by Cat Kalen
But what?
“It’s time, Pride.”
My stomach clenches and my mind races. I really, really don’t like the sound of this.
“Time for what?” I ask and stare him straight in the eyes, something us pups aren’t allowed to do and I wonder if my disobedience will come with a price.
Instead of answering he gives me that confident smirk of his and says, “Get yourself something to eat, then get prettied up. I have a surprise for you.”
Chapter Three
A surprise?
The sick, uneasy feeling in my stomach tightens to a painful knot and a strange, horrible sense of foreboding crawls over my skin. I claw at my pale flesh, and despite the puffy, red welts rising up in response, I still can’t shed the god-awful feeling that something very bad is about to go down.
As I consider this unexpected turn of events, the master snaps his fingers and gestures for Mario. A second later he pivots and steps away and I twist around to watch the handler’s slow, careful approach. That’s when my glance lands on Stone standing some twenty feet away. Looking hard and feral and dressed in nothing but a pair of worn jeans, I take note of the way he’s watching me, the way he always watches me.
He has a smile on his face—smug, cocky and full of secrets-and it’s all I can do not to cross the courtyard, extend my nails and swipe it off. My hackles bristle as I get the sneaking suspicion that Stone isn’t quite as stupid as I always thought he was. When his cold eyes lock with mine it instantly provokes the wolf prowling restlessly inside me.
I stifle a growl, but the wide grin on his face, combined with the way his gaze has left mine to rake over my body, forces the sick feeling inside my stomach to punch into my throat. I swallow it down and try to figure out exactly what’s going on.
Instinctively, fight or flight instincts kick in and my first reaction is to straighten my shoulders and assume a combative stance. Hardening myself, I offer Stone a look of cool indifference. The last thing I want is for him to sense my fear.
With my heart crashing against my chest, I take a step toward him, but when Stone manages to break through my mental shields, my legs stiffen beneath me and I gasp air.
He’s in my head. I can feel him. He’s doing something. But I can’t tell what. I try to read him but his words are hurried, cryptic. As numbers ping around inside my brain, my throat tightens and I try to push him out. But he’s too strong, too determined.
Before I can figure out what’s going on, Mario steps up to me and his presence severs Stone’s fierce hold over my thoughts. As I shoot the alpha a poisonous glare, hating his ability to fracture my barriers despite my resistance, he shoves his hands into his pockets and turns, leaving me standing there staring at his back as he saunters away.
As I watch him retreat my mind races, sorting through matters and doing a quick run through of the morning’s events. I do a tally: the removal of my mother’s empty cot, Stone’s erratic behavior along with his talk of breaking me in, and the master’s unexpected surprise.
My stomach churns faster as my thoughts come to a screeching halt. Flames race through my veins like aggravated fireflies, the flashes boiling my blood and fuelling the anger inside me. Feeling slightly off kilter, my legs wobble beneath me and I have to lock my knees to keep myself upright.
Oh God, he can’t be.
But I’m a runt, I remind myself. A runt! No pack wants to breed any sort of genetic defect into the family. I suck in a sharp breath and as I consider that a moment longer my heart rate begins to slow. Okay, I have to be wrong. I just have to be because the alternative is too horrific to think about.
I spin back around to face my master, to demand answers, but only manage to catch a glimpse of his broad shoulders as he disappears into the house through his private entrance.
What if I’m not wrong?
The primal urge to shift, to run after him overcomes me. I toss my head from left to right, then block the blinding sun with my palm and focus in on all those beady little eyes glaring down at me from above. At that moment I don’t care about the cocked guns or those six, trigger-happy fingers itching for me to make a wrong move. I gauge the time it will take me to reach my master’s den, certain that I can make it there before the bullets engage and the gun powder explodes like the vineyard’s deafening cannon.
Equal measures of fury and dread taunt my untamed wolf and there is nothing I can do to prevent those mixed emotions from slashing the barrier shielding my control. The second I give in to my animal impulses and unleash the wildness inside me, my nails begin to elongate and I can feel my wolf itching. She’s waiting for me to give her the command to shift. Run.
Kill.
“Easy, Pride,” Mario warns. He hooks a chain to my collar and gives it a good hard jerk, a reminder that shifting while leashed comes with a harsh price.
The cannon thunders in the distance at the exact same moment the handler’s words snap me back to reality, and my survival instincts kick in full force. I briefly pinch my eyes shut to help shake off the tantalizing call of the wild and search for a measure of control.
“Let’s go,” he says and I somehow manage to put one foot in front of the other while he leads me through the courtyard toward the kitchen entrance. With my head down I stare at the leafy blades of grass and the drying morning dew as we walk past the others. I ignore the two new competitors who cross in front of me. I don’t want to see their faces. I don’t want to meet their eyes. And I definitely don’t want to know if they’re aware of my fate, whatever that might be.
Once inside the estate a blast of cool air helps clear my rattled brain. I’m led through the kitchen to a windowless bathroom near the pantry. Mario waits outside and I close the door tightly behind me. As soon as I’m alone I let loose a long slow breath and wrap my fingers around the pedestal sink. I squeeze the cool porcelain until my knuckles turn white and my joints ache in protest.
I tip my head and spend a long time staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror, trying to figure out what it is about me that might have the master thinking I’m quality breeding stock. Not only am I too thin, my lips are too big, my cheekbones too high, and my dark eyes, which showcase unattractive smudges of sleeplessness beneath them, look so stark against my light hair.
I stand there well past my allotted time, and when I hear Mario growing restless in the hallway, I turn on the tap and splash my face with icy cold water. After washing up, I pull open the door and follow my handler back into the large, modern kitchen.
The scent of coffee teases my nostrils as we approach. We’re not supposed to have caffeine but sometimes Mica slips me a small cup. I especially love the hazelnut-flavored beans, and could easily become addicted to the caramelized brew.
I drop down into one of the hard chairs, plant my elbows on the long oaken table and stare straight ahead at Mica. Dressed in a flared floral skirt and crisp white blouse tucked at the waist, she stands on the other side of the spacious room with her back to me as she fusses about with a loaf of stubborn bread. She gives the metal pan a good hard tap with her wooden spoon, and I watch Mario flinch as the sound echoes that of the starting gun outside.
A burst of warm air rushes inside when the side door opens and both Jace and Clover are led into the kitchen. Looking worn and tired they keep their heads down as Lawrence herds them back to the cellar.
Once they’re out of sight, Mario steps up to Mica. They exchange a few words, keeping their voices low to prevent me from listening in with my exceptional hearing. A moment later Mica brings me a feast of fresh bread, butter, fruit, and bacon and eggs cooked the way I like them. Too bad I no longer have an appetite. Manners aside, I tear off a piece of warm bread and force myself to eat, because I somehow know that in the coming days, I’m going to need my strength.
Lacking her usual cheeriness, Mica moves about the kitchen and I don’t question the peculiar way she’s avoiding me. Clearly, she knows what my master’s big surprise is and if it’s upsetting her thi
s much, then I know it can’t be good for me.
Could he really want to breed me?
The bread in my mouth suddenly tastes like sawdust, and the small bite I’d managed to choke down only moments ago rises up for a second viewing and leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
“Pride?”
I lift my head at the sound of Mica’s voice. “Yes?” I ask.
She looks at me long and hard. I can tell she wants to say something but when Mario clears his throat, like he’s giving her some unspoken warning, she seems to change her mind and asks, “Would you like another slice?”
I follow her gaze to my palm and spot what used to be a slice of bread. Now it is nothing more than a ball of dough. Squished by my own hand.
I nod, then grab a napkin and fill it with fruit and bacon. Mica hands me two more slices of bread and as I add them to the pile I turn to Mario. “I’d like to go to my room now.”
“My orders are to take you to Miss Kara.”
I force a smile and show my compliance by saying, “I just need a minute to drop off my breakfast so I can eat it later.” For good measure, I wipe the back of my palm over my forehead. “I think the heat is messing with my appetite.”
He hesitates. He knows it’s a lie because I’m always hungry. He also knows what I’m doing and even though sharing food is against the master’s orders, he gives a curt nod and leads me downstairs. I’m suddenly grateful that it’s Mario handling me today and not Lawrence. Lawrence would never have let me distribute one tiny crumb to my bunkmates.
Mario waits at the top of the landing and doesn’t watch. I guess if he doesn’t see what I’m doing he can’t be held accountable for it. For a brief moment I feel sorry for him. After all, isn’t he trapped here every bit as much as I am? At least he doesn’t take pleasure in doling out abuse like Lawrence and a few of the other handlers do.
Moving quickly, I rush down the stairs. Both Jace and Clover rise from their cots when they see me.
“Pride,” Clover rushes out, her eyes wide with apprehension. “What happened out there between you and Stone?”
I pass the napkin through the cage and as she gratefully accepts it, I briefly think about Stone’s strange behavior. I don’t want the elders to worry about me any more than they already do so I say, “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Jace grasps the metal bars and squeezes until I see bone. Not that it would take much for the whites of his knuckles to show through his thinning skin, considering how underfed he is. There is a hitch in his voice when he says, “You need to stay away from him. He’s up to something.”
I look at Jace and could sob at the sadness I see on his face, the utter sense of helplessness in his milky white eyes when they meet mine.
A pang of sorrow cuts me deep at how broken the elders are, how defeated they feel. Unlike the other wolves, who mainly care about their own survival, Jace and Clover have shown me both empathy and compassion. I chalk it up to the forty or so years they’d spent living in the real world before their capture. My mother told me the two wolves took her under their care when she was first thrown in with them—perhaps because their own child had been killed in the crossfire during their capture—and for that I’ll always be grateful and indebted to them.
“I don’t like the way he looks at you, Pride.” The saggy skin under Jace’s jowl tightens as he clenches down. “And he’s growing strong. Too strong.”
“I can handle him.”
“I fear—” Jace begins, then stops himself.
“Fear what?”
“It’s just…” his glance wanders to the empty cage and he doesn’t need to finish his sentence for me to know what he’s getting at.
Apprehension curls through me and my heart thuds against my chest. “I’ll find a way to get us out of here before I allow that to happen.”
Clover gives a worried shake of her head. “Pride—”
When Clover’s words fall off, Jace reaches through the cage and touches her shoulder. He gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze and the gesture is so warm and loving my throat tightens.
I tamp down those emotions and replace them with rage. Someday my master will pay for what he’s done to us. “I’ll find a way to get us out of here first. I promise.”
Clover wrings her boney fingers. “You can’t make that promise.”
“I can and I will.”
Worry washes over her once pretty face, now worn from years of abuse. “But your mother—”
When I hear a boot scuff on the stairs, I lean close and try to keep my voice from wavering. “My mother died trying to save me. Believe me, I hate that she died. I hate that they killed her, and while she couldn’t give us freedom, she did give us knowledge. And knowledge is power, Clover. Her death won’t be in vain. I can’t let that happen.”
“But the PTF…” she said, the fear in her voice reminding me we had more than our master to worry about.
As I think more about the PTF, I remember the one rule they are governed by: shoot first and ask questions later. Like other wolves, my mother used to be a productive member of society, secretly working side-by-side with humans, living a normal life in a small community and taking to the woods on shift night to avoid killing anyone. But to the PTF werewolves are still monsters that need to be killed.
My mother and her pack gained a lot of knowledge before their capture some twenty years ago, and from what she explained, the PTF are specially trained to spot a wolf in human form. They are educated at the best graduate schools, where they obtain master’s degrees in sociology, studying everything from social relationships to species interactions and deviances. The officers are also trained by canine-behavior specialists. Detecting any wolf masquerading as a human is second nature to them.
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.
The lines on Clover’s face soften and I’m not sure if she’s placating me or not when she says, “If anyone can do it Pride, it’s you.”
When Mario clears his throat, I step back. My chain clangs on the stairs as I take them two at a time to reach him. He doesn’t speak. Instead he just grabs my leash and leads me to Miss Kara’s suite on the second floor of the estate. Once there, he pushes open the double doors and the sharp tang of floral perfume assaults my sensitive nose.
Dressed in a fitted business suit, Miss Kara rises from her plush recliner, spreads her arms wide and starts toward me. “Pride, come in, come in.”
I step inside and Mario moves in with me. He closes the door behind him and widens his stance to stand guard. Even though I’ve been in the suite hundreds of times, instincts dictate that I take a quick glance around and observe it anyway.
Warm rays of sunlight stream in through the large window and fall over the massive mahogany desk, and the piles of paper strewn across the top. A grooming station—or at least that’s what I like to call it—complete with enough makeup and brushes to supply an entire town, fills the space on the opposite wall. A colonial door to my left leads into the bathroom. Miss Kara’s suite looks more like an office/beauty salon than an estate bedroom. This is where she educates us, and teaches us all about manners and good grace. I often wonder if she came to this country to be a cosmetician. I’m sure, however, she wanted a better life than this.
She stands in front of me for a closer examination. Even without her two inch heels, Miss Kara is much taller than me, although I must say her lithe body seems equally as thin as mine. Unlike me, however, clothes don’t seem to hang on her in the most unflattering ways. She dips her head and her big brown eyes scrutinize my curves, or lack thereof. Her nose crinkles in distaste and her painted lips pucker as she makes a tsking sound.
“We have so much work to do.” She efficiently claps her hands, then points to the bathroom. “First let’s get you showered. Now hurry.”
I do as I’m told, but enjoy a few extra minutes beneath the hot steam, taking pleasure in the needle-like spray on my muddy body. I la
ther my hair with strawberry scented shampoo and scrub the obstacle course dirt from my skin with honeycomb soap that smells good enough to eat.
With my flesh practically rubbed raw, I climb from the shower, wrap a big fluffy towel around myself and exit the bathroom. Miss Kara guides me to the grooming station, running her fingers through my hair as we walk, and I take notice of the new white dress draped over her recliner.
The master often puts me in pretty clothes to lure my mark, especially when they’re a difficult target. Perhaps there is nothing more to his surprise than that. A difficult mark in need of extra persuasion.
As Miss Kara seats me in front of the mirror, I try to engage her in conversation. With a nod, I gesture toward the dress and work to keep my voice light when I say, “It must be a challenging assignment if the master is putting me in something so pretty.”
Dark lashes flash quickly over brown eyes and she keeps her expression blank when she answers. “It might be your most difficult assignment yet, Pride.”
I don’t miss the strange catch in her voice, or the flash of angst in her eyes before she quickly blinks it away. I get the distinct impression that she, too, is keeping something from me as I study her in the mirror and will her to look at me. But there is nothing I can do to make her meet my eyes.
Close to an hour later, after I’ve been plucked, perfumed and prettied up, Miss Kara splits the delicate dress down the back and I climb in from the neckline.
As it drapes my body I notice how easy it is to get in and out of. That detail might seem like a little thing to most but it’s those little things that make a big difference on a mission, especially if I need to shift in a hurry.
I stare at my reflection and also notice how it accentuates what little curves I have and how the pretty diamond-like stones glisten in the overhead light. As I run my hands over the fake jewels I consider all the weapons I could make with them if only they were real.
