Sighing, I brush it off as best I can. Hopefully I can salvage something useful out of it.
3CADEN
Avery’s scent follows me long after I let her go. I do my best to finish checking the borders with it tickling my nose. It’s distracting. Far sweeter than I remember when I last caught it on the wind.
I shouldn’t be able to pick up her scent still. Not at this distance, diluted by the smells of nature and other packmates as I venture closer to more populated areas.
Even as an alpha shifter, my heightened senses have a limit. So how the hell am I aware of exactly which direction she’s in on this mountain right now?
Scrubbing my face, I dismiss it as my damn imagination conspiring with my lack of sleep to toy with me.
I know this land like the back of my hand. I’ve committed every mossy patch, every trickling stream, every tree hollow to memory since I was a pup knowing it would become mine to guard and protect when it was my time to take over the responsibility for my father as his successor.
Of course I know where Avery Morgan is. It’s the alpha’s duty to always be aware of his enemies.
Tonight is the full moon. As shifters, our connection to it and the moon goddess is strongest on these nights. We run as a pack to honor the gift she bestowed on the first wolf to walk amongst man and nature. It’s a time of celebration every month, to guide the younger members of the pack coming of age for their first shift, but I’m not in the mood.
Coming off yet another territory squabble between elders doesn’t help. They’re debating over a stretch of land connecting their homes. I’ve been mediating it for them since I became Alpha. I swear, those crabby old bastards have been arguing over who the patch of sparse bushes and rocks belongs to for decades.
It’s not just the trivialities I often have to deal with on top of my day to day agenda. Something’s different today. It’s in the brisk autumn mountain air that’s made me off kilter, acting on odd impulses that I can’t justify—like that inexplicable incident with Avery. It’s growing more noticeable as the afternoon goes on.
Worse, since the moment I sent Avery away, my wolf has been acting strangely restless. He’s more interested in turning around and tracking her over the gnarled roots of the trail she took rather than finish the task at hand. I pointedly ignore the yank on my instincts, continuing my descent along the edge of my territory.
I squeeze my nape to alleviate the tight bunch of muscles, finding no relief. Hopefully when I go to fur later tonight, this agitation will cure itself.
Another waft of fresh honey and summer rain teases my nostrils. I cast a glare over my shoulder.
“You’ve got me nearly believing the pack’s whispers about you becoming a witch up here with this trickery,” I mutter.
The only response is the sway of the branches overhead and the screech of a hawk soaring through the clouds. It’s my memory that supplies the way Avery used to laugh when I told her something outlandish and how brightly her amber eyes would light up with amusement.
Gritting my teeth, I don’t hesitate before swinging my fist against a thick trunk with a growl. The bark splinters, fragments exploding everywhere. A deep crack travels up the wood in staggered breaks. It ends at the base of a large branch that creaks ominously before snapping free, crashing to the ground.
Those memories are off-fucking-limits.
Any happy memories of Avery were locked away the day her family betrayed us, going from our most trusted allies as my father’s beta to a threat when he challenged his alpha for the right to claim the pack.
I stare at the damage I’ve done to the tree and my knuckles. Black fur has sprouted on the back of my cut up hand and my nails have extended into claws. I heave a sigh as the angry gashes in my skin begin to mend thanks to the accelerated healing shifters are blessed with. They’re gone by the time I’ve made short work of breaking the fallen limb into smaller pieces to use for firewood at tonight’s bonfire.
A soft giggle alerts me to an audience peeking at me from behind a holly bush. Two children, a boy and a girl around age ten, step out when I wave them over. The girl bravely comes right up to me while the boy hovers behind her, glancing at me for permission.
I grimace. Kids were never wary of me when I was younger.
“Are you out here playing?” I ask.
The girl nods. They peer up at the abused tree with curious gazes.
Damn it. I hate anyone seeing me lose control. It’s bad enough I have to work daily to make this pack respect my leadership, even four years after I became Alpha at twenty. It was necessary to be firm to ensure they’d follow me when others thought there were other choices better suited to lead the pack than one as young as me.
The girl turns to me. “Are you sad?”
I frown. “No.”
“Mad?” She tilts her head. “Our Da goes into the trees behind our cabin to do that. Our Ma says he’s working on his frustrations.”
“No.” The furrow in my brow deepens with a new worry to add to my endless list. I’m not sure their family name—possibly Merryweather’s pups, but they could pass for the Farrows line with their eyes. “It’ll be dinnertime soon. About time you ran back to your dam, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Alpha,” they answer in unison.
“Go on now.”
I watch them scamper away, chasing each other in a zigzag along the trail until they reach the fork that leads towards the central part of the packlands. Once I no longer hear them, I work my jaw, scanning the wooded path along the borders the Blackburns have been guardians of for generations with a narrowed gaze.
My wolf chuffs in my head, tongue lolling from the side of his grinning maw. The bastard’s amusement is another unwanted irritation. His eagerness for tonight’s run has been impossible to ignore all day. While I’ve been taking care of preparations, he’s frequently pressed close against the thin veil that separates a shifter’s skin and beast forms. He’s ready to be in control as usual.
It’s not as though I don’t shift every chance I get outside of the full moon. Some packs only let their wolf out once or twice a month. I get too restless to go more than a few days. It’s a waste of a shifter’s power to stay in one form all the time.
I take his taunting as his desire for me to hurry up so we can run and hunt with our pack, gathering the broken up pieces of branch and tucking the bundle beneath my arm.
No, his voice echoes through my psyche, thunderous and commanding. Go back. Find the female.
Some days he deigns to communicate with me with words rather than simply influence my instincts. Usually when he’s being stubborn and wants something I’m not concerned with. Not all shifters can hear their wolf’s internal manifestation when they’re not in their fur, let alone converse with them.
The she-wolf smells good. We should hunt with her. She will be fast.
My brow furrows and I shake my head. He’s wrong. She doesn’t shift. There’s no wolf for us to run with. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t.
He’s barking up the wrong tree. Or maybe he’s gone insane with moon sickness if he thinks I’d want that with Avery. When I take a step, he stops me in my tracks, pulling hard with the need to turn around. I ball my free hand into a fist with the effort to remain planted in place.
This needs to stop. It’s pissing me off now.
He has nothing else to say, growling as he turns around and flops down, tail thumping in agitation. Great, now he’s fucking pouting.