Chapter 11
My bed.
That's the first thing. Warm blanket, soft mattress, the morning light through the thin curtain. I did not go to sleep in my bed.
I sit up.
The shirt is still around me—heavy linen, smelling like him. Nugget is asleep in her basket by the door. The fire is low. Everything tucked in for the night.
By him.
I watched him fold the shirt and set it on the bench before he shifted. The smell confirms it before anything else does.
He shifted back. Carried me home. Put me to bed. And left.
Nope.
Nugget opens one eye. Tilts her head at me.
"Don't," I tell her.
She clucks. Sharp. Her version of a raised eyebrow.
"I said don't."
I pull the shirt tighter around my shoulders because the morning is cold and the fire's banked low and it's a practical decision.
I'll return it later.
I get up. Scoop Nugget out of her basket, tuck her under my arm, and push through the door into the morning.
Everything is brown.
Breakfast is done—Liara handled it, stirred the grain without burning it, served bowls without looking at me for permission, and I should feel good about that. Days of this and her hands finally know what to do without mine.
My hands are empty.
Nothing needs me for the next hour and my hands need to be doing something or I'm going to think about last night. And the night before that. Both nights. Both problems.
Don't think about any of them.
Think about brown.
Gray stone. Brown wood and beige fabric. Mud. The structures blend into the trees that blend into the dirt which blend into the people all wearing the same drab colors as the ground.
Even the smoke from the fire pits is gray. A wolf pup tumbles past my feet—brown fur, obviously—crashes into another pup. Also brown.
The only color in this entire territory is me—pink streaks in white hair, pink stains on my collar from the dye disaster—and Nugget, aggressively pink near my feet, pecking at the dirt.
"This is depressing." Nugget clucks at my feet.
How did I not see this before? Too busy. But now that I've run out of emergencies to throw myself at, all I can see is beige.
The whole pack ground. Drained of everything bright, and nobody's done anything about it because apparently aesthetics aren't a survival priority, which is wrong.
Beauty is a survival priority.
You cannot live in a place this colorless and expect people to thrive.
They're existing.
Eating better now, fine. Wounds cleaned properly, great. But existing in a world the color of nothing, and nobody seems to think that's a problem worth solving.
I fixed the food.
I can fix this too.
Dye. I know how to make dye—I've been doing it for years. Crushed flower petals, water, patience. The cottage had pink things. Pale blue things. My spare shirt was almost purple before it faded. I saw wildflowers on the walk in—near the stream, that clearing before the last ridge.
If I leave now I can be back before anyone needs the healing area. Dara can handle things. She's been handling Tarek's follow-up on her own for days now.
Oh—Hella.
I still need to talk to her about the wrapping technique. One-on-one. Not in front of people. I mentioned it to Keer—
The stream.
When he stood in the water and said no one's sending you away and the ground tilted. When he said stop acting like you're leaving and my hands went still. The rough underneath of his voice when he changed his mind about Dara mid-sentence.
And then he knelt. He knelt. In the mud. On one knee so we'd be level—because I was crouched at the bank and he's six-and-a-half feet of Alpha and he got down in the MUD so I wouldn't have to look up at him.
Who does that.
Alphas don't do that. Alphas do not kneel.
His hand on my face.
Thumb on my cheek.
And then last night he was a wolf and—
His shirt.
Which I'm still wearing.
Ugh, it's totally fine. It's a shirt. People wear shirts.
This one happens to smell like cedar and be four sizes too big and belong to a man who—not relevant.
The point is I'm cold and it's warm and I need to go find flowers before I analyze why I'm still wearing it, because I am not analyzing that, because the answer is temperature and nothing else.
Blue flowers. Near water. That’s my plan.
What should I dye first? Not bandages—impractical, nobody wants pink bandages. Though imagine Tovar's face if I wrapped his next wound in bright cheerful yellow.
Actually, that alone might be—no. Start practical. The scrap cloth I use for herb-drying. Nobody cares what color it is and if I ruin a batch I can make more. Then maybe a curtain for my doorway. Do I have a curtain? I should have a curtain. I saw extra fabric rolled behind Dara's supply bench.
Should I ask? Is curtain fabric communal property? What are the property laws of a werewolf pack? Nobody's explained this to me. Nobody's explained most things. I just keep doing things until someone growls.
Nugget pecks my ankle.
"I'm thinking. Give me a second."
She pecks harder.
"Fine. We're going."
Need a pot I can ruin.
Need somewhere to hang drying fabric.
Right. Go.
I walk fast, faster than I need to, mist still sitting in the low places and the pack sounds already behind me.
The morning is cool and I hum because when I stop the shirt collar slides off my shoulder and I think about why it's so much bigger than mine and then I'm back in the dark with his fur under my hands and I can't be back there right now, I have flowers to find.
Not long. Just the stream and back. I'll be home before the pot's even cool.
It's been quiet. No humans seen anywhere near the pack. I'm barely outside the territory—basically still inside, if you squint.
If you squint from a very permissive angle.
See, I can follow orders.
The forest swallows me. Trees crowding close, pack sounds fading. My feet find the path without thinking.
"Blues first," I tell the trees. "Purple if I can find it. Back before anyone notices I'm gone and does something dramatic."
The trees don't respond. Rude.
The shirt catches, the hem snagging on low branches in a way mine doesn't. I fold the sleeves back again. They slide down again. I fold them again.
Wildflowers. I'm looking for wildflowers.
I find the first patch twenty minutes in.
Blues. Pale purple-blue clustered low to the ground. I drop to my knees and cut stems. Don't crush the petals until you're ready. This shade would dye beautifully—subtle, present.
Anything is better than beige.
More flowers deeper in. Yellows, bright, already staining my fingertips. The repetition helps. Hands busy, brain quieter.
Almost.
The soil is dark and damp under my knees and the smell of crushed stems is sharp and green and good and if I just keep picking, just keep moving—
Purple. Actual purple, growing near a fallen log, petals dark and soft.
"AHH! PERFECT."
The basket's half-full. Enough for several batches. I should head back. I've been gone longer than I meant to.
Still need to talk to Hella. Dara might—
A whistle.
"What's a girl doing out here alone?"
I freeze.
Two men stepping out from behind trees. Rough clothes. Armed—one short sword, one club. The one who spoke has a scar across his chin and he's smiling at me—gross.
"Getting flowers." High. Squeaky. Every shred of dignity, gone. "For dye. Not looking for trouble."
"Flowers." He looks at his companion and laughs. "She's picking flowers in wolf territory."
"Sort of. It's complicated." I'm already backing up, basket against my chest. The knife is in my pocket. Herb knife. Not enough. Tree behind me—good, nothing at my back. Two of them, one knife, ten feet to the thicker brush if I run. "I should actually get back. My—my husband's expecting me."
They don't know I'm out here.
I didn't tell anyone.
Idiot.
Stupid, stupid—
"Husband." The scarred one spits the word. "No husband's sending a woman alone this far out."
"I'm not alone. I said—"
"What are you doing out here?" The second man moves around to flank me. "Really."
"Gathering herbs. For home."
"For home." He laughs. Not kind. "Try again."
I run.
Maybe ten feet. Someone grabs my arm and wrenches me backward. The basket goes flying—flowers scattering, all those colors hitting dirt—and I fight. Teeth into the hand holding me. Copper flooding my mouth. He's yelling. Knee up toward his groin—miss, catch his thigh—
The knife.
My fingers close around the handle. I slash at the arm gripping me. He screams. Blood welling through his sleeve—deep, that's deep, good—and I twist free and put the tree at my back.
"Little bitch cut me—"
The second one comes from the side. I swing wild, catch his forearm—not deep enough—and his fist connects with my cheek. My head snaps back, skull cracking against bark.
Stars. Actual—
Ground under my hands. Blood in my mouth from biting my tongue. Hands grabbing at my arms. I kick out—connect, bone maybe—
"Hold her still—"
Scrambling back. Knife still in my grip but my hand won't stop shaking. The one I cut is holding his arm, red between his fingers. Should've gone deeper. Should've aimed for the throat.
Branches snapping behind me. Something tearing through the trees. Faster than any man.
Then silence except for my own breathing.
Keer.
Naked. Covered in blood that isn't his. Chest heaving, scars standing white against flushed skin. His sharp gaze finds me against the tree, back to bark, knife in my shaking hand.
For half a second, his face cracks open.
Then it's gone.
"What the fuck were you thinking?"
I flinch. Hate that I flinch.
My cheek throbs and he's standing there furious at me, blood drying brown on his chest, and I can see his scars up close for the first time—the long one across his ribs, the thick one at his collarbone—and that one healed wrong, someone pulled the edges too tight, and he's yelling at me—
"I was getting flowers."