Chapter Twelve
Willow
One of these days, something is going to fall into my hunting traps.
I’ve tried leaving out bait, but I guess not even the local rabbits are interested in soggy mushrooms.
Thankfully, Kane eats just about anything.
I walk along the river. My eyes aren’t peeled quite so much these days. Kane is confident the bear that attacked me should be well and truly into hibernation by now. Apart from that, my biggest threat is—was—him.
The rogue alpha who, startlingly, is feeling less and less like a threat at all.
It’s cold on the riverbank. I wrap my cloak tighter around myself, gripping my basket. The faster I walk, the warmer I’ll get, but I can’t afford to overlook anything. Not when food is so scarce.
I kneel down, examining a few brittle shoots. All of a sudden, I hear Randall’s voice in my head—
“Not those, sweetheart.”
My hand stops. I take a breath, letting the memory back in.
My brothers and sisters run about, leaping over the stepping stones. I hang back with my father on the bank.
“These old stems …” Randall sighs. “Well, I suppose you could dry them. Thatch together a little basket.” He smiles at me. “But what good’s a basket in your nice, soft nest?”
Across the water, my second-oldest brother, Titus, calls, “You said the stems are good! Let’s bring some home. Mother can cook them for lunch.”
I look at my father with big, hopeful eyes.
Randall clucks his tongue. “That’s just the young shoots. You don’t want to eat them like this.” He plucks one out of the water to show me its hard, colorless root. “Now do you?”
In the end, I think I harvested a few reeds anyway. Nest or no nest, meal or no meal, the idea of taking something just for myself was enticing.
I add a few old reeds to my basket, my heart giving a bittersweet twinge.
***
I know I’ve been out too long when the sky deepens overhead.
My neck cranes, watching as sunlight melts through the trees. Damn. Kane will not be pleased.
Grunting, I pick up my bucket of water. Kane took the water-loading job on himself when we started sharing meals, but he never collects quite enough—on purpose, I suspect. Anything to weasel his way out of a bath.
Trudging through the forest, my breath comes out in short white puffs. For a moment, the world seems oddly soft. I’m exerting enough that the cold becomes sweet. I’m carrying enough shrubs to supplement a hearty dinner. The sky is clear, even as it falls.
Three weeks ago, I wasn’t sure I’d survive the winter. And now, not only am I surviving, but I’m not alone.
Naturally, it is with this thought that I sense a change in the air.
It’s subtle—a faint, leathery scent. Pulsing. Breathing. As if someone, not too long before me, walked through these very trees.
An alpha.
My stomach roils. That is not Kane’s scent. It’s too clean. Did this alpha want me to know they’re here? Are they close by?
Run, my inner omega chirps.
I abandon the bucket, racing through the trees as fast as my legs will take me. When I trip and graze my palms, I don’t even feel it. I just keep running.
Did my fathers send someone to find me ? Has the village expanded their search?
If I do get caught, I won’t be returned to welcoming arms. I’ll be punished. Scorned. Tossed to the shark-toothed sentries with their laughter and their laughter and their laughter and—
I burst out of the trees. It’s hard to see through my tears. Hard to breathe past the rising bile in my throat.
The door flings open, a hulking Kane greeting me. “Where the hell—?” he starts, catching me as I crash into him.
“Someone—” I choke. “T–there’s someone—”
Kane snatches my wrists, examining my bloody palms. His crimson eyes flash murder. “ Where ?”
Shakily, I point back into the trees.
He growls. “Get inside. Block the door.”
Alpha, my inner omega cries.
“ Now , omega,” he barks.
Just like that, I’m floating into the cabin, barely aware of my hands, legs, and shoulders as I shove the dresser in front of the door.
When I come to, I’m crouched in front of a bucket, throwing up. I feel dizzy with effort, though whether that’s from the puking, the redecorating, or all the running, I’m not sure.
Another alpha … my stomach twists at the words. Does this mean they found me ?
Somehow, I manage to stand long enough to find the knife on the kitchen bench. If it’s sharp enough to gut rodents, it’s sharp enough to gut an alpha.
I’m not going back, I tell myself, over and over. I’d sooner die.
And if dying means taking out a leather-scented alpha with me … then so be it.