“Stop obsessing over your babies, they’ve been fine and haven’t grown an inch without your supervision while you’ve been gone,” Beatrix calls from one of the open windows.
“How would you know? You never come out to tend to them for me,” I tease.
She rolls her eyes. “I saw what happened when you got that nasty rash. No freaking thank you.”
My heart warms as I make my way inside. At seventeen now, she’s growing to look like the spitting image of our mother, her and Lena both getting Mom’s lighter blonde hair while I have more of Dad’s caramel tones streaking mine. I miss both of them so much, but at least I have my sisters.
Losing Mom is what drove our father to do what he did, I think. I remember overhearing him arguing with the alpha about looking for her when she went missing after a run. Shifters sometimes get lost if they’re pulled too far tracking an interesting scent, or if they spend too much time in their fur the wolf can lose the human side, returning to our original nature.
I don’t know what to believe happened to our mother. There weren’t any signs of her turning feral. She was happily mated to Dad in a True Mate bond and loved to take us out on girls-only exploration trips. Was that a hint that she wanted to leave us? I don’t like to dwell on it, because I can’t change it now. I don’t have the luxury of time to sit around dissecting the past when there’s always so much to be done.
“Did you bring us anything?” Bea asks when I come through the door.
I pause from unloading my satchel on the table, setting aside the wire and some extra secondhand tools the man from the market threw in simply because he was eager to boast to his stall neighbors he’d traded with a shifter.
The main area of the house is one room we divide into our eating area by the sink and ancient wood burning stove, the bed Lena and Beatrix share shoved into the alcove in the corner, and the rest is nearly overtaken by my herb workbench by the windows. I’ve grown from having one bench to a whole corner overflowing with hanging plants and drying cuttings, potted propagations and seeds I’m coaxing to grow on the windowsill, and my tools.
Bea blinks her big brown eyes at me hopefully. “Say yes. For Lena, I mean. You know she loves a sweet treat.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “I got these in exchange for a vial of dried hyssop and lavender. One for each of you.”
She squeals in delight at the matching pink sticks of rock candy I pull from one of the pockets. I grunt when she barrels into my side for a fierce hug. Her wolf is making her stronger every day. I have no doubt when she comes of age in another year, she’ll be celebrating her first shift during a full moon run like tonight.
Lena’s the one that worries me. I fear she’ll be Wolfless like me.
I wish there were others in the pack to ask about the signs, but I’m the only one. A crabby Merryweather elder told me when my coming of age ceremony didn’t result in a shift that I should consider myself lucky the pack won’t allow Wolfless to be killed to keep bloodlines strong anymore before he spat at my feet.
Crossing the cramped space to my workbench, I pluck the liatris petals and leaves, depositing them in a bowl to grind later once they’ve dried out. Then I take one of the small knives from the leather roll sitting to the side, slicing the stem to small pieces. Next I add them to another bowl with a pinch of calendula flowers and a scoop of orange powder beneficial for inflammations from the row of vials on a spice shelf above the workbench.
I mash it together with a pestle and pour in a dollop of honey as Beatrix brings me a cup of hot water without being asked. She’s watched me make poultices daily in the last week for Lena’s cold.
“Thanks,” I murmur before adding just enough water to moisten the ingredients to hold them together in a paste.
When it’s ready, I nudge the frail lump bundled beneath the covers, perching on the bed. Lena stretches with a yawn from her nap.
“Hey, buttercup.”
“You’re back.” She’s groggy, her voice crackling.
“I’m back. Don’t let Bea tell you I didn’t bring anything.” I help her lean up against the headboard and carefully prod her throat. “Good, the swelling’s a little better today. How do you feel?”
“Just sleepy.”
“Your throat doesn’t hurt?”
She lowers her lashes. It’s not her fault her health is fragile. It’s mine.
In the winter during our first year living here, she caught a terrible pneumonia. She almost died and I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. It was bad enough I went down to the healer to beg him to help her because she was only seven, no one had a right to hate her for her name. He refused, slamming the door in my face.
I’ll never fail her like that again.
I reach for the bowl. “Here. Let me put this on you anyway. Then you can have the rock candy I got you.”
She tips her chin up obediently, used to the unpleasant feeling of her throat smeared with the mashed herbal treatment. I hum while I apply it, then clean my hands and bring her the candy and a cup of ginger tea Beatrix made. Smiling, I comb her hair with my fingers.
A timid knock sounds at the back door. I stop what I’m doing and glance at Beatrix.
“It’s for you,” she says without looking up from the potato she’s returned to skinning for dinner.
I kiss Lena’s head before getting up. “I know. I’m expecting this one.”
The knock comes again, with a tad more force when I collect the sachet waiting on my workbench. I lift my brows when I open the back door.
“Sorry.” The girl waiting is a couple years younger than me with unkempt hair and a fading bruise on her cheek, a shocking contrast to how put together she was when we were in school together. She bounces a chubby baby on her hip, glancing at the woods every few seconds. “I don’t have much time before he’ll be back.”
My lips press into a thin line. If it were up to me, I’d love to give her something stronger than the monthly dose of valerian root to knock her horrible mate out early for the night so he’ll leave her the hell alone. I’d even give it to her for the same price as the sedative, because like anyone from old Cormac’s brood, he’s a close-minded, short-tempered thug.
“Do you want a salve for your cheek? It’ll help with the swelling,” I offer.
She gives a feeble shake of her head. “Can’t. Don’t want him noticing me doing anything different. It’s healing fast enough on its own.”
I grimace, imagining how bad it must’ve been for it to still be puffy. When I offer the sachet, she takes it quickly, slipping it into the pocket of her loose smock dress. She turns to leave with a muttered thanks.
“Wait, Nina. Your payment.” As sympathetic as I am to what she endures with her unfortunate arranged mating, I need whatever she’s bartering with more.
She freezes on the stoop, lip quivering. “I—I forgot, I’m sorry. We’ve got a lot of meat this week. Can I give you some of that?”
I nod. “Food will always be accepted as a fair exchange.”
“Okay. I don’t have it with me. It’s hard enough coming up the mountain discreetly. People will talk if they see me on the same path today,” she mumbles, hushing her fussy baby. “Come down to the back of my cabin just after sundown? Trent will be at the gathering early with the security team. I can sneak it to you better that way instead of trying to come all the way up here.”
The security team Trent’s part of is bullshit. It’s part of Cormac Blackburn’s—Caden’s uncle—not the official pack guards.