said he had no
clue."

"But if my Dad had those files in his truck when he passed, Niall might've taken
them somewhere safe. He had no reason to bring them back here to his home office
—this is pack business, after all. And it wouldn't surprise me if he was too
respectful to even look inside the files. He's probably planning on giving them to
the new alpha after the Summit."

It would make sense—Niall was always exactly the type of second-in-command to

obey my father's wishes unquestionably. That's not the kind of man who would
look through his things after his death. He may not have even known what he was
looking at."

Lance pulls out his phone, excitement on his face. "We're actually getting there—I
can feel it. I'll just call him and see if he has the files."

He makes the call. His face lights up as he asks Niall if he has any files from my
father's office. Giving me an ecstatic grin, he says, "We'll see you soon with them
then, Niall. And no worries—you had no reason to believe William was keeping
information about the curse in a few manila folders in his truck."

A few minutes after Lance hangs up the phone, the doorbell rings. I practically race
down the stairs to open the door, startling Cat, who's sitting at the kitchen table
reading a paperback book.

"Here's what you're looking for," Niall says, holding out a big stack of manila
folders. "I was keeping it down at the head office. Figured the new boss would
want it."

"Thanks." I shoot him a genuine smile, and he seems taken aback by it. "This is
really going to help a lot."

Tilting his head back, Niall sniffs the air, and his brows furrow deeply. Then his
eyes widen. "Delilah. Are you... is that a... wolf?"

"Yes." Lance approaches the doorway from behind my shoulder, and I turn to pass
the files to him, knowing they'll be more use in his hands. "It's a long story, but I
found my wolf. It turns out she wasn't hiding or non-existent at all. She just needed
a little help."

"Huh." His face remains scrunched up in thought. "You haven't shifted yet, have
you?"

"No."

"Good. Try to keep it that way for as long as possible." He reaches into his back
pocket, and pulls out something thin, flat, and blue. "Your father loves you and
misses you, I'm sure, but I doubt he wants you in the afterlife anytime soon."

Unfolding the blue object, Niall holds it out to me, revealing that it's a small blue
folder with what couldn't be more than a few pieces of paper in it. "This one was
separate from the others. I figured you'd want it too. It was scrunched up between
the seats of the truck when I found it, so I doubt it's important, but you never
know."

"Thanks."
I take the small blue folder, its middle creased from being folded up for so long,
the blue paper worn from hands running over it again and again.

Glancing up a Niall, I murmur, "See you around."

"See you."

He turns slowly, then walks hurriedly down the porch steps. I watch him go,
confused about the emotions swirling around inside me. It would be so easy to
straightforwardly hate him—I have plenty of reasons to do so.

But he's suffered so much since I was exiled. I can't say he wasn't punished for
what he did to me. And I know that he never would've done it if my father hadn't
insisted it was the only way. As I shut the door behind him, I tell myself that it's
good I don't have much resentment towards Niall. It doesn't make me weak—
because hatred wouldn't make me strong.

Still, I'll never really trust him, or think of him as a friend. I don't think he would
blame me for that. I'm just glad he was here while I was gone, watching out for my
Dad in whatever ways he could.

Lance has already taken the big stack of important-looking manila folders upstairs
to rummage through them, so I go ahead and open the creased blue folder,
expecting to find some receipts stapled to an expense sheet, or something else
frivolous.

What I find instead is a photocopied journal entry with a few notes written on it in
my father's neatest, most meticulous style of handwriting.

And I have to read the notes four of five times for it to really sink in what I'm
seeing.

"Lilah?" Cat's voice calls to me. "Something wrong?"

"Yeah," I tell her, a lump in my throat. "Everything is wrong."

Kieran
We gather in William's old office. Delilah has a pale, ashen look on her face that
I've never seen before. It makes me want to reach out, take her in my arms, and
hold her close.

But I can never.

I should never have touched her in the first place.

I know that—and I knew it when the wolf in me took over and demanded that I
make her mine. Even now, I can still feel the weight of Finn's angry glare at my
back, and I know I deserve it. No part of me should even think about holding
Delilah, but I can't seem to stop wanting her.

Even while standing in her father's house, the echo of the promise I made him
ringing out in my head. Never let Delilah return to Glass Pack Territory.

What if he only said that because of the curse? Would I be betraying him to
encourage her to stay now that she's found her wolf? Is there a chance he would've
wanted me to save her from it so she could stay here?

I wish he were still alive to ask. The tragedy is, if he were, his daughter wouldn't
be standing right here in front of me.

"I don't know how to tell you all this," Delilah says. She has a thin blue folder in
her hands, which trembles in her fingers. "It's not something I entirely understand
myself. But I think it's real, and I think it explains... well, everything. Or at
least almost everything."

"What is it?" Lance asks, his entire body rippling with impatience. "If the curse has
something to do with the river water that streams from the mountains—I've
thought of that. The old peaks were once home to a dark witch coven, and it's
possible if we change our water source, make sure it's clean, we could reverse the
curse. It's expensive but—"

"It's not the water," Delilah says, her voice threaded through with anxiety. I have to
clench my fists to keep from going to her. "I'm not even sure that it can be
reversed. The journal doesn't really say what it's linked to exactly. But it does say
how it came to be."

There's tension in the room as we all wait for her to elaborate. My throat feels dry,
and I keep trying to figure out what to do with my hands.

If the curse can really be fixed, then that changes everything. It means that I could
finally have a mate. I could even have Delilah as my mate.

Even though it was the last thing her father wanted.

I dare to hope, even knowing I don't deserve her at all, as Finn's scorching
disapproval beats at the back of my neck.

"Well?" Roarke asks, shifting his weight and staring at Delilah with a hungry look,
desperate for answers. "Please, tell us. How did the curse start? Why did it start?
Surely we'll be able to reverse it if we know."
He almost sounds like he believes we can fix this thing. That'd be a surprise;
Roarke has been a staunch believer that the best thing for the pack is to be taken
over by another pack entirely. Maybe he's actually starting to hold out hope that
he'll have a mate of his own one day. It's something I want for him, though I
struggle to imagine any female who would be worthy.

"My father's file has a photocopy of a journal entry in it," Delilah says. "From what
I can tell, it's pretty old—the date is obscured, but it's from the 1800s. It almost
looks like a copy of a copy, or maybe a photo that wasn't taken well... that's beside
the point.

"I don't know where my father found it, or why he didn't have it up here in his
office. For all I know it was something he considered nothing more than a dead
end. What I do know, based on his notes and some of the passages, is that it's a
journal of the alpha of this pack more than a century ago.

"In the journal he writes that there's a cycle that happens in Glass Pack Territory,
that's tied to the land and the mate bonds somehow. Every seventy-seven years,
something changes in the magic of the shift for female werewolves."

She swallows, looks away, then back to us again, taking a deep breath.
"Apparently, according to this alpha, he discovered that the origin of the change
dated back one hundred and fifty four years. So long that his people had forgotten
it."

"What kind of change?" Lance asks. "What do you mean? Did he say?"

"I'm getting to it," she says, sounding distraught. "Sorry, it's hard to explain, but I
thought it would be better if I told all four of you at once instead of passing the
journal entries around. They're cursive and a little hard to make out."

"Don't worry about it," Finn says smoothly, all charm. He steps forward and lightly
squeezes Delilah's shoulder in reassurance. "You're doing your best."

She shoots him a grateful smile, and I feel the snap of angry jaws inside me. Ever
since that horrifying night three years ago, my wolf has been an unruly thing, hard
to summon and harder to contain. I get the sense that if I let him out right now he'll
tear out Finn's throat—so I try to gentle him and keep him at bay, though to be
honest, I'm not thrilled with Finn right now.

As if feeling my glare on him, he glances over his shoulder, smirks a little—and

steps back from Delilah. Only a single step, though. And there's still arrogance
written in every line of his body, as if to say: I'm not taking her now, because I
don't have to. I can take her any time that I want.
I'd disagree with that, but Finn has earned his arrogance. I've seen him charm the
clothes off women like it's nothing. He never leaves them unhappy or unsatisfied,
even if he's dating their best friends—and I'll never understand how he pulls it off.

All I know is that he better not treat Delilah like one of his many townies, or I'll
tear his head off his body with my bare human hands. No wolf required.

Delilah continues, and I tamp down my murderous rage enough to give her a
reassuring smile, still hopeful that what she's about to reveal might mean there's a
chance for us.

"The alpha in this journal does research into what's happening with his wolf pack
after two females die during the shift. What he discovers is a history in some of the
alpha artifacts, one that was never fully explained to him.

"Apparently, one hundred and fifty-four years before his female wolves started to
die, the same curse took hold of the Glass Pack, which then had a different name
and was a small pack, comprised of a handful of French fur trappers and Natives
who had what many felt was a curse.

"The wolves then looked for answers to what was happening to the females—and
why so many were dying, while others weren't. They quickly discovered that a
wolf-witch hybrid, a woman who'd been cast out of her own pack among the early
settlers, had given them a gift that was a double-edged sword. She'd laid an
intricate spell on them, one tied to the years and their generations.

"Because of her spell, every seventy-seven years, the pack would undergo a
transformation. Either the female werewolves of the pack would become strong,
the strongest ever seen, and go on to birth a new generation of werewolves—or
every single one of them would die. She called it a gift because the female wolves
would be the strongest, too strong to ever be cast out by their people like her. But it
was also a curse because it killed the weak without warning.

"The alpha in this journal discovered that seventy-seven years before the curse fell
on his pack, there had been great fortune in the pack. Seventy-seven years before
that, every female wolf had died. And so on until the very founding of the pack,
when it wasn't more than a dozen werewolves taking shelter near a Native village.

"He researched and researched for a cure to the curse. But he never found one.
Instead he was forced to watch as, for nearly a decade, every female wolf in the
pack died. Then one day it just... stopped. The next full moon rose, every female
wolf was called to turn, and none of them passed. For years after that, until he
stepped down in his role as alpha, he waited, but none of the women died again.
"Until seventy-seven years later, I guess—in the early 1940s, if I'm doing the math
right. And now." Her eyes are sorrowful as she looks down, grasping the folder in
her hands. "Either every young, unmated female wolf of the pack becomes strong
enough to defeat the curse, or they all die."

A silence falls over the room. Lance clears his throat. "Does it say
what strong means? How did any of the female wolves even survive?"

"No. And I have no idea." Delilah glances up at us, tears in her eyes. "All I know is
that if this is right, then we have several more years of deaths to live through. And
what's worst about it—every mated female who joins the pack will die, and every
female who was born into the pack will die after she chooses a mate. Either she
becomes strong enough on the day she's mated to beat the curse... or she just
doesn't. We don't even have a way of knowing which will happen until it's too
late."

Heaviness settles in my chest. Grabbing onto Williams' tattered old desk chair, I
pull it to me and sit on it heavily. Memories are playing out in my mind over and
over again, and I try to make sense of them.

"Delilah." She looks to me with wide eyes. "When did your Dad find this
information? Maybe you said, but I missed it. Do you know?"

Blinking, she looks down at her hands, her shoulders bowed with something like
grief or pain. In a low, quiet voice she says, "He found this a few months before
my fourteenth birthday."

I feel everything spin around me, the world tilting beneath my feet. She's not done.

"A few days later, he booked me a doctor's appointment to have a weird mole
removed from my skin. I don't even remember it—it didn't occur to me until I read
it in his notes. But it must have been the day he put the chip in my neck so I
wouldn't be able to shift during my ceremony."

It's hard to remember everything that happened on that fateful night seven years
ago. So much of it has been suppressed into the deepest parts of my mind.

What I do remember is that, not long before Delilah and I were to be chosen as
intendeds, William came to me. He told me that it couldn't happen, would never
happen. And that I had to reject her at the ceremony—not before, and certainly not
after, but during.

If I didn't, he would exile me from the pack, not in the way he exiled Delilah. But
by stripping the clothes from my body and tying me to a boulder at the foot of the
mountains, the way only the most shameful werewolves were once
punished.

He never told me there was a good reason for it.

I always blamed myself. But now I know.

"So it's true, then," I say aloud, looking up at Delilah, feeling the weight of three
other males on me. "None of us can ever take a mate. Because it'll kill them.

"It was never the land, or the water, or anything we could have stopped. It really
was us."

"So that's just it, then." Delilah brings the folder up to her chest and clutches it. "I
really never will have a mate. I can't. Because if I do, it'll kill me for sure."

"And your father knew why all along," I tell her, "and he never even told a single
one of us."

All that time. All those chances. He could've told me—could've explained why.

I thought for so long that it was my fault. I should've told him no. I never stood up
to him; just blindly did what he said. And the look on Delilah's face when she
couldn't shift killed me. I thought for sure that was the reason why William told me
to reject her. Surely it was because he knew she was shiftless.

But I still remember the way she looked at me as I said those words. I reject you! It
was me she blamed, tears coursing down her cheeks, sobs wracking her body. She
looked at me in pain as Niall dragged her away.

All I wanted was to go to her. But William grabbed my shoulder and held me
down, Stay, he snarled, stay, boy, or you'll face the same fate.

I hadn't been able to listen. Tearing away from him, I'd run after the back of Niall's
truck, desperate to get to her. My wolf came out and streaked across the open road
—only for a bigger, much stronger wolf to intercept, grab me, and shake me until I
whimpered.

The wounds from that encounter lasted for weeks. What lasted even longer were
William's words: I'm giving you a second chance, and you better take it. Don't ever
do anything like that again.

I listened to him. Believed he had all our best interests at heart. When Niall came
back, he told me he'd found a nice, warm city for Delilah, and her father had given
her plenty of money to set herself up with. He swore me to secrecy and told me to
never speak her name.
All that time, they never told me why. But they knew. Or at least William did.

I lived with so much doubt and self-hatred for seven fucking years that it tore me
apart.

And now, I know that I can never have the woman I truly love. Who my heart
beats for every second. Who makes me feel alive. Looking up at Delilah's beautiful
face, I feel a deep, keen sense of despair, because loving her is the same as killing
her.

An overwhelming sense of sadness and shame fills me. I find myself suddenly
shooting to my feet, dizzy with memories, with anger, with hatred. This house feels
like it's crushing me. The walls close in and the ceiling presses down.

"Kieran?"

Delilah's voice is small and sad. Just like that day. When I ruined everything by
trusting the one man who never should've led me astray.

All eyes are suddenly on me. I feel it: Delilah's hurt, Finn's deep anger, Lance's
disapproval, and the worst of all, Roarke's concern.

Because Delilah's life isn't the only one I ruined. Even the damage I've done to my
own life pales in comparison to what I've done to Roarke.

I can't feel it anymore. The hatred, pain, sadness, fear—everything, all of it at once.
My skin itches and crawls. I feel like I'm going to lose my mind.

As I turn towards the door, I hear a low, warning sound. Roarke says, "Kieran.
Don't."

It's too late.

The wolf in me ripples out into the world and streaks down the stairs, then out the
front door with a slam against the wood and a squeal of hinges. I hear a woman's
shout—probably Cat—and then I'm outside, paws against the ground, wind in my
fur as I race into the darkness at the edge of town.

Somewhere out there, oblivion awaits.

I'm going to chase it until I feel nothing at all.

Delilah
Roarke races down the stairs after Kieran the second he disappears. A moment
later there's a loud thump and a crack. I stare at the empty staircase, heart in my
throat, hating everything. It feels like the world is falling apart.

Lance turns to me, his eyes full of concern. "Are you okay?"

"Just figuring things out." I stare down the stairs at the empty space where Kieran
just was, his wolf like a furry bullet. "I should go after him."

Snorting, Finn shakes his head. "Don't bother. He'll be back in the morning, high as
a kite and completely out of it."

Though Lance shoots him a warning look, Finn just scoffs at him. "What? I said
what I said. It's true and you know it."

"Delilah cares for Kieran," Lance says in a low rumble, reaching out to cup my
elbow with his hand as if he needs to be there to hold me up. "She's still adjusting
to everything that's changed in her absence. You could be a little respectful."

Finn sighs. "Okay. Respectful... You should go after him, Delilah. Go see what it's
like while he's in this state. We'll hold down the fort here by continuing the
research—right, Lance?"

"Sure." Lance's eyes flick to me. "I'd like to read that journal, if you don't mind?"

"Of course." I pass it over to Lance. "Though I have to warn you, the handwriting
of the alpha who wrote the pages is a little messy. I think he was using some kind
of calligraphic pen or something. I've no idea how anyone ever read cursive like
that back in the day."

Lance gives me an amused smile. "It's not as antiquated as you might think. I've
had to learn how to read even the most slanted and thin styles of cursive in my time
doing research for the Preservation Archives. I'll type it up so we can all refer to it
whenever we need to. You go check on your friend."

"Thank you," I tell him, though I note the way he says friend. Clearly there's some
tension between the rest of the guys and Kieran. That's not really unexpected, but I
don't know how to handle it. "I'll be right back. I'm sure he's just stormed off
outside and is cooling off in the night air."

Lance and Finn exchange a look. Clearly they don't agree with my assessment—
they probably think Kieran is off getting bit by a vamp and injected with venom at
this very second.
But it can't be that fast for him. Besides, they don't know him like I do. The Kieran
I knew, the one I grew up with, wouldn't have run into the arms of chemical
oblivion at the first sign of trouble.

And even if that's what he did—even if he ran off to the woods to find the vampire
coven hanging out there and offer up some warm, fresh neck—Roarke will have
tracked him down and stopped him by now. He'll be able to talk sense into Kieran.
They were always joined at the hip, and that clearly hasn't changed.

This is what I tell myself as I jog down the stairs.

Then I reach the hallway, see Cat's stricken face as she sits at the kitchen table, and
turn to follow her gaze.

The door—I thought he'd thrown it open or kicked it down. But it's much worse
than that. Where once a thick slab of finished hardwood with leaded glass stood,
there's now little but splinters hanging off the twisted hinges. The glass is smashed
on the steps of the front porch, the doorknob thrown halfway out the door, and
parts of the doorway have been gouged by long, thick nails.

What's worse is the drips of blood mingled in with the hardwood bits. I can see
them with my wolf-heightened eyes and smell them with my nose.

He hit the door, fought it, and made it through in half a second without even
stopping to check his injuries.

I rush over to my foster mother. "Are you okay?"

"Something like that." Cat's expression is horrified, her face drained of color. She
blinks up at me with wide eyes. "That big thing... that was a werewolf?"

"Yes."

"I've seen wolves in zoos. I knew werewolves were bigger. But that isn't what I
expected." She shakes her head. "A second after he was out the door, Roarke came
down, and then he turned into this big furry thing and flew out into the night after
him. Which one was that, the one who destroyed the door?"

"Kieran."

"Of course." She snorts inelegantly. "Barely back in your life for the span of a
heartbeat and he's already causing trouble. Not that you're looking for it, but you
don't have my approval."
"Noted," I tell her with a small twitch of my lips. "He was upset by some of the
things we discovered about the curse... and my father. I want to go check on him.
Do me a favor and stay in here, okay?"

"You don't have to tell me twice. I'm not a feral cat—I don't go out any open door.
Or demolished door, as the case may be." She shakes her head again, the series of
events seemingly too much for even her tough-as-nails spirit to accept. "Be careful,
okay? I don't want that fool doing to you what he did to the front door."

"I will be. But I have a wolf inside me now too, remember? I'll be okay out there."

"Yeah. Yeah."

There's not much I can do to soothe Cat's frazzled nerves from here. Briefly, I
consider calling up to Lance and Finn—surely when they sent me down here to
check on Kieran they weren't expecting this—but decide against it. They already
seem to have a negative impression of the male, and I don't want to add to it. Better
to tell them about the front door in need of replacement after I've caught up with
him and dragged him back, sober, to prove to them he isn't who they think he is.

Unless I'm proven wrong.

Unless he isn't who I think he is.

Not that I even know who that is, I reflect as I step delicately over the shattered
glass of the door and down the porch steps to the yard. Kieran was my closest
friend. Then, my bigger desire. The worst heartbreak I ever felt—and the biggest
asshole I've ever met. Now? I don't know anymore, except that I wish I could have
the version of him I once dreamed of, who held me tight and made it all better.

It isn't fair to still want someone who rejected you. Whose words, tossed out in
bitter anger, left you broken and distraught on the ground, certain you're nothing
and no one. Kieran deserved to suffer for what he did to me. Maybe he still does.
But I can't help wanting to go to him, especially when he's so tormented by his
own doubts and guilt that he smashed through a door until he was bleeding to
escape them.

Guilt.That's what I saw in his eyes. It's what I smell in the air, lingering behind
him, as I follow his scent to the road and out into the darkness. Guilt. I have to
believe it's because he rejected me. I want to know that he will ask for my
forgiveness, and I can give it.

Otherwise, what we almost did with each other would be the worst, most shameful
mistake of my life, because if he isn't guilty for rejecting me, then he never
deserved me at all. And I just gave myself to him. Without even so much as a word
about the past.

It was my wolf that did it,I tell myself. As I step towards the waxing moon,
smelling blood in the air, tasting chaos on the tip of my tongue, I know that isn't
true.

The wolf inside me wants Kieran.

So does the woman on the outside.

"Ambrosia. Don't do this." Roarke's voice, floating on the wind, brings my

attention around. He sounds firm and unyielding, but beneath that, he's
almost pleading with whomever he's speaking to. "I know that you can. And I
know I can't stop you. But please don't."

Another voice, low and ragged, so soft I can barely hear it. "Do it, Ambrosia."

Kieran's voice.

I run towards him in the darkness, my feet hitting the ground at the fastest pace
they ever have, my legs pumping and my lungs burning. I cross more ground than I
thought possible in the span of a few seconds. A few breaths later, I'm standing
twenty, maybe thirty feet inside the woodland territory that surrounds Juniper, my
eyes adjusting to a scene in the darkness.

Roarke stands in a small clearing, his hands up, his feet frozen as he tries to move
towards two figures opposite him.

One of them is Kieran, his head stretched up, neck exposed, eyes open and wild as
they stare into the darkening sky.

Behind him is another figure: a woman. She's wearing a long silk dress slashed up
to the thighs, her breasts large and barely contained by her outfit, dark hair falling
like water to her elbows. Her skin is as pale as snow, and her face, which is
delicate and pointed at the chin, can only be described as gorgeous.

Taking a step forward, the woman wraps herself around Kieran. That's the only
word I can use to describe it. Her leg sensuously hitches forward to press against
him. One of her hands flattens against his chest, and the other grabs onto his chin,
jerking it up to expose more of his neck.

Even from a distance I can see her eyes spark with glowing light as she dips her
mouth towards the beating pulse beneath his skin.
"Please," Roarke says, his hands up, this time his eyes on Kieran, "you don't have
to do this. Don't... don't let her."

Kieran doesn't seem to even hear his best friend's words.

He does, however, moan as the woman slides herself against him and tightens her
grip.

The moan deepens and grows in intensity as her lips peel back, fangs dart from
beneath them, and she presses them quickly against his skin.

My nose catches the scent of fresh blood in the air.

The vampire's hand dips down towards Kieran's stomach, and he sags against her
grip as a slack-jawed expression takes over his face.

Horror and nausea coils in my stomach. I feel like I've intruded on an intimate
moment—and seen far, far more than I ever expected to see. The man listing back
against the vampire woman's body as she drains him of blood is not one I would've
let press his lips to mine. I wouldn't have even given him the time of day.

As for Roarke... I don't know why he doesn't leap forward to tear the vampire from
Kieran's neck. Why he just stands there, mute and silent, hands in fists as he
watches it happen. Kieran's pupils grow as the venom takes over, his body
twitching and spasming in her hands, and he does nothing.

I've seen too much. Whatever happens next, I don't want to be a part of it. Turning
my head away, I creep as quickly as I can from the scene.

Only for my feet to fall on a twig that breaks so loudly beneath my shoes that it
sounds like a firecracker.

There's a hiss in the darkness. A small sound, followed by the glow of a torch.
Someone rumbles out a growl—it could be Roarke, I can't tell—and a moment
later I'm staring at two... no, three vampires, pale and ashen, standing in the
darkness not far from the morbid scene.

One of them, a male, takes a step forward and tilts his chin up to scent the air.

Then smiles wickedly.

"Who do we have here?"

Roarke
No.Delilah. She can't be here. It isn't safe—the vampires, quickened by bloodlust
for werewolf blood, have been known to grow indiscriminate with their feedings.

More than that, though, this is something I never wanted to see.

As Ambrosia jerks her head up, fangs falling away from Kieran's neck, he
wobbles. I reach out to catch him before he can fall to the ground, even as disgust
churns within me, my movements bringing me closer to the female vampire. Her
head jerks over in Delilah's direction, and all I want to do is reach out and claw her
face off.

But I know where we are. How close we've come to the edges of their coven's
main feeding site. There's a reason why the pack never hunts on the west side of
town. We may not have a treaty signed in blood with the vampire coven, but we all
know where they are, and only the unwary or those hungry for a high venture this
way.

It's no place for a female like Delilah.

Kieran stumbles, and I put an arm under him, trying to keep him upright even as I
keep a watchful eye on Delilah. "What's wrong? Why'd you stop? Don't stop..."

Ambrosia doesn't listen to his slurred mumblings. She has her eyes on the female
werewolf in the distance. So do others in the coven—someone lights a fire torch,
and I spot Marcellus, Helene, and... Demetri.

Their leader.

He takes a step out of the darkness towards Delilah, and I don't like the way he
looks at her.

"Sober up," I murmur to Kieran, jerking him upright and pinching his
arm, hard. "You've gone and done it now, you dumbass. This time it isn't just your
favorite lady vampire who came for the feeding."

His eyes narrow, and he freezes. "Is that?"

"Lord Paleface himself, yes. Get it together—because if they try to even touch her,
I'm leaving your ass out here in the cold to fend for yourself."

Kieran seems to come together at my words, even as his eyes track Ambrosia, who
has abandoned him to stalk towards Delilah and the rest of the coven.

"I won't let them hurt her," he says, even though in his current state he probably
couldn't hurt an actual bunny. "Let me just... get the ol' wolfie wolf out. He's not
really responding right now."
"Move."

I jerk Kieran forward, ignoring his mutterings, which are half-out of it and half-
furious at the mere thought of the vampires touching Delilah. So far they don't
seem to be getting too close to her, but I don't like the way Demetri is staring in her
direction, or how Ambrosia comes to stand beside him and join him in naked
fascination.

Normally, those two don't get along. If disparate members of the coven are starting
to plot together on the same side of things, we're in trouble. The pack can barely
hold its own against vamps in disarray—as soon as every one of them decides to
do something about our weakness, we're over.

I need another alpha to come in and take the reins before that happens. As much as
it pains me to see the Glass Pack be dissolved, especially now that I've met a wild
female worthy of the name, it's the only way to stop them. Each predatory flicker
of their eyes on Delilah, every step they take towards her, is a sign of just how
precarious a situation we're in.

They're only supposed to drink from wolves who consent to it, or hunt us when
we're out hunting our prey. Not stalk us in the darkness so close to the edge of the
woods like this.

Once we're close enough, I can hear Demetri's words, his tone silken and sensual.
"You must understand, it's been so long since we've scented one of your kind. Ours
is only a curiosity. A simple drop or two would confirm it."

"I'm not letting you drink my blood." Delilah's tone sounds aggravated, and I tense
in preparation to get her back. "I don't need you to taste me. That's ridiculous."

Ambrosia murmurs, "It wouldn't hurt one bit, my darling. Only a needle's prick
and..." She squeezes her index finger. "A simple confirmation is all."

"You've given me no reason to give you something like that." Kieran straightens at
my side as Delilah backs up a step, clearly unnerved by the four vampires in front
of her. "I don't need a confirmation that I'm a—whatever-you-called it. I'm not
falling for your little tricks."

There's a growl. At first, I think it's coming from my chest. Belatedly I realize that
it's rumbling from Kieran's—and as he rips away from me, only stumbling a little, I
reach for him in vain.

Because it's no longer Kieran in charge as he launches himself towards the

vampires, his muscles rippling and skin tearing, clothes fading and eyes changing
color.
This time, the wolf inside him is in charge. Not the one he shifts into, briefly, on
purpose from time to time. But the wolf who was born on that terrible day Tara
bled out in front of him. The one who sometimes wakes in the middle of the night,
standing on a bed torn to shreds by wild claws, a blood-curdling howl leaving its
throat.

The wolf that doesn't bother to control himself at all.

Kieran's wolf is a deep, rich grey with thick fur at the throat and yellow eyes. His
paws hit the ground without a stumble, and he runs across the clearing without any
sign that the venom has weakened it at all.

As it reaches Demetri, I reach inside for my wolf as well. Mine is slow to waken.
He slumbers, deep under a blanket of sleep, ever since the day the mate bond was
broken between me and a girl who would've otherwise been doomed.

My eyes jerk to Delilah, standing stock-still in the middle of the clearing. Kieran's
wolf leaps on Demetri—and the vampire effortlessly, easily, throws him back. His
grey, furry body hits a thick tree trunk, and a sickening crunch follows. I wince at
the yelp that tears from his throat.

Delilah cringes back.

The wolf in me wakens in a flurry.

My stupid, slow, human feet shift first. The wolf surges through my blood and rips
from my muscles. His snarl twists my lips as long fangs burst from my gums. At a
supercharged pace, I hit the ground on four feet and sprint into the clearing.

The first thing I do is slide between Delilah and the vampires, my hackles up,
every bit of fur on my body standing on end.

"Well, well." There's a little tsking sound from Demetri. "We have another rabid
mutt to dispose of. This one seems to think he has a fighting chance. Shall we
show him his true odds?"

There's a cacophony of hissing.

An echo of dark laughter.

One by one, the vampires reach out their long limbs, hold out their lighted torches,
and ignite each other's flames.

Until I see the spark of a dozen tiny fires in the darkness, each of them illuminating
two or three vampires.
Some of whom, my swiveling ears tell me, have already paced behind us to flank
Delilah at her exposed back.

Demetri looks at me. I feel a surge of adrenaline, and I snarl at him, digging my
claws into the ground. My muscles ripple as I prepare to throw myself at him—all
two hundred pounds of muscle and fur.

Instead of facing me, he steps back into his coven, and is swallowed by their dark
forms.

In a bored tone he orders, "Kill him."

Delilah
They have torches. Actual, burning, fire torches, instead of flashlights or cell
phones or anything else created in the past few centuries.

Maybe because they're as old as the concept of a flashlight.

Or older.

A mad laugh bubbles up in my throat, but I squelch it. As the tense, dark brown-
black shaggy wolf at my feet informs me, I am currently in deep, deep shit.

I don't know what the European-accented man with the fancy white collar and
black velvet coat smelled when he sniffed the fucking air in front of me. Whatever
it is, he's willing to call dozens of his fellow bloodsuckers to the scene with his
weird Borg-like mind-meld. Clearly they really want a taste of this B positive.

Even Kieran, in his venom-addled state, could sense that. My eyes keep straying to
his huddled grey form, but he hasn't gotten up since the fancy-looking vamp
smashed him against a tree. The only comfort is the surge of his ribcage as he takes
a breath, and the pitiful whine that leaves his lips.

Roarke snarls at my feet. My eyes dart back to him, then up to Mr. Fancy-Vamp.
Surely, my terrified mind tells me, he can't really be planning on starting a full-out
turf war over a single drop of my blood. That must be in my imagination.

After all, the vampires haven't broken their unsteady truce so far. To do so would
be suicide—one wolf can tear out multiple vamp throats without breaking a sweat.
Not to mention their whole allergic-to-daylight thing. So he must just be bluffing.

That's what I'm hoping.

Up to the moment he melts back into his crowd of hissing ashen-faced brethren
and dramatically declares, "Kill him."

There's a cacophony of hissing and rumbling among the vampires. Those in the
back of the crowd dart forward like blurs. Those in the front tense and jostle
among each other.

Roarke lashes his tail and snarls.

I back up and glance over my shoulder—at another wave of vampires gathered

behind me. Torchlight glows in the distance. I count three or four bobbing lights.

Until, a moment later, they're all snuffed out.

And the darkness is that much more terrifying now that I know they've only let us
see them. Because, of course, they don't even need the thin sliver of moonlight and
starlight overhead to see by. All I can spot of them now is their glowing eyes.

Roarke's back legs skate on the ground as he prepares to pounce. I press up against
him, needing the steadiness of his body against my calves. My hand dips down to
graze against his fur.

There's a shift in the coven as one of the vampires rushes forward to strike.

Roarke makes his move. Whirling and twisting, he snaps his jaws up and tears the
vampire's arm from his shoulder. Then another strikes, this time from the left—and
he rakes his claws across him. Spittle and blood fly. Hisses and snarls echo.

My heart feels like a lump in my throat.

All at once the clearing fills with the sound of battle. But it's not the clang of
weapons or the clash of armies. Instead, it's just the near-silent, low rumble of flesh
against flesh as vampire after vampire throws themselves at the wolf.

He tears, rips, and claws at each of them. But there are too many. One by one they
descend in a horde, until he's overwhelmed, and his darkly furred form is buried by
pale limbs.

I stumble back in horror—or I'm pushed back. There are claws on my shoulders
suddenly, hands on my arms. I feel something scratch at my neck and twist around,
shuddering, eyes darting for vampiric forms that move too fast in the darkness.
They're blurs of white flesh and snatches of snarls.

"Get back!"
I know I should be faster than them. Stronger. I reach inside me for the wolf, but
she's gone—a tiny shrunken thing inside me, cowering in fear. Or maybe that's just
my imagination. All I know is that I don't feel her strength.

Hands tear and grasp at me.

"Stop it! Get away!"

There's a dark chuckle near my neck. I shudder. Something sharp and pointed rakes
at my sleeve. I cry out as it tears my skin—

There's a roar from the darkness. A grey form with yellow eyes pounces. I'm
thrown to the ground as snapping jaws rip the vampires away from me, tearing at
flesh and provoking hisses of anger.

Kieran stands over me, his yellow eyes glowing, panting heavily. I bury my fingers
in his fur and gasp as my hand comes back covered in glistening dark red blood.
His tongue lolls out of a wide-open mouth, pain crinkling the corners of his feral
eyes.

"Go," I whisper to him. "Run. Get help."

He shakes his shaggy head, pinning his ears back. Then, with a bravery I didn't
know anyone possessed, he leaps into the fray, moving with barely a hitch. I watch
him tear vampires away from Roarke's dark form. Kieran snarls as he uncovers his
friend, crouched in the darkness, tail lashing and blood seeping from countless
wounds.

Together they stand, curved forms bundled with tension, down and grievously
wounded but not out. They won't last for long, though. Someone has to go get help.

Getting to my feet, I move to do just that—and strong, sinuous arms grab tightly to
my shoulders, pinning me in place.

"My sweet precious." A feminine voice curls in my ear, and I smell Kieran's blood
on fetid breath. "You are quite a treat, aren't you? So valuable to provoke such
bravery in males. Not to worry—the fight will be over with soon, and we will get
you to safety."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," I snarl.

"Oh, but I think you are." Her left hand lifts as her right drags me back against her
cold body, and I feel the snick of steel against my neck. She's raised a long knife up
to my skin and pressed its tip against my pounding pulse too quickly to evade. "We
only need a drop, you see, but more will do. Your kind are known to recover from
even grave injuries... and a werewolf drained of most of her blood tends not to
fight back."

As the blade nicks my skin, my eyes dart to the two werewolves fighting back-to-
back in the clearing. Vampires surround them, darting in here and there for a slash
of claws and a peal of laughter, but they still stand—for now. It's obvious that the
vamps are just playing with them, and at any moment they could choose to end this
whole thing.

Terror thrums through me. I wish the she-wolf inside my blood would rise to the
occasion. It figures she was hot and hasty when it came to getting laid, but is
nowhere to be found now that I want her teeth and claws.

"I'll go with you," I tell the stinky female vampire, even as the thought fills me
with revulsion. "Just leave them alone. Let them go."

"An interesting bargain."

"And one you should be eager for. You've fed from Kieran plenty." The admission
makes me want to turn around and bite her in the face. "There's no reason to kill
your easiest prey."

"That is true enough. But the decision does not lie with me." There are footsteps in
the leaf litter, and a familiar figure stalks in front of me. Mr. Fancy-vamp.
"Demetri, what do you have to say to our precious she-wolf?"

"An interesting proposition. But I would be a fool to accept it." He gives me a

kind, patient smile that rings false and makes me fantasize ripping his face off like
it's taffeta. "You see, those wolves both smell like you, delicious darling. Which
means they'll keep looking for you long after you've been taken from here. We
cannot accept the risk."

No.There has to be a way. "I'll tell them I'm going willingly." I struggle against the
vampire's arms, but she grabs me tighter, the blade nearly cutting into my skin.
"They'll let me go, please, just don't kill them."

I hear a yelp and nearly start to cry. Rumbling starts as the vampires growl and
snarl. Bloodlust lingers in the air, along with the scent of the werewolf blood that
stimulates it.

Any minute now the vampires will start to feed, and they won't stop until there are
no beating pulses left.

"Please," I beg one last time, even as I imagine stretching Demetri's skin out and
turning him into a hairless rug. "Save them."
"I'm afraid that even I can't stop what's about to happen," he says as another yelp
splits the air. "Sometimes, even a well-heeled coven must feed, with or without its
master's approval."

"Those werewolves won't follow me," I whisper, twisting futilely in the hands that
hold me. "I promise."

A pained howl rips through the air. I feel something stir in me, an answering call of
sorts. Blinking, I see an explosion of light behind my eyes, searing my retinas. The
light forms a picture like a television screen: two wolves, one dark brown-black
with cunning black eyes, one grey with sorrowful yellow eyes, backs tight and lips
bared, fighting for their lives.

Come,the howl whispers in the air, thrums in my blood, your young master calls to
you.

I blink, and tears roll down my cheeks as my vision clears.

The vampire Demetri doesn't seem to hear the words beneath the howl or see the
picture. He just sighs as the last of the howl echoes in the night air.

"Werewolves have a stubbornness to them," he tells me, stalking forward to take

my chin in his hand. The knife eases at my neck as he grabs onto me. "While you
may tell them not to follow, and they may even swear it to you, it's a vow meant to
be broken. When it comes to their mates, these males are like rabid creatures. The
only thought that would occur to them is of chasing after you—and they would
follow you to the ends of the earth, even if it were the last thing they ever did."

A deep voice rumbles in the darkness, "They're not the only ones who would."

Lance.Hope makes me jerk against the hands holding me. They restrain me harder,
grabbing me and pulling me into the darkness as two new forms crash into the fray.

One, a large white wolf with a black nose and blue eyes, reminds me strikingly of
Lance. His huge form streaks through the darkness and leaps at Demetri, who
grabs onto his legs with a grunt, wrestling him away. I smell the sharpness of pine
and mint, with a deep undertone of snowfall, and my heart soars.

The other wolf follows quickly, darting towards the vampire coven converging on
Kieran and Roarke. Finn's form is a shaggy black wolf with a white shape on his
chest and silver eyes. Even from a distance I get a hint of his sensual scent,
reminding me of smoke and sweet vanilla.

"Stupid mutts," Ambrosia mutters in my ear, tugging me back against her. "Stay
quiet, little thing."
"You can't make me—"

"Oh but I can." She hisses and darts her lips against my cheek. The chillness of her
skin on mine makes me shudder. "This will hurt you more than it pleases me."

I'm about to part my lips and make a noise of protest when her fangs slip out and
pierce my skin. My cry of pain is silenced by the sudden flush of numbness that
suffuses me, its chill spreading from my head to the base of my neck and down. I
struggle, but by the time a few seconds have passed even my toes are numb.

She withdraws and licks the wound, humming beneath her breath. "Good little
doggy. You see? There's no reason to cry or scream. Soon you'll be warm and
safe... for a little while. You are exactly what we need."

I don't know what she's talking about. I do know that I have no idea how Kieran
could ever stand this feeling. It's as if I'm trapped in my own skin. Then again, I get
the sense that what she just did to me isn't what she did to him—especially because
she makes a pained, hungry sound against my neck, like she just gave me all the
venom in her body and has little left.

The numbness means I'm incapable of even blinking as a horrible scene unfolds in
front of me.

First, Finn is gouged by vampire claws from shoulder to haunches. He screams in

pain, only to turn on wicked-fast legs and launch himself at the vamp who did it.
Though his canines sink into pale skin and tear a throat apart, moments later he's
attacked from behind, and has to whirl around to do it again.

Meanwhile, Demetri has thrown Lance off and is fighting him in a blur of ashen
flesh and white fur. While it seems like the large white wolf has the advantage, and
I internally cheer, moments later his fur is streaked with red. Demetri is a blur of
teasing and dancing, attacking him from one direction only to get away just as
Lance's teeth close on air.

What's most heartbreaking of all, however, is how Kieran and Roarke keep
fighting. Even as Roarke's tail is nearly torn from his body, he limps forward and
bares bloodied teeth to tear more vampire appendages from their undead bodies.
And Kieran—the once-limp wolf is alive with anger, bounding through the woods,
twisting off tree trunks to launch himself teeth-first at his enemies. But even I can
see from a distance how his claws hit flesh with more and more exhaustion with
each swipe.

They're outnumbered and quickly losing strength. With no one to rally them, no
alpha to give them strength, their wolves tire easily. And the land beneath us, once
fertile from the bond of the pack, might as well be salted earth. It has no warmth of
werewolf magic in it, and no defenses rise to protect the pack.

In the old days, when the pack was strong, the very trees would have jerked their
roots up from the ground and walked across the earth to smack the vampires in the
chest. Ivy vines would lash their skin, and the lakes would rise to drown them.

Now it feels as if the dead leaves that crunch beneath my feet as Ambrosia drags
me away are mocking me.

"You see, special little wolf?" Her voice is a dreadful whisper against my ear;
revulsion fills me at the stink of blood on her breath. "It is almost over."

It is.

Lance falters, and Demetri pauses in his teasing to sink two claws hands into his
neck, making me wish I could kill the vampire myself.

The scream of Roarke as fire lashes at him from a vampire torch is like torture to
my ears.

Finn's teeth close on air as the vampires double their effort to evade him. One
grabs his injured rear leg and twists it to the side until a sickening crunch fills the
air, and white bone jerks out of skin.

Kieran. Poor, desperate Kieran, who ran out here and somehow started this all—or
who led me here, and something about me started it—fights as if he isn't bleeding
from a dozen wounds. As if he doesn't drip with his own blood as well as that of
his enemies. Even his tongue is cut, lolling sideways from his mouth, the red
rimming his lips and teeth a mixture of vampire blood and his own.

As Ambrosia drags me back one step, two, ten, twenty—they keep fighting.
Surging. Leaping, biting, snapping, clawing. Doing their best.

And failing.

I have to close my eyes and turn my head away, but my neck only moves a few
millimeters before it freezes up.

Even that small movement gives me hope.

The venom's paralysis isn't complete. It's made my legs and arms useless, but I can
still breathe, swallow, and direct my eyes. That must mean something.

With my eyes closed, my other senses heighten. I can smell it all: the sharp tang of
blood, the mellow rot of leaf litter on the ground, flesh rotting beneath pale
vampire skin, and intertwined with it all four distinct scents of four very different
males.

One who welcomed me when I got to town with protectiveness and steady
comfort. One whose flirtations made me feel more alive, his sweet charming words
bringing a blush to my skin. One who I thought I knew as a child, only to

discover he'd turned into a man while I was gone.

One who broke my heart, and has yet to piece it together, but breaks it anew every
day—because I see the shell of a man he's become, and I wish there was a way to
undo it all, for both our sakes.

The ache I feel at the sound of their cries is overwhelming. It makes my fingertips
tingle and my pulse quicken. Fills me with something that's like strength, but a
little different, as if I'm flexing a different muscle.

"Fuck!" Ambrosia shifts her arms under my shoulders, getting a better grip on my
limp body. "You just gained a whole twenty pounds in one second, wolf. Whatever
you're doing—if this is you trying to shift—stop it right now or I'll drain twenty
pounds of blood from your body."

I can sense it. The heaviness inside me. It's not a literal twenty pounds; that's just
Ambrosia feeling me go limp as a different kind of numbness fills my body.

Beneath my feet, the earth is quiet and cold. Its powers have slept for years. No
one has tended to the magic that courses through it, running alongside the clay, silt,
sand, and water. But the magic is still there—buried deep, beneath a kind of
permafrost, just waiting for the sun to warm its surface and bring it up.

I am the sun.

I warm its surface.

Finn
As I sink my teeth into a vampire's fleshy calf, I have to force myself not to retch.
The taste of him is like rotted meat and spoiled eggs on my
tongue. Vampires. Dead things should stay dead, and that's the rule of it.

But even the chunk I take out of him and spit onto the ground isn't enough to stop
him from slashing my side with those pointed claws of theirs. I jerk away and twist
around, severing the hand that did it. Too late, though; the fucker just laughs, his
wound barely seeping blood, as vampire venom makes my legs twitch and my
head tremble.
I knew one day the vampires at the edge of town would make us regret not tearing
all their throats out. When William was alive, I tried to convince him to get a
hunting party together just for them. I'd gotten him all the way to the planning
stages when his mate, Queenie, suddenly started bleeding from the eyes.

After that, he was a shadow of his former self, like a man walking with a six-inch
hole blown through his chest. You could see him, but you could also see through
the hole to the other side, and you knew there was no saving him. No mate can
replace one who died like that, the horror of it seeping through the mate bond. And
she was his second mate to die, so it nearly killed him. He forgot all about the
coven of bloodsucking monsters.

Now the vamps have gotten greedy and fat. They've feasted on far too much
werewolf blood—Kieran isn't the only pack member looking for oblivion—and
they're stuffed with the strength of it. That power, our stolen power, flows through
them as they slash and claw at us like demons.

There shouldn't be so many of them. I swear, this is two or three covens at least. As
I tear through limbs and leap onto them to snap at their throats, I feel the futility of
it. Even the ones who go limp beneath my teeth will only rise again in a day or two
to fuck with us some more.

It isn't enough. It never will be.

Maybe Roarke is right.

Maybe there is no use in keeping Glass Pack going. Not like this, with blood on
our fur and rotten flesh in our mouths, while the land beneath us stays still and
silent, refusing to do its job.

We have failed our mates, watched our females die, and now we suffer for it.

A vampire blurs past me. Another throws me off him as I leap onto his chest. A
third, as if sensing my weakness, grabs onto my injured leg and twists it.

The pain makes me twist around to snarl at him.

Just as he grabs the upper part of my leg with his other hand and snaps the bone in
two.

White-hot pain lances me. I scream, going down, my muzzle hitting the cold earth.
Laughter greets my ears. Surging to my front feet, I dart out to bite off the mouth
of the vamp who laughs the loudest—but even the sweet release of silencing him
doesn't make the pain go away.

They're going to kill us.

Slowly, and with as much pain as possible, but clearly the end goal here is not to
fight another day.

So be it. I'll show them teeth and claw until the end. At least if I take down as
many of them as possible, I'll die with sick satisfaction in my chest.

I only hope it's enough to help Delilah get away.

Delilah.The thought of her sweet face, melting into laughter and pleasure, is
enough to make me twist up on three legs and take another vamp hand for the pile.
I shake it back and forth like a dog until it twists off its body, then spit it out to join
the pile of rotted vamp flesh at my feet.

As I do so, a kind of warmth fills me. Like a new sun rising on a cold wintery day
to chill the frost of a long, dark night.

Maybe it's the warm, comfortable feeling you get just prior to death.

If so, I better find another vamp limb to sever, because I'm not wasting a single
second of this life of mine.

But no, that isn't what it is, I realize as the tingle moves through me and sets my fur
on end. Turning my head, I meet two pairs of eyes across the clearing—soulful
yellow and clever black. Then I look the other way, towards the darkness where a
vampire woman was holding Delilah.

They're gone.

Nothing but darkness is in their place.

And a moment later, the crash of thousands of gallons of water. Like a tsunami far
from the ocean's shore, an entire wave moves across dry land. Its rumbling force
sweeps at legs and plucks entire bodies away, swiftly dragging them underwater
with its force. Yet the water parts all around my feet, doing nothing but gently
spraying at my skin.

Within seconds, at least a hundred vampires have been dragged screaming and
cursing beneath its depths.

Then, like some kind of living ooze, the water reverses course. It gathers the
bloodsucking flesh-eating cretins and jerks them in the other direction. I feel it as
they're sucked away—taken hundreds of miles through the forest, out to dead land
at the edge of Glass Pack Territory, where war with humans was once waged, and
dumped in a landfill.
The forest whispers secrets in a light breeze near my ears, which prick up at the
sound of it. A large, shaggy white form streaked with blood paces up to me, and I
turn questioning eyes to Lance.

Did you do this?

He feels the whisper of thought as he would my voice. A moment later he shakes

his head.

I look to Roarke, who negates my question as well. Reluctantly, I glance at Kieran

—surely he couldn't be capable of such a thing—but he also shakes his head no.

Delilah.

Lifting my nose, I scent the air for her. The others do the same. On three legs, I
hop towards the spot in the darkness where she once was, and bury my muzzle in
it, searching for the last traces of her scent.

It's all gone.

As if she was never here at all.

Delilah
The waves close over my head. I struggle for breath, unable to swim to the surface.
Water pushes in on me for what feels like an eternity, dragging me away from
home foot by foot, yard by yard.

At some point I become certain that I'm going to die.

What an irony that would be. Though I'm pretty certain that warm tingling feeling I
felt was something inside me calling to the land and tugging on its bond with the
pack, clearly the earth doesn't include me as part of "the pack" yet. The power I
called on wasn't my own to control, so it threw me in with the bloodsuckers and is
pulling me under to my death.

My only saving grace is that I'm not alone under this dark, warm water. Bodies
bump up against me—and other things. Severed hands and limbs mostly.
Apparently when the earth throws invaders out of pack territory, it gets all the
pieces.

The desire for air claws at my chest, and I open my mouth to inhale water.

A moment later I'm thrown from the waves and onto the ground. I land on my
hands and knees, coughing and retching. Water and bile sputter from my lips.
Groaning, I roll over onto my back and flop onto the ground, a putrid scent hitting
my nose.

It's dark out here, far from any kind of urban environment, but my extra-sensitive
wolf nose tells me that I'm not far from some kind of garbage dump. From there,
I'm able to figure out pretty quickly that I've just been pushed to the edge of pack
territory—right to the deadlands, where humans and werewolves once fought, and
nothing now grows.

Smack dab in the middle of vampire country.

Because what would the undead bloodsuckers love more than dirt that grows
nothing living and the smell of rotten garbage?

Well, they'd love to be able to live in the middle of human cities, but ancient
guardian spells prevent that. So they make homes out of abandoned places and
pick off those at the edge of society.

Vampires are truly evil, primordial creatures with no redeeming qualities.

Just my luck that I've been thrown to the middle of nowhere with about a hundred
of them.

As they move around me, surging to their feet and exchanging curses, hisses and
growls leaving their ashen lips, I gather my strength. Thankfully, when the wave of
water threw us out of pack territory it scattered us far apart. Ambrosia is nowhere
near me, and any other vampires must be at least a few yards away.

I have a few precious seconds to myself in which I might escape.

And while the pack territory's magic threw me out, I have to hope that it'll let me
back in. My reassurance on that is fuzzy—normally the land only lets visitors in
during the day on well-established roads like the one I drove up to get here—but
it's about the only thing I have to cling to right now. Just because the earth rose
long enough to throw me and these bloodsuckers out doesn't mean it's gotten
strong enough to create a barrier around the land.

So I cautiously flip over onto my belly, get my legs under me, and take slow, even
breaths. Studying the stretch of land between me and the trees that mark the edge
of the territory, I feel a giddy hope within me.

It's not that far away. I can make it.

But I'm going to need a little superhuman strength.

Please.Closing my eyes, I reach within me for... something. I was taught growing
up that the wolf is an instinctual thing, rising to the surface when needed, but
there's no telling what years of the chip in my neck has done to her. I need you
now. We both need your strength.

I don't feel an answering voice within me, and for a moment, I despair. Then, a
breath later, strength surges through me. Fire races within my veins, and my
muscles tense with coiled energy.

Just in time. I hear a murmur at my back, and I know with a sick lurch in my
stomach that the vampires have figured out who, and what, is with them.

Pushing to my feet, I run towards the distant trees as fast as I can. Each step pumps
my legs faster and faster as pure adrenaline pushes me. I hear the roar of vampires
behind me, the hiss of anger and the race of their feet, so I pump my legs as fast as
they'll take me.

Each step brings me flying across the earth.

Every stretch of my legs and breath of my lungs is invigorating.

Almost there.Tree trunks loom large in my vision. A wild grin blooms on my

lips. Just a few more steps—

"Not so fast."

I gasp in pain as a hand coils around my hair and jerks me to a stop. As I thrash in
the strong grip, another hand falls to my neck and squeezes out my air until I'm
gasping for another reason.

Demetri.

I forgot that the leader of a coven of vampires is stronger and faster than the rest,
just like an alpha wolf.

He also kept himself out of the fray enough to have apparently kept all his limbs.
Too bad. I would pay good money to watch Finn's wolf sever a few fingers and a
calf or two off this fucker.

Finn.I hope he's able to recover from his broken leg. Even if I don't make it, he
should at least be safe. All the guys should be. Please. Let this have been worth it.

"You didn't think we'd let our precious get away, did you?" Demetri jerks me
against his chest, and bile rises in my stomach as something very odious pokes
against my ass. He grinds his hips forward and chuckles, loosening his hand at my
neck enough for me to choke in air. "I thought I tasted you in the water as we were
carried away. How lucky I am that we've managed to get everything we wanted...
well, almost everything. I was hoping to eat wolf stew tonight, but no matter."

His mouth hovers near my ear as the hand on my hair slides down to cup my right
breast, his long fingers digging in. "Thankfully that little wave carried us all far
enough away that those males won't be able to come and get you. Especially in
their current state. If they even survive, of course. So often it's hard to know if your
kind will."

"Fuck you."

Demetri chuckles. "All in good time," he says, which is enough to make me jerk
forward and snap at his hands. He gets them away before I can connect, his strong
arms snaking around my waist and neck to hold me tight. "First, we want to
confirm that you are what we think you are."

"I told you, she's the one." Ambrosia's voice, silken and pouty. "I tasted her while I
was dragging her away from those males. A hard bit of work you never thanked
me for."

"Yes, yes, you're welcome."

I fix hard eyes on Ambrosia as she moves into my line of sight, something she
doesn't seem to notice.

Demetri murmurs, "Still, seeing is believing, isn't it? We can't exactly bring her to
the quorum without confirmation. Especially now that so many of our brethren
have risked so much and lost their literal limbs in the service of taking her."

Ambrosia snorts. "Very well. But it will be on your head if any harm comes to her
before they're able to get their hands on her."

"Everything is on my head."

My mind tries to make sense of their squabbling, but the only word I know the
reference to is quorum. That's the governing body of vampires in the Americas and
outlying islands. They're a kind of oversight, keeping certain members in check
and negotiating with other creatures and humans alike.

Why they would be interested in me, I have no idea. All I'm sure of is that my
freedom is a few yards away—so close I can taste it. And the last thing I want is to
stay in the arms of this jackass, with his pencil-thin erection poking against my ass
cheek.

So I relax in his arms intentionally, letting my weight drag down. In the same
moment he pulls my neck towards his mouth, and his fangs snik out.
I take in a breath as they pierce my skin, tensing my muscles. Venom courses
through me—enough to numb my skin and neck.

Demetri makes a noise of pleasure as my blood hits his tongue.

If there's one thing I know about vampires, it's this: they're never more vulnerable
than when drinking blood.

Also, they have all the same parts and weakness as humans, even though they
recover from mortal wounds more easily. So I guess I know two things.

As Demetri's hands relax their grip on me, I ease my hips away to make space
between us, then take my right fist and punch hard behind me, right towards his
crotch.

He groans and jerks back in sudden pain. Hopefully, his balls are currently
shrinking up into his body and his dick is wilting like an overripe banana.

I don't pause to find out how much of it he feels. With a rush of triumph, I run
directly towards the trees in the distance, pushing myself to the very limits of my
body so I get as much speed as possible.

My legs fly. The ground barely touches me. I grin as I get within a yard of the
trees, then a few feet, then one foot—I

take my final step.

An invisible barrier surges up to meet me and throws me back.

As I'm thrown from my home, my territory, my pack, and the men I just saved—
none of whom, I'm realizing with a sick punch, are actually mine—I feel the rush of
cruel wind in my ears. Then the ground meets me, and I groan in pain, eyes
squeezing shut.

How cruel, to have forgotten for a moment what I am.

Rejected. Exiled. Unwanted.

Unwelcome.

"How nice," says Ambrosia's smug voice from above my head, "the mutts come
with their own built-in return delivery system."

This time, when I'm grabbed by a hand at my throat and fangs sink into my neck, I
let it happen.
At least I manage to close my eyes so I can fall asleep as the paralysis takes my
body.

***

I wake sometime later with a pounding headache. Jeers and laughter greet my ears.
Groaning, I force open my eyes and blink in late-morning sunlight.

Somehow I've been out of it for hours.

And now I'm in a totally new location. I no longer smell or hear trees in the
distance, or feel the call of the earth beneath me. Old blood hits my nose, and I
blink to see pale ashen faces all around me.

One of them is smirking down at me from above, hands around my wrists,

dragging me on my back across carved stone flooring. A male with dark hair and a
small goatee—not Demetri, but one of the others who was with him when I found
Kieran.

"Good, you're awake." He grins without humor as I stare up at him—then past him,
into the sky. "Just in time. Not that it wouldn't have been fun to watch the thing eat
you alive, but I always enjoy a good sport."

I can't work my mouth well enough to get out a retort, and my head is pounding
too much to think of one. Numbness still tingles in my body from the waist down
and the shoulders up, but I'm able to bring my head up until I'm staring at my
surroundings.

I'm in the middle of some kind of old, Roman-style indoor-slash-outdoor arena.

The pale vampiric faces I saw earlier are sitting on rows of curved seating above
me. Columns stretch above my head towards the sky, while an open dome lets in
the sunlight. My shoes bounce against pits and gouges in stone, suggesting this
place has seen a good deal of wear and tear.

The man dragging me stops, grabs the back of my collar, and hefts me up. In a
bored voice he says, "Watch your head."

Then he throws me down.

A scream tears out of me as I fall ten, twenty, thirty feet—then hit the ground with
a thump that pushes all the air from my lungs. Above me, faces in the distant
crowd peer down into the dark pit I'm in. A small ledge was all that was separating
me from this pit—the vampire who threw me down smirks at me and waves from
his spot in it.

"Asshole," I mutter, sitting up and forcing my limbs to move. I reach around to

probe the back of my head, and give a sigh of relief when I don't hit anything
tender or bleeding. "I could've died like that."

There's a low, deep growl from behind me.

Instinctively, I freeze.

Then slowly, carefully, I get my feet under me, rise into a crouch, and turn around
to face the thing behind me in the darkness.

Red eyes greet me at exactly my level. The light down here hits the middle of the
pit, but the edges are dark. There's a soft glowing light coming from the wall to the
left, but my eyes are on whatever I'm down here with.

After a moment, my pupils adjust to the semi-darkness. Blinking a few times, I

take in a sharp breath in horror, and my nose confirms what I see.

There's a werewolf in this pit with me.

A large brown-and-tan wolf crouches in the pit opposite me. A long chain is
anchored in the wall and coils to connect with the manacle around a thick,
muscular front leg.

It—no, he, my nose tells me with a second breath—is leggy, with short, dense fur
and a sleek shape, but no less muscular for it. I can see every bunched up muscle in
its legs, all the tenseness around its shoulders. He peels his lips back to bare his
teeth at me, and I wince at the sight of the wear and tear on his long, curving fangs.

Between that and the scars along his side, I can guess that the wolf before me has
been through a lot.

My hands brace on the ground beneath me, and the gouges in the stone take on
new meaning. It isn't age that's done this to whatever gauche arena we're in. The
wolf, fighting to get out, has dug his claws into the stone until it parted.

"Who did this to you?" I pitch my voice low, leaning towards him. "You can tell
me. Maybe if I help you, we can get out together—whatever they want, I'm sure
between the two of us, we can find out a way to fool them long enough to escape."

The only answer I get in response is a snarl. My heart sinks. Whatever has been
done to this werewolf, and why, it won't be easily reversed.
My eyes are drawn to the glowing light to the left of me. Blinking a few times, I
take it in, trying to figure out what it is. There's an oval shape in the middle of the
light, and it's set in a ledge in the wall. It gives off a faint blue-white light that
blankets the pit wherever it touches darkness.

Moving towards the light—and careful to keep my back up against the wall, so I'm
out of reach of the chains—I reach out to graze my fingers against it. Warmth and
smoothness greets me, but nothing menacing.

From above a bored voice shouts out, "Get on with it already!"

Others join in.

"What's the hold up?"

"Turn, you weakling!"

"I can't believe we lost limbs for this bitch."

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

I tune them out, my entire being focused on the oval shape beneath my fingers. It
seems so familiar. So comforting, soothing, and almost hypnotizing.

Closing my eyes, I move my face instinctively towards it, and sudden realization
hits me. This is like being hit with a beam of moonlight. The cool light against my
skin, the pull of it.

It's a moonstone.

A little piece of the moon's magic trapped in a large, perfectly polished stone by
using witchcraft.

Pulling away from it, I glance back at the wolf. He snarls louder and stalks towards
me, stopped only by the rattling length of his chain. My heart breaks for him.

While we werewolves can generally shift whenever we want, the moon does have
sway over us. Its fullness sparks our first shifts, and every full moon thereafter is a
siren call hard to resist. Most don't bother. My childhood was full of long nights
listening to the howls and yips of happy wolves playing and hunting in the forest
about once a month.

But the moon is also a curse when it's always present. Down here with the
moonstone, he won't be able to resist its pull. His wolf has taken over, and the
human side can't get back in control.
As he jerks at the chain, his temper rises, those red eyes glaring at me. I feel a
sudden spark of fear inside me, something I've never felt before at the sight of a
wolf. His head lowers towards his leg, and he digs his teeth into his own flesh,
trying to break the manacle's grip on him.

I don't doubt what he'll do the instant he's able to get free.

Something that seems more likely when a panel in the wall behind him opens up,
and a sneering vampiric face is revealed through a hole in the wall. Pale arms reach
through the hole towards the chain's anchor. Deftly pulling out a thick iron key,
they shove it into a lock—and turn.

My stomach flips.

Jerking away from the moonstone, I scrabble back against the far wall. My foot
hits something on the ground, and I look down for only a moment. The sight of a
bone bleached by the sun greets me.

A clang pulls my attention back to the scene opposite me. Freed, the chains slip
down from their anchor. The wolf's ears prick, and he picks up his manacled foot,
loose chains whipping across the ground.

I lick my lips, my heart beating in time with the chants from above.

Fight, fight, fight!

"Please," I beg, staring into deep, red eyes. "I don't want to hurt you. And I
definitely don't want to be hurt."

Lips peel back from white teeth, and paws the size of saucers dig into the ground.
There's a squealing sound as stone peels back beneath sharpened claws. Muscles
well-honed for fighting bunch and ripple with tension.

A soft blue-white light glows against my face.

I send up a little prayer for forgiveness, no matter what happens next.

Taking in a deep breath, I think of the place inside me where she was always
supposed to be. The wolf I grew up knowing was within me. The one whose
presence I mourned the day she didn't appear, and I lost everything in one fell
stroke.

My best friend. My father. My pack. My homeland. And the hope of ever truly
being loved.
I've wanted to know her ever since I discovered she was real. Unlike everyone
around me, she never abandoned me. That was the lie. She was in me all along.

I just don't know who I'm more afraid of—the wolf crouched to attack opposite
me, or the one inside, who may not be much of a wolf anymore after years of
imprisonment.

It might be a terrible idea to let her out.

As the wolf surges forward, his feet hitting the ground and quickly eating at the
space between us, I admit that I have no choice. It's him or me.

I have to let the monster out.

So I shift.

THE END - FOR NOW

Also by Lucy Auburn

Phoenix Academy

The First Years

Phoenix Academy: Awaken

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Harri Raines Gets Ahead with the Dead

Wolf Ascendant

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Godblood Prison

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Hell Sucks

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