Her Pretend Mate

Chapter One

Wren

I come to Katu Falls with one battered duffel bag, forty-three dollars in useless loose change, three stolen protein bars from a bus station vending machine, and absolutely no intention of ever belonging to another pack again.

That last part matters more than anything. That’s the whole reason I’m here. The only reason.

My wolf, unfortunately, doesn’t understand the emotional significance of independence.

The instant we pass the wooden sign carved with Welcome To Katu Falls, she perks up inside me, as if someone’s shaken a treat bag.

Her excitement presses against my ribs, sharp and restless, a reminder of everything I’m trying to leave behind.

Trees, she sighs inside me, her voice lush with longing, a sound that echoes through my bones.

“Yes, thank you,” I mutter, hitching my duffel higher on my aching shoulder. The strap bites into my skin, a dull ache layered over the sharper agony in my calves. “Very observant.”

The road twists through the forest, tall pines crowding in on both sides like nosy aunts desperate for gossip. Branches knot overhead, breaking the sunlight into gold ribbons that flicker across my skin. The air is thick with greenery and rain and something wild enough to ache.

It’s colder than I thought it would be, laced with river tang, black earth, and the ghost of woodsmoke from somewhere I can’t see. Every inhale tastes like a place that refuses to belong to anyone but itself.

And wolves.

Lots of wolves.

My steps falter, a shiver crawling up my spine. Goosebumps prickle along my arms as I cross an invisible line into pack territory. The pressure hits before I even see the town. Not cruel, not like Ashstone, where every breath is counted and every hallway reeks of suspicion. This is something else.

Watchful.

Waiting.

The land feels alive, aware of me, measuring what kind of danger I might bring. I feel it in the hush between bird calls, in the way the wind holds its breath, deciding if I belong or if I am trouble.

For the record, I’m only trouble sometimes. Usually by accident. Almost always for a good reason. Usually justified.

A pickup truck rumbles past, slowing just enough for the driver to study me through the window.

He’s got broad shoulders, a dark beard, and a suspicious eye that lingers on my face, searching for something familiar or dangerous.

I hold his gaze, then wave. He blinks, clearly not expecting friendliness, and drives on without returning it.

“That went well,” I tell my wolf.

She flicks her tail inside me, unimpressed, her opinion loud.

Maybe showing up on foot at the edge of a pack known for eating outsiders alive, wearing jeans that haven’t seen a washing machine in days, a cardigan stained with coffee, and boots that should have died three towns ago, isn’t exactly a power move.

My hair hangs limp, heavy with sweat and dust, my lips are split, and exhaustion tastes bitter on my tongue.

But I’m here. I survived. That has to count for something.

The town emerges from the trees, tucked between forest and mountain, as if it had been built in secret, hoping the rest of the world would mind its own business.

A diner sits on the corner, its windows glowing with warm light that spills golden light onto the sidewalk.

Across from it, a small grocer, a weathered hardware shop, a bakery that smells criminally good, the scent of fresh bread and sugar curling around me, making my stomach twist with longing.

Flower boxes hang beneath the windows of old brick buildings, petals bright against the fading paints.

It looks normal. Sweet, even. Which is always suspicious. In my experience, anything that looks this wholesome is hiding either secrets or something truly unforgivable in a casserole dish.

My stomach growls so loudly a bird launches out of a nearby tree, wings flashing silver as it disappears into the dense green.

“I know,” I mutter to my body, pressing a hand to my stomach as if I can quiet the ache.

I head for the diner because I’ve been traveling for two days, and if I don’t get coffee soon, I may become the exact sort of feral creature human folklore warns about. Each step feels heavier than the last, but the promise of warmth and caffeine drags me forward.

A bell jingles overhead as I step inside, and heat slams into me, wrapping around my bones, chased by the smell of bacon, coffee, fried potatoes, and syrup.

My mouth waters so hard I almost stumble.

For a second, I just stand there, blinking against the light, letting the warmth and scent soak into the raw places I’ve been pretending don’t exist.

The diner is busy enough to feel alive but not so crowded I want to flee.

Humans cluster in booths and at tables, voices rising and falling in a tide of laughter and clinking cutlery.

They eat like this is any small town, anywhere—untroubled, unaware.

They have no idea what else moves in these woods.

No idea that some of the people beside them, sipping coffee, are not human at all.

But I know.

I smell them, wolves, at least four, scattered among the humans, their scents a subtle undercurrent, old blood and wild earth and something sharp as moonlight. They blend in, but not to me. My wolf prickles, alert, cataloging each one.

Because for them, this is normal.

Behind the counter, a woman with silver-streaked hair and sharp eyes looks up from pouring coffee. She’s older, her skin mapped with smile lines, and she radiates a warmth that feels like the inside of a kitchen when something good is baking.

She’s human, no wolf scent at all, but the way she watches me is careful, measuring.

Her gaze drops to my duffel, then returns to my face. “You lost, sweetheart?”

“No,” I say automatically, and her eyebrow lifts. I sigh, feeling the weight of the miles. “Possibly in a spiritual sense.”

Her mouth twitches. That’s a good sign. Humor is still currency here.

“Sit anywhere,” she says. “You look like you need food.”

I choose a stool at the counter. It lets me keep my back to the wall without looking like I’m bracing for a fight. My hands tremble as I sit, exhaustion finally dragging me under.

The woman slides a menu across the counter. “I’m Ingrid.”

“Wren.”

Her eyes soften for half a breath, something gentle flickering there and gone. “You running from something or toward something?”

I grip the menu until my knuckles go white. What a brutal question. Simple. Direct. The answer is yes to both.

“Somewhere in the middle,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.

She nods like it makes perfect sense. “You know, there’s a couple lives up in the forest, Peyton and her husband, Caine. They homestead out there. Good people. Always looking for help, and they take in folks who need a fresh start.”

My pulse kicks, wild and uneven. Peyton. Everyone has heard the story about the Luna who was rejected and rose anyway, and the Alpha who built a sanctuary. Stories are the reason I came. Stories are dangerous like that. They make hope sound like something you can actually touch.

“That sounds perfect, actually,” I say, and I mean it more than I’ve meant anything in weeks. The relief in my voice is raw, unguarded.

Ingrid tears off a piece of receipt paper and scribbles directions. “Road winds up through the tree line. Look for the wooden gate. You can’t miss it.”

“I’ll find it.”

She pours coffee into a mug and sets it in front of me. The heat seeps through my cold fingers, grounding me. “Eat first, though. You look like a strong wind could carry you off.”

“I don’t have much money.”

“Did I ask?”

My throat locks up so fast I have to stare down at the coffee, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes. Kindness is the worst when you’re trying not to fall apart in public.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She pats the counter once. “Pancakes?” I nod, reverent as a sinner at confession. “Bacon?”

“I would never insult pancakes by making them stand alone.”

That earns me a real smile.

A few minutes later, a plate lands in front of me. Pancakes stacked high, butter melting into syrup rivers, bacon crisp enough to make me believe the Moon Goddess hasn’t given up on me yet. The smell hits me hard, and I have to steady my hands before I can even pick up the fork.

I take one bite and moan. Out loud. No shame. The sweetness, the salt, the heat—they fill something inside me that’s been scraped hollow by hunger and fear.

One of the wolves in a back booth chokes on his coffee, but I ignore him. Food this good deserves respect.

For six whole minutes, life is perfect. The world shrinks to pancakes, coffee, and the sacred silence of being left alone. Then I fold the directions into my pocket, finish my coffee, and head for the door, lighter than when I came in.

“You tell Peyton that Ingrid says hello,” she calls after me.

“I will.”