I give myself a shake and head over, scurrying to avoid Finn’s chair as he takes the exact moment I pass to push back from the table. He doesn’t even notice me. He’s still recounting some story over his shoulder as he makes for the bathroom.
I’m somewhat out of breath by the time I make it to Cheryl. She points at a bowl of potato salad. “Heat that up,” she says, not bothering to look at me. “It’s gone cold.”
“It’s a cold salad.” I watched Old Noreen take it out of the fridge and dump it out of the plastic tub myself.
“I didn’t ask for your culinary expertise. Go stick it in the microwave for a few minutes. Dermot wants it hot.”
Right. Shit flows downhill. I forgot for a second. I grab the bowl.
“And bring more brisket when you come back,” she calls after me.
“And a pitcher of beer,” Dermot adds.
“Make it two,” another elder tacks on.
At least I have something to do. Haisley’s still grinding up on Killian, but that’s not my business. My wolf is prowling back and forth as if my body’s a cage, whining in distress, but I’m solid. Test passed. Challenge accepted.
He does what he wants. I do what I want. Thanks to Abertha, we’re not mates.
I wouldn’t want him. He has no sense of humor, and he’s boring. His interests, as far as I can tell, are the shifter circuit, boxing, MMA, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, cardio, strength training, and “bulking.” He’s the prototypical Quarry Pack male. Even if he weren’t a massive dick, I wouldn’t be into him. He’s not my type.
My wolf disagrees, but she’s judging on different criteria—mostly smell.
She won’t let me check my phone when we get back to the kitchen. After I stick the potato salad in the oven—Old Noreen won’t hear of microwaving it—my wolf drives me to stand at the kitchen door and peek out the square window.
Haisley’s turned herself around, so now she’s sitting on Killian’s lap facing the open floor. They’re watching Gael and Conor spar. Killian’s barking at Gael. “Fists up. Step into him. Quit dancing.”
His arm is loosely wound around Haisley’s waist. She’s draped back against him. His fingers rest an inch above her hip bone on the bare strip of skin below her belly shirt.
I don’t care if he’s touching her stomach. If it feels like a horse kicked my gut, that’s because my brain hasn’t gotten the message yet that the bond is gone.
I have to think about something else.
Killian’s nails are bitten to the quick and his cuticles are raw and red.
How can I see his nails from back here? It’s like I’ve got wolf vision. I try to focus on something farther away—the taxidermied falcon on the mantle above the fire. I can’t make out where his talon meets his toe. Weird. Do I only have binocular vision when it comes to Killian? That’s crappy.
I don’t want to see what he does super clearly. I don’t really care, though. This doesn’t hurt. It’s just phantom limb syndrome. Biology on the fritz.
Now Haisley’s whispering in his ear. Her lips graze his cheek. My wolf lunges, slams into her limits, and crumples. My hands twitch. My stomach aches.
He’s not my mate.
And that’s good. It’s so good.
Remember the thicket?
It was agony. I was torn and beaten and aching, and if I’d had the strength, I would have dragged myself on my belly to Killian’s door and begged him to mount me. I was alone and bleeding in a briar patch, and where was he?
He’s not my mate. He can touch whoever he wants. He can bend Haisley Byrne over up there on the dais, and I might puke, but I won’t care.
Not. My. Mate.
Kennedy taps my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Potato salad’s ready.”
“Shit. I need two pitchers of beer, too. I’ll get it.” I make for the keg, but Kennedy grabs my wrist to halt me.
“You just keep growling at those assholes. I’ll pour.”
“I’m growling?”
“Sure are.” She gives me a small sympathetic smile. “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
I love Kennedy. Sometimes we hang out, late at night, out on the porch after Mari and Annie have gone to bed. We talk about life. Leaving. And why we stay.
Pack life is easy in a way. Rules, taboos, status, rank. It’s all laid out for you from the day you’re born. You know where you belong, minute to minute. You don’t have to make hard choices.
But what if your heat and your wolf never come?
What if you’re female but your wolf isn’t? What are you then? Are you pack? Are you only pack if you follow the rules? If you don’t draw attention to the part of you that doesn’t fit?
Or can everyone see that you don’t really belong, and it’s only a matter of time before exile? Wouldn’t it be smarter to get the hell out of town before that happens?
No one has been exiled since Killian’s father’s time, but that wasn’t so long ago.
And we need a pack. Pack isn’t just Cheryl and Killian and Haisley and the assholes at the A-roster table. It’s also Abertha and Mari and Annie and Old Noreen and Liam and Fallon. It’s the Malones and Butlers and Campbells. It’s the pups. It’s the elders who remember my Ma and Da and will tell me new stories about them I’ve never heard before, even now after they’ve been gone so long.
I rest my forehead on the cool door. It’s an equation Kennedy and I do over and over again. The packmates we love minus the packmates we hate. The rules that crush our spirits minus the fact that we belong even less in the human world, and their ways are even more intolerable.
“Here you go, fighter.” Kennedy prods me with a filled tray. “Go get ‘em.”
I give her the finger before I take it from her.
Back in the dining rooms, packmates are howling and cheering. Conor has Gael on the ground. Killian’s riveted, oblivious to Haisley and me. She’s smiling, smug as hell, watching the fight with her arms over her head, draped around Killian’s neck.
My stomach sours. I hate this. I need to think about mushrooms, but I can’t. My wolf’s given up. She’s done with this bullshit. She’s huddled in a corner, back to the world. I want to join her.
I trudge toward the elder’s table. The leg, again, comes out of nowhere. This time, I can’t avoid it. I trip. The tray goes sailing through the air. I can’t help but put my full weight on my bad leg, and it gives in. I fall, my shoulder slamming into the floor.
“Watch that last step.” Lochlan Byrne smirks as he stares down at me. “It’s a doozy.”
I push up on my elbows. My tailbone aches. There’s beer down my dress. Potato salad on the floor. The bowl broke, and there are shards everywhere.
“Una, what on earth are you doing?” Cheryl peers down at me, hands on her hips.
My leg throbs. I wrenched it as I fell, and I landed on my bad side. I have to get up, but I can’t. I need a second. I’m in between B-roster and a pup table, but we’re close to the edge of the open floor. Everyone has a great view. There’s laughter. Murmured disapproval.
Lochlan Byrne’s lounging in his chair, smirking down at me. Finn slaps his back. I don’t look up at the dais. I don’t want to know.