The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(29)

Killian’s giant silver wolf is only a vague presence in the background tonight. Killian the man is in full control, and he obviously has no interest in me.

Good.

That’s what I wanted.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and make my way to the front of the room. Serving the lieutenants and the other fighters is my job. Mari takes the elders and pups. Annie and Kennedy trade off on the others.

Serving the lieutenants isn’t an honor or anything. The unmated males hit on everyone but me and Old Noreen, and it makes Annie and Mari anxious—and skeeves Kennedy out to no end—so I take one for the team.

The unmated fighters sit at two tables by the dais—A-roster and B-roster. A-roster is closest. The lieutenants and a few other favored fighters are always seated there. They make room for Jaime if he’s on a winning streak and Alfie if he hasn’t pissed off anyone lately. And then there are the high-ranking females. Ivo’s sister Rowan. Killian’s cousin Ashlynn. Haisley.

Haisley’s mother Cheryl is the alpha female. She eats with her mate at the high-ranking elder table and then floats around the great room, ostensibly “supervising.” Mostly she makes us fetch things until she gets drunk and forgets about us.

The B-roster table buffers A-roster from the elders so the lieutenants don’t have to listen to their stories. B-roster is generally younger. Dominant, but not oozing aggression like A-roster. There are no females at B-roster’s table—they don’t rank high enough to draw female interest—and yet, overall, they’re a lot better behaved.

Tonight, I serve B-roster first. Finn and Alfie shoot me dirty looks, and I smirk on the inside. I take my time going back to refill my tray. Packmates whisper as I pass, but if I don’t focus, I can’t make out what they’re saying. I keep my eyes straight ahead and think about mushrooms.

Besides the product I have ready to sell now, I have maybe six or seven pounds drying in the shack behind Abertha’s. They’ll be ready for market in a month. If the deal with ShroomForager3000 works out, I might have a steady buyer. That’s another four or five hundred dollars. The girls and I could upgrade our phone plan to unlimited data. Or we could reinvest the profits.

The morels were a lucky find, but they’re going to run out. I want to cultivate them. You have to capture the spores in a slurry—which sounds foul and probably smells rancid—and then after you seed the right area, it takes a couple years for the mycelium to form, but then you’re golden. A cash crop with minimal upkeep. What else am I doing with my life? Beats the hell out of bees. The competition with honey is getting too fierce.

Suddenly, there’s a tan work boot in my path.

I dash left, quickly skirting the leg. While I was passing, Alfie stretched into the aisle with no warning. Inconsiderate dick. It was a close call.

What was I thinking about?

Mushrooms.

With the whole farm-to-table, slow food, locavore movements, there’s a growing market. I wish I could brand them as Quarry Pack morels. Shifters still have a mystique, even if it’s faded since the packs came out in the 50s. We get the occasional fanatic trying to sneak onto our territory, and Chapel Bell, the nearest town, has made a cottage industry out of wolf tchotchkes and New Age “moon power” crap—crystals and dream catchers and essential oils and tarot cards.

Why shouldn’t we cash in, too?

The elders go on and on about the dignity of the beast and pack pride and the mandate of destiny, but at the end of the day, the pack pays its bills by charging humans and rich shifters to watch our males maul each other and bet on the outcome. Dignity my ass.

The uptight elders don’t want females making our own money because then we’d have options, and they’d have less control. It’s about status. At the end of the day, everything in pack life is about status.

There are plenty of elders who see things differently, though. Nuala trades me berries from her garden for chocolate and liqueur from town—and I know she turns around and trades them to her friends for twice as much.

I’m feeling kind of cranky, so when I get back to the kitchen, I take a bathroom and phone break before I go back out with A-roster’s dinner. The great room is ringing with talk and laughter, and it feels normal. Everyone is shoveling food into their mouths except A-roster. As I pick my way to the front of the room, I’m very careful not to smirk.

When I approach the table, Haisley stands and glares at me with her arms folded. I figured she’d say something.

My wolf instinctively shrinks, but she doesn’t show her neck. That’s weird. I’d prepared myself for that. We did get owned. By all rights, my wolf should be sniffing Haisley’s butt, but she’s managed to hold onto a few scraps of pride. Good girl.

As for Haisley, I ignore her. I expect her to give me shit. That’s part and parcel of losing a challenge. You get to eat dirt until there’s a new loser.

As I start passing out dishes, she lifts her chin and gives me her back. That’s cool. Better than I expected, actually. I figured she’d run her mouth—take a few pot shots at my leg or how small my wolf is—but I guess I’m supposed to feel bad because I’m not even worth hassling.

Sweet.

I set the vegetables in front of Finn, and then I limp down to the other end of the table to unload the meat as far from him as possible. Haisley saunters past me, pats my shoulder, and struts over to the dais.