Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
C hristophe
“That’s it, then?” Chael asks, his question coming out curt and impatient.
I nod as I stare at the computer screen. A stream of zeroes and ones scroll up the screen.
“Yes, it’s doing the cross-referencing of the names that I input into the system.”
“The names were the only things you put in the system, right?”
A flinch of pain lances its way across my chest from the distrust in his voice. I have to remind myself that I’m the one who brought his skepticism upon myself. I’ve earned Chael’s mistrust. And that of the entire pack.
Which is why when they brought me to the small house, close to the edge of the pack’s territory—the house that used to belong to me—I didn’t question why there were two pack protectors stationed outside for the entire night.
Even now, as Chael hovers over me from behind, in my peripheral vision, outside of the window I can see the shadow of one of the guards.
Mike .
My chest tightens.
I’ve known him since I was a pup. He was often one of the rougher wolves, especially when it came to my omega. My wolf was the one they roughhoused with the most. Used to take out their aggression.
Yet …
He wasn’t all bad.
“How long will this take?” Chael asks roughly.
“A couple of hours. Maybe more,” I tell him.
We’re working to cross-reference some of the deceased guards’ fingerprints with the prints of other wolves in the system. Each pack registers their members at their time of birth. Yet, there are many lone wolves that remain unaccounted for.
“And it’ll continue working even if I close this and unplug it, right?” he asks.
“Yes.” I nod. “It’ll continue until it’s sorted through all of the names in the database, which is hundreds of thousands of wolf shifters. Since it’s an international database.”
“Fine.” Chael slams the laptop closed and unplugs it. “I’ll have Chance bring this back when he comes tomorrow.”
With that he turns and walks out of the back door, not sparing me a second glance. I don’t have the right to be bitter or even sad about his treatment. I’m lucky he hasn’t beat me to a pulp already.
I have to remind myself that I’m not here to reconnect with the pack or the brothers that I betrayed. My only aim is to find the bastards who put Ashley in that cell and serve their justice. Once that’s finished, I will be taken back to prison.
Exactly where I belong.
Standing from the only chair at the wooden table in my small dining area, I hear Chael give Mike instructions not to take his eyes off of the house. Two more guards will come around by nightfall to switch out shifts with them.
Anxiousness begins to rear up inside of me. My wolf, for some reason, needs to get out, but that’s not possible. Prior to my confinement, I could easily manage to keep my wolf tamed. He only got restless a couple of times a month, when I would have to take him out for a run.
Usually, those times fell around the full moon. Yet, it’s not the full moon, but he’s scratching and clawing as if he wants to break free.
I pad across the wooden boards of what used to be my home and pull the black V-neck over my head. Unused to wearing clothes with my newly grown out, shaggy hair, I accidentally pull a few strands from my scalp in my carelessness.
The bite of pain doesn’t even cause me to flinch. I move into the bedroom and do a few jumping jacks, followed by hitting the floor to do my first set of fifty push-ups. Working out somehow turned into my past time while in confinement.
At times when the darkness, the pained moans from other prisoners, or the fear of what was to come next became too much, I turned to working out in my cell. My wolf had been locked away in my body. Whatever potion they gave us kept us from shifting, or only doing so in their controlled environment.
Namely, their lab where they ran unimaginable tests on our beasts as they called our wolves.
“One hundred,” I grit out through clenched teeth, forcing myself to focus on the push-ups and not on the past.
It’s not until I get to around a hundred fifty push-ups that the first trickle of sweat begins to form at my temple.
Around push-up number two hundred is when I push past the growling in my belly. Chael brought some rice and beans over this morning. There’s some still left in the refrigerator, but I won’t eat for another few hours. I’ve learned how to ignore basic bodily functions.
“Hello,” a soft, female voice calls around the time I let my body finally collapse to the floor after my four-hundredth push-up.
Instantly, my wolf sits up, recognizing the voice.
My heart hammers in my chest and it has nothing to do with my extended workout. I jump to my bare feet, glancing around my bedroom as if searching for a place to hide.
Which, yes, I know is a coward’s move.
“Is he alone in there?” Ms. Elsie asks, presumably Mike or the other guy who's patrolling the house.
“Sure is,” Mike replies, voice tight but respectful.
“Excellent, I’ve brought this for him.”
I stand there, frozen inside of my bedroom, halfway listening to the conversation. She shouldn’t be here.
“I’ll give it to him,” Mike tells her.
I start to nod in agreement with him. I don’t want to see anyone. Especially not her. That’s not what I’m here for anyway. The only reason I’ve returned to New Mexico is to assist where I can in tracking down Dr. X.
“No can do,” she replies. “I made this fresh for him and I need to show him how to serve it.”
My heart plummets at her insistence.
“Alpha said he’s not to have any visitors.”
“I’ve already cleared this visit with Alpha Chael. Surely, you’re aware of that.”
Somehow, my feet start to move before my brain fully processes the conversation. She’s not going to let up. I should’ve known she wouldn’t.
Just like Mike should have.
“Yes, ma’am. I suppose a few minutes won’t be a problem,” he relents.
My shoulders slump.
A knock sounds on the door at the same time my hand reaches for the doorknob. However, I pause, taking another look around at my measly surroundings. They’re not bad or anything. Like the rest of the homes in our pack’s commune, this house was made in the earthship style, meant to be as environmentally friendly as possible. I never thought past having only the basic necessities such as the bathroom, small kitchen, dining space, and bedroom. The hallway leads to what used to be my computer office.
Everything from that room—save for the desk, chair, and a few books—have been removed. I have yet to even enter that room since I returned. The door remains closed.
“Christophe?” Ms. Elsie calls through the door. She must sense me standing here. “I’ve brought some lunch for you.”
My stomach chooses this moment to begin growling again. Wolf instincts have me lifting my head and sniffing the air. Again, my belly churns from hunger as the scent of Ms. Elsie’s famous Tex-Mex chili hits my nose.
Without conscious thought, I twist the knob and open the door.
On the other side stands the eldest member of our pack, a bright smile on her face and a bright orange stew pot held high.
Memories of her just like this every morning flash through my mind. Ms. Elsie would come by every morning if I didn’t attend the pack’s communal breakfast—which was often—to make sure I ate.
Seeing her standing like this is a punch to the gut.
The crinkle around her kind eyes as she smiles up at me makes me feel like garbage on the street. Because that’s exactly what I am.
I put this woman’s life, and the rest of our pack’s lives, in mortal danger. All because I was too fucking weak.
My head feels too heavy to hold up high. To meet her gaze.
“Are you going to have me standing here all day?”
Her lighthearted tone only amplifies the ache of guilt and shame in my chest.
“Sorry,” I mumble, taking the heavy pot from her, to lighten her load. When I step aside, she happily enters, as if this were old times.
Once Ms. Elsie’s inside, I go to shut the door with my foot, but Mike is there, glaring down at me.
“Door stays open,” he says, his voice just above a growl.
I don’t fight him on it, but Ms. Elsie does.
“Is that necessary?” she asks, her usual sauciness coming out.
“It’s okay,” I quickly reply. “The door will stay open,” I tell Mike.
He replies with a curt nod and glare before presenting me with his back.
“You didn’t come by for breakfast this morning.” Ms. Elsie rummages through the cupboards, followed by the drawer next to the kitchen sink. “Oh, yes, this is where I left them.”
To my surprise, she pulls out a couple of kitchen towels and then places them at the center of the table.
“You left those there?” I ask, recalling that I never owned a set of kitchen towels. I didn’t cook beyond boiling some hot dogs or eggs.
She takes the pot still in my hands and sets it on the towels. “Of course, I did,” she answers matter-of-factly. “I kept this place tidy for when …” She trails off as she looks up at me.
The smile on her face falters.
“Well, I’m sure you’re hungry.”
My stomach confirms her statement, a sound that neither one of us can ignore.
“Let me,” I say when she starts in the cupboard. Even I remember the high cupboard is where I kept the bowls. Given that I tower over Ms. Elsie by at least a foot, I don’t want her to strain.
I place two bowls on the table before grabbing a pair of spoons from the drawer.
“Thank you,” I tell her just above a whisper after we sit down to lunch.
She waves me off. “Wait, how could I forget?”
I rise from the table and help to pull out her chair so she can make her way over the counter where she’s left another bag. A beat later, she pulls out a small baking sheet.
“You should have seen the trouble I went through to keep this one away from the Bracka and the rest of the younger pups.” She chuckles and shakes her head while cutting into the freshly baked cornbread.
“Why?” I cut myself off from asking the whole question.
Why would you go through any trouble for me? After what I did.
“Why, what?” she asks curiously right before placing a huge slice of cornbread on a napkin next to my bowl.
“Why don’t you let me help you,” I lie.
I slice an even larger piece for her and place it by her bowl before using the wooden spoon next to the pot to fill her bowl with chili.
“Your turn.” She nods at my empty bowl. “An old lady like me doesn’t like to eat alone.”
I shake away the sadness her words bring on and fill my bowl with the chili.
As soon as the tangy, savory chili, cumin, and other spices hit my tongue, my wolf purrs in delight. This is the first time in I don’t know how long I’ve eaten home-cooked food. The meals at the hospital were sufficient, and I damn sure didn’t complain, after the rotted and poisoned meals of the prison.
But this tastes like … home.
My stomach muscles tighten.
This isn’t your home, my conscience reminds me. No, this commune in New Mexico, the Nightwolf pack, is no longer my home.
I remind myself of this as I continue to eat the chili, knowing Ms. Elsie is carefully watching me, even though her eyes aren’t on me. She’s a wise one, the elder of our pack. I wish I had learned to appreciate her before I blew everything to hell.
“I can clean this up.” I rise from my chair, once she starts collecting the dirty dishes.
“Nonsense.” She actually shoos me away with one of the dish towels she’s apparently kept in my home since I’ve been gone.
Not my home.
I grimace at the constant need for the reminder.
“You shouldn’t have to clean after cooking and carrying this heavy pot over here,” I tell her, gesturing to the still half-full pot sitting at the center of the table.
Per usual, Ms. Elsie doesn’t listen to me as she continues cleaning out the bowls we’ve just used, while humming to herself. It reminds me of before when she would bring breakfast to my house every morning.
I worked remotely for a human company doing cyber security. But I also spent a ridiculous amount of time in chat rooms for shifters. And even some human chat rooms.
Of course, I never confessed to the humans who and what I truly was.
There, in those rooms and online forums, I thought I’d found refuge.
“Christophe?” Ms. Elsie’s voice calls me out of my memories.
I blink back into awareness, looking over at her. “What is it?”
“I commented on how different you look.” She eyes me up and down.
I, too, look down at my body, as if seeing it for the first time. A frown mars my lips as I recall how skinny and gangly I was before. Though built larger than the typical human male, at six-foot-two, I was often underweight for my size. Mostly, because it became easy to forget to eat.
Ms. Elsie is right, I suppose. My body is bigger now, more defined. Likely, due to the daily calisthenics. Even though the food was often poisoned or rotted a lot of the time, there were periods where they gave us more than enough to eat.
It was part of the mind games. Lure us into a sense of comfort to let our guards down before tricking us into some other bullshit.
“I’ve started working out,” is all I explain to Ms. Elsie.
Her brows lower, as if she understands there’s more that I’m not telling her. She may be an elder but there is nothing slow or old about her wit and understanding.
Yet another reason why I did my best to keep her at arms’ length.
“And your hair,” she comments.
Without thought, my hand goes to the long, unkempt, and still a little sweaty strands of my hair. It reaches just below my shoulders in length.
“You’ve let it grow out.”
“Not many chances to get a fresh haircut while in the torture chambers,” I say without thinking.
Ms. Elsie quickly clamps her lips shut, and I suddenly feel like shit. I hadn’t meant to say that.
I clear my throat. “I-I haven’t had the chance to do anything with it since …”
I allow the last part of my sentence to hang. When she nods, I get that she understands.
Ms. Elsie clamps her hands together and raises her shoulders, her eyes widening a little. I know that look. An idea just sprang to mind.
“How about I cut it for you?”
The bulging of my eyes and falling open of my mouth must create a humorous expression because Ms. Elsie giggles.
“Just a wash and quick trim along the edges to make everything even.”
The word ‘no’ gets stuck in my throat as I watch her go over to the bag she’d left on the counter earlier and pull out a few supplies. I shouldn’t be surprised to see she’s actually brought shampoo, conditioner, and hair cutting scissors. She had this grooming in mind all along.
My gaze cuts over to the still-opened door. Mike isn’t standing in front of the door, but I don’t doubt he’s nearby, knowing she’s still in here.
“Come on, I promise it won’t hurt,” Ms. Elsie says cheerfully, taking me by the hand.
I allow myself to be pulled toward the kitchen sink. Then I watch as she turns on the water and makes sure to get the temperature just right—not too hot, not too cold.
After taking a seat in the wooden chair she’s placed backwards against the sink, I lean back so that my hair falls into the basin.
She asks me a few questions regarding the temperature before she starts humming while she carefully washes my hair. My body remains tense, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she continues humming and smiling.
I can’t help but relax a little when she begins massaging my scalp in small circles. I don’t even notice when my eyelids drop closed. What I do recall is that it’s been a long, long time since someone touched me with such tenderness. Behind my closed eyelids, memories from my childhood flash through my mind.
They’re from before I came to live with the Nightwolf alpha and his family, as the adopted brother. Memories from my birth mom. She liked to hum whenever she did chores around the house, too.
While she cleaned the kitchen.
Vacuumed the living room.
Washed my hair …
“Christophe, are you alright?” Ms. Elsie sounds alarmed.
I peel my eyes open, looking around to find that I’m back in the kitchen, Ms. Elsie standing over me wearing a worried expression.
“I’m fine.” I clear my throat. “J-Just think it’s washed enough,” I lie.
The corners of her mouth lift into a ghost of a smile. A flash of something akin to sadness crosses her eyes, but it’s there and gone so quickly I determine I’m imagining things.
“Okay, let me just rinse it out and grab the scissors.”
I allow her to dry my hair with the black towel before she lays it across my shoulders. My body remains stiff the entire time. I’m certain she notices, yet she continues to hum that simple melody over and over as if doing this for me makes her the happiest person in the world.
Why are you doing this for me?
“What was that, dear?”
I blink to see her standing in front of me, scissors in one hand, comb in the other.
“Nothing,” I mutter, looking away as I realize I’d asked the question out loud.
“I won’t take up too much more of your time,” she says kindly. “Let’s just trim these edges a little bit.” She reaches in and snips about a quarter inch of hair.
I watch silently as the tips of my hair fall onto the towel and into my lap. Pre-imprisonment, I kept my hair short. While my biological parents were also Apache like many of the elders of the Nightwolf pack, I never kept up the tradition of keeping my hair long.
Not like Chael and Chance.
Their hairstyles worked for them as the two strongest members of one of the largest wolf packs in the country. The Apache believe that our hair tells a story. There’s a great deal of history in our hair.
I always kept mine short, dissociating from much of my history and our traditions. As I got older and withdrew more and more from the pack, I became absorbed more in online spaces.
“There we are,” Ms. Elsie says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I glance up to see her smiling as she admires her work. She hasn’t cut my hair as short as I used to keep it; it’s still long enough that it touches my shoulders.
She pulls out a mirror from somewhere, holding it up to my face. “What do you think?”
“Fine,” I murmur, averting my gaze. I don’t need to look at myself in the mirror. I have half a mind to tell her there was no need to do all of this anyway, seeing as I’ll be gone soon. All her work will be for naught.
But when I watch her, seeing the admiring expression on her face, I swallow the words back down.
Asshole , I call myself. She’s just here to help, being her sweet, nurturing self. I might not deserve it, but I don’t get to be an asshole about it either.
I rise to my feet, towering over her. “Thank you.”
“Oh.” She waves me off as if it’s no big deal. Ms. Elsie begins gathering the materials she brought over into her bag. “This way you’re all ready for when she comes to visit.”
I freeze in place, watching her.
Ms. Elsie doesn’t even turn in my direction as she zips up the bag. “I’ll leave the pot of chili for you to finish up for dinner or lunch tomorrow, K?”
“For when who comes to visit?”
She blinks and then lowers her eyebrows. “I’ll just put this in the refrigerator.” She starts for the pot, but I get in between her and the fridge, taking the pot in my hands.
“When who comes to visit, Ms. Elsie?”
There’s a beat of silence as her eyes roam everywhere except on me.
“Ms. Elsie, are you almost done? I can walk you back home now that Kevin’s come to take over for the evening shift.”
I glance toward the door where Mike stands in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and glaring at me through narrowed eyes. A look down at my hands around the pot Ms. Elsie still holds, and the proximity I’m standing over her, shows my stance could come across as threatening.
Immediately, I take a step back, away from her.
“I’ll put this away.”
I keep my back turned from her as Mike steps inside, taking Ms. Elsie’s bag from her and mentioning something about her not having to come out this way.
Not until the door closes do I place the pot on the counter and turn toward the exit Ms. Elsie just left out of.
I run my hand through my long, but less shaggy and disheveled strands.
When who comes over to visit?