3

I stopped in my tracks, my face warming. Oh no. She didn’t hear me, did she?

“What’s with that face?” She chuckled. “I ask because you look like you woke up in the middle of something intense.”

“O-oh. Yeah. I had one of those dreams again.”

“Ah, the man with the haunting eyes?”

I nodded. I elected to leave the sexual part out of my description, though I couldn’t help the slight warmth that returned to my cheeks. Thankfully, Mom didn’t seem to notice.

She moved with the grace of a dancer as she grabbed the honey jar from the counter. As we lived on the outskirts of the pack in our small house, honey was one of the few indulgences we could afford. The tea, however, was something we had in abundance thanks to our little herb garden in the kitchen window. The small garden included lemon verbena, thyme, rosemary, and basil.

As Mom let the honey drip into her mug, she said, “Have you ever tried speaking to the man in your dreams?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have much of a voice in them.” If you exclude the moaning, I added silently.

“Mm.” She brought the mug to her lips, downing what must’ve been half of her tea in just a few swallows. “I think your dreams are a sign of things to come.”

I resisted the urge to sigh. How often had my mom tried to convince me that I had a psychic connection to the green-eyed man? Too many to count. “Like a premonition?”

She inclined her head. “Of sorts.”

“Mom…you already know how I feel about that mystical stuff. I understand respecting the land and giving back to the community, but dreams?” I shook my head. I would never say this out loud because it would hurt her feelings, but if magic was real—if I had any connection to it—why did it allow me to feel so empty inside? Why didn’t I have any friends of my own and not just my mom in my corner?

Mom shrugged. “You should open your heart to this mystical stuff more often, love.” She took another long drink of tea and set the mostly empty cup in the sink. “Are you headed to the dining hall to make breakfast?”

“Yeah. Are you ready to go?”

“Just let me put on my shoes.”

Despite the strange start to the day, I smiled as Mom pulled on her boots. She always made things easier. We stepped outside to the cool, blue morning. The surrounding trees and cabins looked like shadowy sentinels against the dark sapphire sky. As a hot-blooded shifter, Mom wore cotton pants, a wrapped tunic, and nothing else. Cold temperatures didn’t bother shifters, which only served to make me stand out even more in my multiple layers. But today, I didn’t dwell on our differences too much as a thought occurred to me.

“By the way, Mom, how are the new peppers doing?”

“Really well, actually. I want you to look at them when you have the chance.”

I grinned. Though Mom knew just about all there was to know about gardening, she often asked me for a second opinion because of my “natural affinity for the soil,” as she liked to call it. The only parts of my life that weren’t exceedingly difficult were those I shared with her. Especially gardening.

The best part about the community garden was feeling fresh, cool dirt on my hands and talking to my mom. Peppers were a new addition to the garden, and I felt exceedingly pleased that they were thriving. Gardening came so easily to me—it was the only thing I was any good at.

The dining hall was constructed entirely from wide pinewood planks. The floors, walls, ceiling, tables, and benches were all pine. The whole building already smelled savory and sweet. Mom and I stamped our feet on the rug by the door. With the morning dew off our boots, we walked toward the back of the dining hall to the kitchen.

We exchanged brief pleasantries with those already in the kitchen—familiar faces from other houses who shared the kitchen duty with us that morning. I glanced at Mom. The others might have stayed quiet around me because of my low status, but Mom’s presence encouraged the others to be nice to me. Her status as one of the oldest members of the pack, and as someone who helped those who were sick without expecting anything in return, inspired respect throughout the pack and even adoration in some. Of course, that deference didn’t extend to me.

Breakfast—oatmeal, bacon, scrambled eggs, and wild berry jam—had already been cooked, so Mom and I took our spots among the others where plates and bowls were stacked. We just needed to plate the breakfast. I enjoyed cooking and even liked washing dishes—something about being surrounded by food or burying my hands in warm, soapy water relaxed me—but I didn’t so much enjoy being visible like this. Serving breakfast was fine but feeling the constant need to duck my head and avoid eye contact with the pack was stressful.

As everyone began working, murmured conversation started up around us. Though we didn’t join in, the chatter added some intrigue to what would otherwise be a monotonous task. I caught murmurings of, “Such a shame about Gregor—” “—will other packs try to move in on us while he’s sick?” “How many of us would even miss that old—” and “—at least when he finally kicks the bucket, the funeral will get me out of laundry duty.” The latter two comments were met with harsh shushing. No one wanted to speak out of turn too loudly, or they would face the wrath of Troy or one of his goons.

Despite the mixed responses to the news of the Alpha’s declining health, the general mood in the mess hall was somber and quiet. I zoned out as the conversation continued, losing myself in the mindless motions of filling bowls with oatmeal.