Father had straightened to a sit by the time I reached him, and he patted the log in invitation, but merely shrugged when I chose to remain standing. He looked exactly the same as he had ten years ago, and his commanding presence wasn’t dimmed in the slightest by the fact that his face was a foot lower than mine as I stood over him. I trembled as the breath of a wolf blew hot against the back of my legs, then almost laughed when I realized that I was terrified, for once, of someone else’s wolf rather than of my own. Another stray thought reminded me that Wolfie, despite his strangeness, had been a perfect gentleman the day before. In contrast, the alpha who was my father preferred fear tactics over subtlety.
“Father,” I acknowledged once I had gathered myself enough to speak. Even though I had safely yelled at the pack leader as a teenager, I had a feeling that any lack of respect now would be met with harsh repercussions, so I bowed my head even though I felt anything but submissive. I could tell my father liked the gesture even more because of my resentment, and his eyes took on the mischievous sparkle that I understood most women in our pack found irresistible. I detested it.
“Little Terra, all grown up,” the Chief said pleasantly, once my single word had been allowed to sit in the autumn air long enough to be swallowed up by the rushing water of the creek. “I’ve missed you,” he continued flatly.
I couldn’t prevent myself from sending my father a shocked look in response to that profession of affection. Was I misremembering the Chief’s farewell warning a decade ago? I’d thoroughly believed then that the alpha was willing to kill his own daughter if she made his life difficult, and I saw no reason to change my mind now. So why would my father want to pretend to have missed me?
Even though the memory only took seconds to rush through my mind, my father was apparently bored with my reverie, so he continued without waiting for a reply. “You’ve had enough running around time,” he intoned, making me wonder if perhaps today was my birthday and I’d somehow missed the date. This forced meeting and command felt like those other birthday ambushes, and the similarity was only accentuated when the Chief continued to speak. “It’s time to come home,” he proclaimed, and I could instantly feel my limbs moving to obey his thinly veiled command. The alpha smirked at the agonized expression on my face, then he added, “Unless … .”
I took a deep breath to calm my stuttering heart, then drew my father out the way he clearly intended for me to do. “What do you need from me?” I asked.
“Well, since you’re offering,” my father began, “An old man like me needs an heir.”
***
So we’re back on the grandchildren train, I couldn’t help thinking, before blurting out, “What about Ethan?” By the time I’d left home, my spoiled-rotten half-brother had been good for only one thing, in my opinion—to keep Father’s attention safely away from me and Brooke. Ethan had been four years old at the time, and the little despot already seemed to be growing into his future role as alpha. Now he’d be … I added up the years in my mind … fourteen. Just old enough to shift into wolf form and make everyone else’s lives miserable with those teen-wolf temper tantrums. Unless … . “Cricket isn’t a halfie!” I exclaimed.
If I hadn’t been so focused on surviving, I would have been proud of the way my words broke through my father’s cold exterior. His reaction was just an angry twitch in one cheek, but it was there. “Your stepmother, unfortunately, does not appear to have come from the quality bloodlines we’d once thought,” the Chief confirmed. “Ethan is no use to me as meat.”
The words were like a slap. Yes, the kid was annoying, but using the slur “meat” for the son of a werewolf, even if he would never shift, was extreme. Somewhere beneath his alpha exterior, I’d always assumed my father harbored an ounce of compassion for his favorite child, if not for the rest of us. It seemed I’d been wrong about a lot of things.
I would have to worry about Ethan later, though. If my stepmother was a half-breed descendant of a werewolf and a human, that meant any other sons she’d borne would have a 50% chance of being “meat,” while 50% of her daughters would be halfies like herself with the same tendency to produce human sons. I had no clue if I had other little half-siblings running around, but from my father’s expression, it was clear none of them would make the cut as his precious heir.
My mother, on the other hand, could have traced her werewolf bloodlines back to the Mayflower. Any hypothetical sons I had would be just what my father was looking for, and I cringed at the thought. This had been my worst nightmare ever since I wrapped my mind around werewolf succession and my father’s plans for the pack. I was pretty sure I didn’t want children at all, if only because 10% of werewolves were born as bloodlings, which produced tough odds for werewolf mothers. But if I ever did reproduce, I definitely didn’t want my sons to be raised in their grandfather’s image. Who wants to be the mother of Genghis Khan?