2. Remy
Chapter 2
Remy
The distant clang of the town bell broke the evening's quiet, pulling me out of my half-dazed state. Seven o’clock—perfect.
Restaurants would be tossing out their leftover food around now, and the barbecue joint a few streets over always seemed to have the best scraps.
I’d been waiting for this moment all week. Finally being able to shift the other day felt like a small victory.
Of course, being stuck in wolf form for more than a day—let alone two—wasn't exactly part of the plan. My inability to shift back was a problem for later.
Tonight, I needed to focus.
Slipping out from behind the shadowy nook where I’d been hiding, I padded onto the dimly lit street. The cool pavement pressed against my paw pads as I weaved through the sparse crowd.
People wandered by, most of them too absorbed in their own lives to notice me. A few did—an odd look here, a cautious step to the side there.
An older man crouched down suddenly, reaching out to pat my head.
I wasn’t a dog, damn it!
I bristled at the contact, but I resisted the urge to pull away. Letting him think I was just a particularly large stray would make things easier.
I forced my tail into a quick wag, feigning a happy, docile demeanor. The man chuckled, gave me a final pat, and moved on.
Good riddance.
The barbecue place loomed ahead, tucked between a row of other small businesses with faded signs and flickering lights.
I rounded the corner, slipping into the alley at the back. The sharp scent of grilled meat and tangy sauce lingered in the air, doing its best to mask the faint metallic tang of trash.
Stacked boxes and crates leaned against the brick wall, forming a makeshift staircase. I jumped up, claws scraping against wood as I climbed higher.
The green dumpster came into view, its lid propped open just enough for me to squeeze through.
With one final leap, I landed inside with a muffled thud, the soft rustle of discarded paper and plastic absorbing most of the sound.
Would this have been easier in my human form? Probably.
But that wasn’t an option. Not when staying like this—a wolf—meant I could slip away unseen or escape faster if someone caught me.
The only problem? I couldn’t control my shifts.
My “condition,” as Adrian, the former lead alpha of the Thornebane pack, liked to call it. My pack—or rather, my ex-pack, since I left them a couple of weeks ago.
But that was the reality I had to live with. And so, here I was, pawing through bags in search of something to eat.
The plastic crinkled beneath my claws as I worked, each sniff bombarding my senses.
The pungent mix of coffee grounds and wilted lettuce from one bag had me recoiling with a wrinkled nose.
Gross. Where was it?
Last week, I’d struck gold—a bag of dinner rolls, still neatly packed in their plastic sleeve, barely touched.
Probably excess stock tossed out at the end of the day. Clean enough.
Ever since then, I’d noticed a pattern: at this time every evening, the restaurant threw away its leftovers. So, I’d waited. And waited.
And finally, when I’d managed to shift and stay shifted long enough, I came back.
But now? Nothing.
I nosed deeper into the pile, frustration bubbling up. Maybe I’d missed it? Or they’d thrown it out earlier than usual? Either way, this wasn’t the first time I’d had to improvise.
Sticking around in Pecan Pines after the summit hadn’t exactly been a carefully thought-out plan. I’d stayed while the rest of Thornebane returned home.
It was a risk, sure, but worth it. At least here, I didn’t have anyone breathing down my neck, reminding me of all the ways I fell short.
Still, living like this wasn’t easy. I’d prepared as much as I could before the summit, but money only went so far when you didn’t know how long you’d need it to last.
Every dollar counted now, and I wasn’t about to waste what I had on food if I could avoid it.
That’s why I was back here again, hoping to snag another bag of dinner rolls like last week. Perfectly edible leftovers, tossed out like they didn’t matter.
And this wouldn’t be my last dumpster dive, either—not until I figured out where to go, or when.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, I had the freedom to focus on the here and now.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t weighed down by anyone else’s expectations.
No judgment, no disapproving glares, no whispered remarks about what I couldn’t do.
In my old pack, I’d always been the one who didn’t measure up. Too weak. Too unpredictable. A liability to my pack.
Strength was everything there, and power flowed through their veins like it was some sacred birthright.
Me? I couldn’t even shift at will. The isolation, the scorn—it had been all I knew.
But here? Here, no one cared that I couldn’t shift. No one sneered when I didn’t meet some invisible standard.
And for the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. Happy, even.
I couldn’t linger in that feeling, though. Not while I still had a mission—those damn dinner rolls weren’t going to find themselves.
Carefully, I nudged another bag aside with my snout, mindful not to use too much force.
My claws could easily tear through the flimsy plastic, and the last thing I needed was to shower myself in garbage juice.
My nose twitched as I sniffed again. Nothing. Where was it? I was sure they threw it out around this time.
Suddenly, a heavy weight slammed down on me, forcing a sharp yelp from my throat.
Pain exploded across my skull as something hard and plastic-smelling crashed into me, driving me deeper into the trash.
Stars danced in my vision. My head throbbed, each pulse like a hammer against my brain.
Dazed, I barely registered the sensation of being lifted. My body felt weightless, like I was floating in some odd, dreamlike limbo. But then, reality crashed back.
A hand gripped me—firm and steady—and instinct flared to life. Panic coursed through me.
I twisted, snapping my jaws in the direction of the touch, though my sluggish movements made it impossible to connect.
The grip loosened, and I crumpled to the ground, limbs trembling, landing with a dull thud. My head spun, the world tilting sideways.
No. No, no, no. Not now. A sinking dread filled my chest as warmth flooded my veins, my body betraying me.
Pain erupted in sharp waves as fur receded into skin, muscles twisted, and bones snapped and reformed.
My head throbbed like it was splitting apart, my spine grinding with an audible crunch as it realigned.
Every nerve felt raw, exposed, like fire had been poured directly into my veins. Shifting wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was agonizing.
Each forced transformation carved away at what little strength I had left.
I wanted to scream—to yell at the idiot who dumped those bags on me, for not sticking to the usual routine, for ruining the one small thing I could count on.
I wanted to curse the dinner rolls, damn them for not being here when I needed them most. But the words lodged in my throat, strangled by the weight of pain and exhaustion.
Instead, I clawed weakly at his arm, my fingers leaving a muddy, garbage-streaked print on his sleeve.
I hope his shirt was expensive.
That was my last thought before the darkness dragged me under.
* * *
My head throbbed with a dull ache, each pulse pulling me further into the fog. Sounds drifted toward me, muffled and distorted, as if carried through water.
I blinked slowly, the world slipping in and out of focus.
“What did you do to him?” The voice was sharp, clipped, accusing.
“Nothing! I didn’t know—” The second voice was deeper, tinged with panic.
That must’ve been the guy who dumped the trash bags on me. I could feel his hand clutching mine—carefully, almost delicately, as if he thought I’d shatter under the slightest pressure.
What did he think I was, glass? Silly man. I’d survived my pack and everything they put me through. A little bump on the head wasn’t going to take me out.
Another figure moved into view, his slimmer build and calm, assessing demeanor contrasting sharply with the panic in the other man’s voice.
He let out a soft “tsk” and sat beside me, his movements deliberate. Cool fingers brushed my wrist, then the side of my neck, checking my pulse with practiced efficiency.
He tilted my chin gently, his gaze sweeping over me like he was cataloging every bruise, scrape, and strand of fur clinging to my skin.
After a moment, he hummed thoughtfully.
“What’s wrong?” The panicked man’s grip on my hand tightened.
“He doesn’t look good,” the slimmer man replied, matter-of-fact but not unkind. “He’s malnourished, exhausted—probably hasn’t been eating or resting properly for weeks.”
He pressed lightly on my ribs, and I let out a faint, involuntary hiss. “I’ll need to give him fluids and something to help him sleep.”
“Do what you can,” the deeper voice said, his tone softening slightly.
A warm hand brushed over my hair, a surprisingly soothing gesture despite everything.
For a while, there was only the sound of them moving around me—the rustle of clothing, the faint clink of metal instruments, and low murmurs I couldn’t quite make out.
Each noise felt distant, like it was happening to someone else, somewhere else.
Then, after a pause, the deeper voice asked, “Can he stay here?”
The slimmer man—he had to be a healer—hesitated. “Not for long,” he said finally. “He’s not pack. We don’t know where he’s from, and if he’s a rogue shifter, there could be complications.”
A surge of panic shot through me. They can’t find out I’m from Thornebane.
I can’t go back there. The thought crashed over me like a wave, leaving me breathless. A low, panicked whine escaped my throat as my body betrayed me again, weak and sluggish.
Desperation flared, and I tried to push myself upright, muscles trembling with the effort, but I couldn’t even lift my arms.
My breaths quickened, shallow and uneven, as I thrashed weakly against my own exhaustion.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” the deeper voice said quickly, his hand pressing gently against my chest to still me.
His touch was steady, grounding, as if he was willing me to calm down through sheer will alone.
Warmth surrounded me, but the ache in my head throbbed, keeping me barely awake. My body felt heavy and unmovable, pulling me back into unconsciousness.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when muffled voices pulled me out of the haze again.
“…like I said, he’s malnourished and dehydrated, with signs of chronic fatigue,” the healer was saying, his tone neutral, almost clinical. “Some injuries seem older and didn’t heal properly. It’s clear he’s been in this state for some time.”
Subject.
The word wasn’t said aloud, but I could hear it in his detached tone, feel it in the way he talked about me like I wasn’t even there.
The memory hit me like a slap.
I wasn’t in the clinic anymore. I was back in Thornebane, sitting on a cold chair in a sterile room that smelled of antiseptic.
The healer stood over me, his eyes fixed on his notes, not on me. “Still nothing,” he muttered, his disinterest cutting deeper than any insult. The alpha’s shadow loomed nearby, his impatience a tangible weight.
“Keep pushing him,” the alpha snapped. “He’ll shift eventually.”
The healer didn’t even look up. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said, already turning away.
My chest tightened as the memory dissolved, panic clawing at me like a living thing. I couldn’t let them strip me down again, take away what little I had left. Not again. Not again.
“Hey.” A warm hand cupped my cheek, pulling me back to the present.
My eyes fluttered open, darting between the two figures in front of me. I rasped something incoherent, my throat dry.
“Remy,” I rasped, my voice weak but firm. “My name’s Remy.”
The man holding my cheek stilled, his thumb brushing against my skin. “Remy,” he said, quiet but firm, like he was anchoring me with the sound of my own name.
For the first time, I forced myself to focus on him.
His face swam into view, handsome but tired, worry etched into the lines of his brow.
His eyes, though—his eyes were warm, filled with an earnest concern that eased the tightness in my chest, if only a little.
Despite the panic still humming under my skin, looking at him made me feel calmer.
The healer sighed, breaking the moment. “He should stay for the night.”
I barely noticed him grab my arm until I felt the prick of a needle. He quickly pressed a small gauze pad against the spot.
“I’ll get a room ready for him,” the healer added. “You can go home, Colton. I’ll call you if there’s any change.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Colton said firmly, no hesitation in his voice.
I wanted to protest, but my tongue felt heavy, my body uncooperative. Drowsiness crept over me again, heavier this time, insistent and unavoidable.
It could’ve been whatever the healer had given me, or maybe it was the hand brushing over my head again, fingers scratching lightly at my scalp. I didn’t mind it, not at all.
The touch was gentle, grounding, and for a brief moment, I let myself lean into it.
The last thing I felt before sleep claimed me was the faint warmth of his hand and the low, soothing hum of his voice.