by J. L. Wilder
“After dinner.”
“Isn’t this lunch?” Time had lost all meaning.
He stared at me as though I were simple. “Does it matter?”
Good point. I guess outlaws weren’t that big on regulated meal times. Brock used to run his crew mostly on daylight hours, I suppose because they did business with other humans; it’s not like you can afford to operate a compound of that size on bartering alone. It would take some adjusting to get on this schedule. Though, that being said, I didn’t feel even a little sleepy, possibly because I’d been knocked out cold for days on end.
A distinctive smell was beginning to filter in from the kitchen, one that made my overly sensitive nose hairs stand on end. I felt a gag rise in my throat, but I forced it down.
“What … is that?” I asked Daniel through gritted teeth.
“That,” he replied neutrally, “is dinner.”
Chapter 7
Caine’s dinner, or what passed for one, took approximately forty-five minutes to make. While he toiled away over the stove, creating food that absolutely no one wanted to eat, Daniel, Tristan and I sprawled across the couches.
Well, Daniel and I sprawled. Tristan’s back never arched even an inch. Daniel worked on some sketches—not maps this time, but something that appeared more mystical in origin—and Tristan read a dog-eared copy of Julius Caesar. Unable to sit still and be alone with my thoughts, I got up from the couch after five minutes of agony and began to clean the place.
“What are you doing, Snow White?” Caine said from his station. “You don’t have to clean up after us.”
I was about to say ‘it’s no trouble’ when Tristan cut me off.
“Yes, she does,” he said simply. “You cook, I take care of the motorcycles, intra-pack coms with other HW sectors, etc., and Daniel does food runs. Emma needs to contribute to the pack.”
“By cleaning?” Caine asked skeptically. “She’s not our maid.”
Finally, I got a word in edgewise. “It’s fine, Caine. I don’t mind. Besides, I need something to do.”
“Do you have a hobby?” Daniel inquired, his tone polite.
I thought for a moment, trying to remember my life BB—Before Brock. I sifted through my past, searching for something resembling an interest. There’d definitely been a number of them, at some point, but they’d all been blacked out by the glaring eclipse cast by Brock’s shadow.
“Not really,” I said at last. “I wasn’t allowed to have one back in the compound.”
The men looked at me mutely, and I could see my words had hurt each of them in a different way: Caine looked angry, Daniel looked sad, and Tristan looked, oddly enough, rather protective.
“I’m sorry,” Daniel said, his voice low.
Caine snarled, “To hell with that guy.”
Despite myself, I glanced at Tristan, curious to hear what he’d say.
In a dark, foreboding tone, he informed me, “If Brock so much as comes near this place, we’ll end him.”
The intensity of his words sent a shiver down my spine. Though I was grateful for his protection (yes, even despite the fact it was basically bought), I feared what Tristan was capable of. What happened if he turned on me, or I on them?
Scared to think too long about Tristan’s declaration, I returned to my cleaning, picking up stray pieces of paper, wiping down the coffee table, and generally straightening things out. I liked a clean space; it made me feel like I had a modicum of control over my environment. Maybe I’ll tackle the bathroom, if I get the nerve, I thought with a private laugh.
After ages of cooking and fussing, Caine announced that dinner was ready.
“Tonight’s delicacies,” he informed us, as Daniel began pulling paper plates from the cabinet, “include Grandma’s meatballs, stir-fried chicken, and sautéed broccoli.”
Well, that didn’t sound too bad. Or at least I thought it didn’t, until I saw Tristan, the implacable man himself, swallow deeply, as though from nerves.
“Thank you, Caine,” he said, struggling to keep his tone even.
God, how bad could this food be?
Spoiler alert: very, very bad.
While Caine happily plowed away at his plate, the rest of us minced through the meal, picking out uncooked bone and meat. Did he have a lawnmower for a stomach? I wondered. Or maybe his sense of taste had been burnt off in a horrific accident.
As he tore into another piece of nearly raw meat, Caine, speaking around his food, asked me, “So, Emma. You been with anyone besides Brock?”
Tristan cut in, his tone dangerous. “Caine—”
But Caine waved him off, throwing down the chicken stump. “What, come on, we’re all curious. I just wanna know more about her, is that such a crime? I mean, she is gonna be living with us for the foreseeable future.”
Tristan again tried to come to my defense, but this time, it was me who silenced him.
“That’s okay,” I told the alpha, “I don’t mind the question.”
I set my fork down, frankly grateful to have an excuse to stop pretending to eat, and to Caine, said, “No, there hasn’t been anyone else. When I was younger, that is, old enough to date but still relatively young, none of the guys I knew would go out with me. They were intimidated.”
“By you?” Daniel asked with surprise. “Not to say you aren’t—”
I laughed. “That’s all right, I know all five feet of me isn’t exactly imposing. No, I mean because of being an omega. The other Wolf shifters my age were worried that dating me would be, uh … challenging.”
“Why?” Caine snorted. “Were they chicken?”
“No, they were Wolf,” I fired back.
This got a laugh from Caine, and I continued, “It was like, the second a guy tried to go out with me, he was a threat. It was perceived as him trying to become the alpha. Because, y’know, alphas and omegas.”
I glanced sidelong at Tristan, to see if he had any particular thoughts on this subject, but his face was carefully blank. So, I went on.
“Anyhow, this gift, this thing that was supposed to make me so desirable, ended up making me feel kind of isolated, I guess.” I’d never told anyone that, but it felt good to get it off my chest. “And then Brock took me, just to keep me from having any powerful Wolf shifter pups, and you all know the rest.”
“So, you’ve never been with another man, in that way?” Caine pressed.
“Leave off,” Daniel said curtly, raking a hand through his long black hair. “She doesn’t have to tell you everything.”
But the weird part was, I wanted to. Tell them everything, that is. They were such different men, none of them identifiably ‘my type’, whatever that was, but in their company, I felt at ease. And I’d been keeping things in for years, training myself into secrecy; even this overly prying interest was a relief.
“No,” I told Caine. “And even when I was, ah, with Brock, it was as though he wasn’t really there, especially since he knew I wouldn’t bear him spawn. So, in my mind, I’ve never been with a man, not in the way that matters.”
I felt the air go out of the room. Suddenly, the Wolf that always twinkled behind a shifter’s eye seemed to come to the forefront of Tristan’s, Caine’s and Daniel’s expressions. In that moment, though they retained their human forms, they were more Wolf than man.
“Is that a problem?” I whispered, almost frightened by the intensity of their looks.
The men, with some difficulty, each broke their gaze. Tristan glanced toward the dirty stove, before, with much effort, looking back at me and replying quietly, “Not a problem.”
But clearly, there was something I was missing here. “You guys are giving me a look like that’s a problem.”
“I apologize,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse us. It’s been a while since we’ve had a female Wolf stay with us, let alone a shifter. Instincts are powerful things. Not that any of us would touch you, not ever. But, you must understand, hearing that you haven’t truly mated … it brings out the
Wolf in a shifter.”
His eyes shot to his lower ranking Wolves, the words both a reassurance to me, and a warning to them. Despite myself, I felt a thrill. Talk of ‘instincts’ and ‘power’ always made my heart race. To finally know a man that wasn’t Brock would be ecstasy.
Of course, like Tristan said, I couldn’t sleep with them. Obviously. But it didn’t make the idea any less attractive. And I knew what he meant, about learning that I was unmated. In shifter circles, an omega who hasn’t ever chosen a mate is, I suppose you could say, a super-omega. To not only never have birthed a litter, but also to never have even forged that deep, telekinetic bond with someone … it was an appeal, and I knew it.
Should’ve kept my mouth shut, I thought with regret. Maybe then they wouldn’t all be looking at me as though, suddenly, I wasn’t just interesting but appetizing. Not that I minded the appreciation, but it did complicate things a fair deal.
“Dinner’s over,” Tristan announced without prompt. “Daniel, clear the plates.”
“I thought I was in charge of cleaning,” I joked, attempting to break the tension in the room.
“Not tonight,” he replied. “Tonight, you’re my student.”
I gulped, liking the sound of that. Caine looked like he wanted to say more, like there was something on the tip of his tongue, but Tristan flared his nostrils in Caine’s direction, and no words were spoken. Perhaps, he’d sent a warning over their mind connection. Having been in Brock’s possession for so long, I’d forgotten he wasn’t the only shifter who could speak directly in the mind of his pack mates.
Tristan stood up abruptly from the table. “Follow me,” he ordered.
“Where are we going?” I asked, scrambling to keep up with him.
“My room.”
I balked. “Why?”
He turned to look over his shoulder, his square jaw catching the dim light of the space. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Not at all.”
He pushed open one of the doors, and held it open for me. I rushed inside, brushing his arm as I passed, and he slammed it closed behind him.
This room was bigger than the others I’d seen, that much was evident on sight; this made sense, as alpha quarters were always the largest.
But it wasn’t just the literal size, it was also the decoration: Tristan’s room was so sparsely furnished, I wondered that a human even lived in it. I’d moved in (a term I use loosely) just a few days ago, with not a penny nor an object to my name, and I had almost as much stuff as Tristan did: a bed, a pillow, a sheet, drawers.
The only exception to this was a single photograph, taped neatly to the wall, hung perfectly parallel to the floor. It showed a woman, with auburn hair, teeth flashing, staring into the camera without a care in the world.
“She’s beautiful,” I murmured, running my finger along the edge of the photo. “Who is she?”
“My mother,” Tristan said brusquely. “Now, let’s get to work.”
“Your mother?” Of course, it made sense that Tristan had parents—everyone does—but he’d seemed so cold, I hadn’t imagined a nurturing female figure of any sort in his life.
“She’s dead.”
Oh shit. “I’m so sorry,” I began, “I had no—”
“I know,” he replied, his tone curt. “Can we get back to business, please?”
I slowly nodded my head, and felt a burst of heat on the nape of my neck. I should’ve realized his mother was dead, the pieces were all there. Well, you’ve really put your foot in it this time, Emma, I thought wryly. Great way to make an impression on an alpha—ask him about his dead mother.
But Tristan seemed to have already moved past my faux pas.
“Sit down,” he instructed me, before going to his drawers, opening them up, and pulling something out.
I followed his command, trying to make myself comfortable on the stiff mattress, without appearing to get too comfortable, if you know what I mean.
Tristan walked back and sat down on the edge of the bed. Guess there’d been no need to worry about impropriety: he was seated about as far away from me as the twin mattress would allow. I tried not to take it personally, but against my better angels[TM2], I felt my heart stinging with annoyance and need.
The omega in you seeks an alpha, my brain reminded me. Not your fault.
But still. I felt silly, being so unable to control my urges; as though I were a teenager again, brought to my knees by desires I didn’t understand. Then again, being a Wolf meant your desires were never too far from your mind: eat, sleep, hunt, mate. Only, mine had gone quiet in captivity, because every part of me was busy repelling Brock. Now, back in the real world, I was discovering thirsts I thought I’d forgotten.
“Here,” Tristan said, interrupting my thoughts. “Read it.”
He slipped a book in between my fingers, no bigger than a smartphone: small, slim, discreet. I tried to ignore the uptick in my pulse from his fingertips, and turned, instead, to examine the cover.
“Sun Tzu’s Art of War,” I read aloud.
“Yes.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s the lodestar of military strategy,” Tristan explained. “It’s dictated modern battles for thousands of years.”
“Doesn’t sound very modern to me,” I muttered.
This made him laugh, just a little, a sound that evaporated so quickly I wondered if it’d been my imagination.
“I’d like you to read it,” he informed me.
“Why?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I do?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he kept a blank face. “I want you to read it because there’s going to come a time when we’re faced with Brock’s army, and I need you to be prepared. How does that sound?”
My throat was dry. He was right, and I knew it, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. The prospect of seeing Brock again, let alone facing him in combat, made me dizzy.
“All right,” I said at last. “I’ll read it. Not much else to do, I guess. Now, what’s up on the lesson docket today?”
He shook his head. “That’s it. Sit here, read the book.”
I glanced at him, skeptical of this idea. “Won’t it take me a couple of hours?”
“It’s only about six thousand words,” Tristan countered. “Shouldn’t take you very long at all.”
How long did it take someone to read six thousand words? I wondered. And, for that matter, who measured books by word count? I worried that I wouldn’t read fast enough for his liking, which would, in turn, make me look stupid. If I had my druthers, I’d go off and read it at my own pace.
But, I was also deeply, worryingly competitive, so I grimly planted myself on the bed and cracked open the first page. After a quick scan, I remarked, “So, this isn’t gonna be a beach read, is it?”
“Depends what you like to do at the beach.”
“That’s the closest you’ve come to making a joke,” I pointed out.
Tristan replied smoothly, “Or maybe it’s the closest you’ve come to understanding one of my jokes.”
Touché. I didn’t have any other witty retort, so by way of response, I leaned my head down and began to read the book. Tristan pulled out a book of his own, from some pocket deep within his leather jacket, and began to read.
Turns out, Sun Tzu has some interesting stuff to say. He has a lot of lofty ideas about planning battles, defending preexisting holdouts, and using creativity and timing to one’s advantage. I closed the book within the hour, feeling unexpectedly alert and refreshed.
“So,” Tristan said, upon hearing the book shut, “what’d you think?”
“Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“Any of his notions jump out to you?”
I thought about it for a moment, then replied, “He talks about strength coming not from size, but from unity. I think that’s true.”
Tristan rubbed his hands together, as if in deep thought. “Yes, som
e have speculated that Sun Tzu was a shifter. That’s certainly a pack mentality: strength in unity. What else caught your eye? Or what did you disagree with?”
A trickier question. I answered with uncertainty, “Well, he talks, in the beginning, about extensive planning, calculating your chance of victory. But then, closer to the end, he says that responding to new situations as they arise unexpectedly is just as important. So, it feels like he’s asking the reader to both plan and react, to lay all this groundwork and then … throw it out. Isn’t that a waste of time?”
Tristan smiled. Wait, how had I earned that?
“Good observation,” he replied. “I’d argue that those are two parts of the same thought. Sun Tzu teaches us that planning is no reason to grow complacent, and that instinct is sloppy without further backing. He argues for duality—the duality of a shifter. Think with your human head, respond with your Wolf heart.”
I was impressed at Tristan’s response, and more than a little flattered that he asserted such an understanding had come from me. Confidence, so foreign a thing, was beginning to mount inside of me. And from confidence came cockiness.
Tilting toward Tristan, pulled by a force greater than myself, I murmured, “And when should you let the Wolf take over?”
I heard his breath hitch in his throat. Tristan gazed at me, brown eyes blazing, before suddenly standing up from the bed, his black leather boots hitting the floor.
“That’s enough for today,” he said in a tight voice. “You’re dismissed.”
Ouch. I shrunk back, realizing that my advances had just been brutally rejected.
“What am I supposed to do for the rest of the day?” I asked petulantly. “Sit around like some kind of prisoner?”
He scowled, and turned his back on me, his walls going up. “I don’t care. Do what you like, keep busy. Train. I’m not your master.”
“You’re my alpha.”
“No, I’m not,” he retorted. “I am, at most, your general in this battle. But I’m not your friend, your confidante, your mate—”
He broke off, as if he’d slammed into a verbal wall. After a breath, he continued, “I’m nothing to you. You’re a free woman now. Isn’t that what you wanted? Go enjoy it.”
