Chapter 2

As the front rig comes to a full stop, the man driving hops out, slamming his door as he does. He's every bit of the average warrior. Tall, muscular, with dark hair and eyes—nothing stand-out. Nothing that would make you look twice at him, at least if you're a werewolf, but his aura is imposing enough that it's obvious this is the gamma, and you can tell he's proud of that. He stands stark straight, perfect posture, head held high.

None of the packs use uniforms so as not to draw the attention of humans, but you can tell he imposes one of sorts anyway. I watch as his men begin to file out of the increasing number of vehicles arriving. They are all dressed similarly. Dark slacks, black shoes shined to perfection, plain dark t-shirts. The only difference is in the shirt color and the slight variance of their facial features, and more just keep coming.

I try to appraise my new guests. We've housed warriors from nearly every pack now, but never Blood Moon. Their pack is reclusive. Members rarely leave their lands, and they don't exactly have the best reputation. Of course, many packs don't.

It's not uncommon for alphas to intentionally make themselves and their warriors sound a bit more ruthless and bloodthirsty than they actually are. A little fear helps set healthy boundaries and can make your enemies think twice, but I'm not so sure that's the case here. They have a roughness about them, a darkness.

"Mam," the gamma tips his chin at me and makes a weird motion with his hand, like a cowboy with an invisible hat, "Bradley Walters, Blood Moon gamma. Where can we set up camp?"

All business. Good. "The barn is at your disposal, as are any of the open lands around the house. There's a creek about a quarter mile to your left. Three bathrooms. One in the workshop by the house, two inside the house, one upstairs and one down. You may use the spare bedroom if you like. Dinner will be ready shortly."

He doesn't reply to me. He simply waives an arm forward without a word, and his men set to work. Some break off into the woods, likely establishing a perimeter. Others begin unloading supplies and gathering those we've left out for them. They, too, ignore me, as if I'm not here. My home is not here, and this is just an empty swath of land they stumbled upon. It's unnerving, but maybe for the best. I never did like small talk and prefer that they not get too attached to this place. The shorter their stay, the better.

I start back to the house but am intercepted by a small group of men herding several women. Now that's unusual. We've never had warriors bring women with them. While some packs do train their women to fight, they usually remain on pack grounds.

"Mam," one of the men mimes their master's greeting, "these women will help you with the cooking and clean-up." No names. No introductions. They usher the women forward as if handing me a blender or can opener. Tools to be used as I may. There are five of them. Clean and well dressed, but they keep their heads down, eyes on the ground. The men leave without another word, moving on to more important business.

"Hello, I'm Amalea." I smile, waiting for them to introduce themselves since no one else has. They don't. A small girl with straight black hair and bright blue eyes who looks to be around Thomas' age near whispers, "What would you like us to do first?"

"Come on in the house. We'll get you something to eat, and you can freshen up before we get started serving dinner. I'm making a nice stew," I answer, trying to sound as gentle as possible. I don't know what these girls have been through, but they seem submissive even for wolves of low rank.

They move instantly for the house as if I've ordered them, filing through the door single-file, and I follow them, watching as they stop in the furthest corner of the kitchen, awaiting instruction, ignoring the chairs around the table that are open to them.

"Long trip?" I ask cheerfully, moving to get them all something to drink and a snack. The same girl as before quietly says, "yes," and nothing more. She must be the brave one of the bunch, if you could call her that.

"Sit, relax. My children started the stew already, so there's really nothing to do but wait for it to cook. Tell me about your home. I've never been that far east." I try to get them talking, not just to break the awkward silence, but because everything I've seen so far has alarm bells ringing in my head. Something is very not right with this regime.

There's more awkward silence but no answers. It becomes clear to me they have no idea how or if they should answer me, and I feel almost guilty for putting them on the spot, like I’ve put them in danger somehow. I motion them to the chairs and set down their drinks and some biscuits. They sit but don't touch what's been put in front of them.

"It's alright. Have some," I encourage, realizing they apparently won't do anything without being told. They all do. The smallest nearly gags on her drink, she finishes it so quickly. "Hey, slow down. There's more where that came from," I chuckle. She just musters a quick, "sorry," glancing up at me briefly before looking back down at the table.

There is so much pain in her eyes. I want to grab her up and hold her tight. Let her see everything will be alright, but more importantly, I want to find out what had happened to her. Even so, I don't know how to do that.

I don't want to push them too hard or, worse, somehow make things worse for them. I can't imagine the men who did this to these girls would be happy about them telling someone from another pack. Granted, alphas mostly allow other alphas to do as they wish within their own pack lands, but there are limits. We aren't savages. Most of these girls don't even look 18. They are still children, for fucks sake.

For now, I think what they need is kindness and rest. Maybe, if they're here a few days, I can get them to open up a bit in private. I wait until they seem finished with their food, then lead them to the living room, pointing out where they can sleep and show them where they can put their things—though I question whether they have any—and tell them they that they are free to explore the grounds or use the shower. This worryingly seems to make them anxious, but I see them find seats around the room as I leave for the kitchen to check on the stew.

I'm thankful we have such a large cook stove and that the kids had the good sense to make multiple pots. All counted, there are 36 warriors, 5 women, me, Thomas, Eric, and Anna—a lot of mouths to feed. The stew looks a little thin but smells good. I stir it, lost in thought when the gamma comes in.

"The men keep a strict schedule. Dinner should be served by 9," he states matter-of-factly, not bothering to greet me this time. I glance at the clock. "I can manage that," I reply, "the girls. Who are they?"

His expression shifts for a brief moment, a flash of what's under that mask of stoicism. Anger was it? "They aren't your concern," is all he says, before turning stiffly and leaving as quickly as he came. I mind link the kids to come to help me start serving, leaving the mystery girls to their peace. We can handle this.