by Laura Taylor
“Of course, sweetie,” Heron said. She stopped beside Skip and ran a gentle hand over her hair. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to… Do you think I could…” She stopped, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. “I want to change the way I look,” she said finally.
“What do you mean?”
Skip bit down on the surge of distaste she felt at her reflection. Heron had always been unwaveringly supportive of her, short haircut and odd fashion choices included, and if she just came out and said that she looked stupid, Heron would just deny it and tell her she looked fine. If she wanted to make any progress here, she would have to express herself in far more empowered terms.
“I want to…” She fumbled for a way to explain it. “I want to buy some new clothes. Older clothes.” She plucked at the hem of her t-shirt awkwardly.
“What sort of clothes would you like to wear?” Heron asked, looking a little confused.
A thread of fear shivered down her spine. “I don’t know. Maybe something more like Dee wears.” Of all the women in the Den, Dee was probably the most down to earth in her clothing choices. Raniesha favoured short skirts and blouses at the height of fashion. Caroline had her skin-tight black leather, of course, and Skip couldn’t imagine herself ever wearing anything like that. But Dee favoured a casual look, jeans, for the most part, tops that found an easy compromise between comfortable and trendy, or the occasional t-shirt. “And maybe I should grow my hair…”
Heron looked a touch concerned at that. “Why do you want to grow your hair?”
“Because that’s what women do? People like long hair, right?”
“There are plenty of women who have short hair,” Heron said gently. “Look at Caroline. Hers is even shorter than yours. You don’t have to have long hair just because you’re a woman. And for that matter, men don’t have to have short hair, either.”
Skip looked back into the mirror again, and sighed.
Heron took her hands gently and led her to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it and beckoning Skip to do the same. “Sweetie… what’s this about?”
Skip sighed, knowing she wasn’t hiding anything from Heron. The woman was just too observant, and knew Skip far too well to have the wool pulled over her eyes. “I dress like a child,” Skip explained morosely. “I’m twenty-four. It’s time I started dressing like an adult.”
“There is nothing wrong with the way you dress,” Heron said, the predicted denial, and Skip bit back her irritated reply. Why couldn’t people accept what she wanted to do and help her with it, rather than telling her it was all fine and she didn’t need to do it?
“Yeah, so one day I’m going to be seventy years old, and still wandering around in bright pink t-shirts with unicorns on the front? That’s stupid. I’m not saying I want to turn into Paris Hilton overnight. I’m just saying I want to… start dressing more like an adult.” She could see the denial gathering in Heron’s eyes, so she pressed her point home again. “I’m not stupid. When I came here, I was a mess, and I’d never really had a childhood, and you and Caroline and everyone here let me have one – a bit late, compared to most people, but even so, I got to be a child for a good couple of years. And I needed that, and I’m more grateful to you all than I can ever express. But… I can’t keep hiding from myself forever. So I need some help to figure out how to change, in a good way, in the right direction.” She looked imploringly up at Heron. “Can you help me with that?”
Heron was silent for a long moment. “I can. But on condition that you assure me that you’re doing this for yourself, not because you think anyone else expects you to.”
Skip sighed. “That’s not practical,” she said, her inherent realism showing up again. “Everyone does things because other people expect them to. The way we dress, the things we eat, the jobs we do. People expect me to train in self defence every week. They expect Baron to solve all the problems that no one else wants to solve. They expect John to learn to control his temper. And some of the things they expect of me are actually quite fun, like learning new computer programs, and some things are just necessary for everyone to live together, like John’s moods, but we all have to make adjustments for other people. So yes, it’s for myself, because no one’s bullying me into it, or telling me I’m dressing the wrong way, but it’s also for other people, because sometimes, we just need to blend in a bit. Wolves and humans are both very social creatures. Why is it such a bad thing for me to want to be a bit more like other people?”
Heron sighed, then smiled at her, a pensive expression as she gently stroked a hand over Skip’s hair. “You are a remarkably insightful young woman,” she said, pride strong in her voice. “And while I don’t think there’s any need for you to change the way you dress, if it’s really what you want, then I’m happy to help.”
Skip smiled back, glad she’d made her point, but apprehensive about what the result might be. Miller had been a perfect gentleman over the past few weeks, warm and friendly, but making no attempt to take their relationship any further, and Skip was feeling a growing frustration at the knowledge that her fumbling attempts to get his attention were failing. In all honesty, she had no idea what he really thought of her, or what he would find attractive in a woman, but it was a fairly good guess that sparkly unicorns and pink flowers wasn’t it. So if she was ever going to pique his interest, she was going to have to go out on a limb, and try a daring new approach to the way she saw herself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Three days after Skip’s successful fight against Cohen, Miller walked into the dining room, feeling frustrated and annoyed. He’d challenged George again that afternoon, the fourth time the pair of them had fought for status, and he could tell that George was as tired of the battles as Miller was. The older man had chosen to remain at the bottom of the ranking ladder quite deliberately, in order to avoid the need for regular fights. Most people only ever fought him once, a token battle which George politely lost, and then the newcomer went on climbing the ranks, leaving George to get on with his duties in peace.
But each time Miller had bested him, he’d been swiftly kicked back to the curb by a vocal protest from the rest of the Den, and after weeks of living on the estate, learning their rules and customs and doing his best to fit in and convince everyone that he was well and truly on their side, he was reaching the end of his patience.
This evening, as he looked over the seating arrangement, he saw that George was once again back in his old seat. He glanced up at Miller with a dismayed, apologetic look, but since he was of such low rank and had little social influence in the Den, there was little he could do about the decree from the more senior wolves that Miller not be allowed to climb the ranks.
But Miller was done with rolling over and playing the proverbial doormat. The room was only half full, but there were a couple of people here who he was fairly sure would support him, so he deliberately went to stand behind George’s seat. “I won the status fight today,” he announced, just loud enough to get the attention of the rest of the room. “You’re in my seat.” Up until now, he’d gone out of his way to be polite and respectful to everyone, regardless of rank, but he was slowly learning that that was not the way of it with wolves. Their society was not built like that of humans, and the wild predators were quick to challenge anyone seen to be taking liberties that they were not entitled to.
“Sit down, you mangy pup,” Silas snarled from the far end of the room.
“No,” Miller replied firmly. “I earned my status. For the fourth time, I might add. I want my seat.”
“I say let him claim his rank,” Kwan spoke up from further up the table.
“He hasn’t earned his rank yet,” Raniesha argued. “Sit at the bottom of the table.”
“You’re being petty,” Mark joined in. “It’s stupid to go on holding a grudge forever.” While those on Miller’s side were by no means winning the argument, it was heartening to hear people speaking up in his favour, and Miller felt a faint hope
that things might end differently today.
“I don’t want to hear a fucking word out of you,” Silas snarled at Mark, getting to his feet. “You shouldn’t even be sitting at this table, so you certainly don’t have the right to speak at it.” Miller’s heart sank. Mark had been firmly supporting him, but given his own low rank, and the grudges several people held against him, Miller wasn’t actually sure whether Mark was doing more harm than good by taking his side.
More people were filing into the room now. Alistair and Simon merely glanced at the standoff and found their own seats, ignoring the ongoing tension, but Heron paused when she saw that the regular argument about Miller had started up again.
“This is doing the Den no good,” she declared firmly. “Miller is a strong fighter, and this pointless bullying is just creating tension for everyone. Let him climb a place or two, and then everyone can settle down a bit.”
“If you want Miller to stop causing arguments, we could just shoot him,” John offered, slouching into the room. He’d been in a strange mood ever since moving out of Baron’s room, as if he was proud of himself for taking a stand, but also depressed about the inevitable result of it, and Miller found himself wondering about the boy once again. His understanding of it was that his relationship with Baron had been going on for about five years, and that was long enough that a breakup would be causing them both significant upheaval. And he couldn’t help but wonder what John had been through that made Miller’s presence a more important factor in his life than his long-term boyfriend. The Noturatii’s reach was long and insidious, but Miller himself had had nothing to do with whatever had been done to John…
“You’re not helping,” Heron admonished John sternly, a statement that, coming from anyone else, would have resulted in a swift yelling match, or even a fist fight. But with Heron, John merely snarled, a sullen show of teeth before slinking off to his seat.
Tank was the next to arrive, and he sighed as he saw Miller standing there, Silas on his feet, everyone’s attention focused on them. “Fuck, not again,” he swore, sounding tired. “Just sit the fuck down and shut up,” he snarled at Miller.
“I would like my seat,” Miller repeated, speaking to George, and the meek man started to get up.
Silas was down the end of the table like a shot, a firm hand on George’s shoulder. “You stay where you are,” he ordered.
“Get out of my way,” Miller said, drawing himself up to his full height. He was bigger than Silas, both in height and weight, and though he knew the man was a seasoned fighter, holding his place at the high end of the pecking order, he was fairly certain he could take him in a fight.
“Make me,” Silas replied, eyes never leaving Miller’s.
Miller raised his hands to push Silas back – in general, fist fights were not allowed in the Den, but Miller was done with playing nice, since it was clearly never going to get him anywhere, and he was prepared to push the rules a little to see where it got him.
But he’d barely touched the man when Silas shoved him back forcefully, far stronger than his wiry frame suggested he would be, and Miller stumbled, catching his leg on the chair and crashing into the wall.
He picked himself up and faced off against Silas again. Raised his fists, ready for a fight, and threw out the first punch towards Silas’s face-
In a split second, Silas was gone, ducking out of the way of his fist, spinning around behind him and twisting his arm up behind his back in a move so quick, Miller couldn’t quite figure out how he’d done it. His face was mashed into the engraved wooden panelling of the wall, his shoulder protesting as Silas kept his arm pinned firmly. And once again, Miller realised, he’d badly underestimated one of these wolves.
Silas sighed into his ear. “Listen, sweetheart,” he said, sounding resigned, and almost bored. “I’m one of the people in this Den that you really don’t want to start a fight with. John and Andre would be the other two, just for future reference. So how about you stop flouncing about, sit down, and shut up.”
Silas released him, stepping back quickly in case Miller decided to try something else. But Miller had had enough. Not just of the stupid battles for rank, but of the entire Den, the constant bullying, the incomprehensible rules, the feeling that he was always taking one step forward and two steps back. He looked around the room, seeing the solemn faces staring back at him, no one of rank willing to stand up for him in any significant way… and then he turned and marched out the door.
Or that was the intention, at least. But Baron was coming in, just as Miller tried to leave, and the huge alpha pulled up short. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that rolled menacingly across the room.
“I’m not hungry,” Miller said flatly.
“That’s not what I asked,” Baron said. “You know the rules about dinnertimes.”
Miller sighed. Yet more pointless orders that he was supposed to follow. The rules were simple – whether they wanted to eat or not, everyone was required to show up for dinner, listen to the day’s news and recite the prayer to Sirius. And after that, he would be free to leave, but even that small concession required him to sit in that damned seat and accept having his rank stripped from him again, something Miller was in no mood to do.
“Sit the fuck down,” Baron growled, likely far more interested in the fact that one of his wolves was trying to leave, than because of any concern about which particular seat Miller sat in.
But Miller wasn’t ready to simply roll over yet, regardless of the fact that it was the alpha of the Den telling him what to do. He met Baron’s glare with one just as fierce. “I won that fight. I earned my rank. And I’ve no interest in playing your games when you keep changing the rules.”
Baron laughed, a cold, cruel sound. “You feel hard done by, do you?”
“I feel like you asked me to join your pack, only to turn around and stab me in the back at every opportunity. This is it, is it? Sit down, shut up and let myself get trodden on like a doormat for the rest of my life? I never chose to become a shape shifter, and given the rampant narcissism going on around here, I’m rather beginning to regret that I did. Just because we’re part wolf doesn’t mean we have to behave like fucking animals!”
If he’d thought Baron was angry before, it was nothing compared to the look of cold hatred that settled on his face now. His hand twitched, a long, low growl rising from his throat, and Miller took it as a sign of just how badly he’d pissed the man off that Tank quickly stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on Baron’s shoulder. Miller felt a trickle of fear as he got the impression that Baron was working hard to hold himself back, struggling not to just grab Miller and slam his head into the wall.
“You don’t seem to realise how great a mercy it was that we allowed you to stay,” Baron said, his voice a low growl that Miller could feel almost to his bones. “But if you’re so unhappy with the arrangement, you have a couple of choices. You can appeal to the Council for a transfer. At which point you would have to find another Den who would accept you. Do you really think anyone else is going to take in a murderer who’s spent years trying to exterminate us? Do you think they’re going to welcome you with open arms and hand you life on a silver platter? Do you?” he demanded, when Miller said nothing.
“No,” he admitted, not liking the fact that he was backed into a corner, metaphorically, as well as physically.
“Or, if you really dislike our way of doing things so much, the offer to put a bullet in your head still stands.” Miller said nothing. “You see that seat?” Baron growled, pointing to the empty one beside Mark. “Nate should be sitting in that seat. Except he’s not, because he was shot by one of your esteemed colleagues. Or Eric could be sitting there. Or Luke. Or Kendrick. Raven. Marianne. Bohdan. Sabine. Amedea. Do you want me to continue? Because I can recite the names of dozens of shifters who have died at the hands of the Noturatii in the past ten years alone. You have no rights here, no grounds for protest, and a hell of a long wa
y to go before you understand that we are animals. We are half wolf, and we proudly embrace our animal sides, their instincts, their social structures, their innate sense of justice. And you should damn well be grateful for the fact that wolves are far more forgiving than humans, or your corpse would be rotting in a shallow grave in the forest by now. So are you going to sit down and do as you’re told, or am I going to remind you just how seriously we view any form of disloyalty?” He pulled aside the edge of his jacket, revealing a handgun sitting snugly in its holster under his left arm.
Miller stared at the gun without speaking. And then he sat down, a cold, heavy weight in his chest. He’d badly misjudged the situation here, the realisation coming far later than it should have done. He’d been so caught up in his own story – an attack of conscience, a bold and brave decision to turn away from the side of evil, a few token efforts to make things right, and he’d felt like he was some kind of hero, worthy of the second chance he had demanded for himself.
But Baron’s short lecture had finally hit home, had finally made him really see things from the shifters’ perspective. He was the enemy. He would always be the enemy, no matter how long he lived here, no matter how well he fought their war. Because in their eyes, he wasn’t Jack Miller, misguided soldier turned accidental wolf. No, to them, he was the Noturatii. He was the scientist who ran gruesome experiments on their kin. He was the soldier who shot their comrades in cold blood. He was the police officer who accepted bribes in exchange for looking the other way, and the hacker who searched for records of people who had strangely ‘disappeared’ and the weapons expert who invented new and better ways of blowing things up.
He was the Noturatii. And it would be a cold day in hell before these people saw him as anything else.
