The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(47)

“And who’s gonna keep an eye on your girls?” I know they come up here all the time. I figured it was fine. The crone herself is better protection than my scouts. But maybe I need to rethink that.

We’re almost a mile from the commons, and less than half that from the boundary of Quarry territory.

Strike that maybe. I definitely need to reconsider. At least rework the patrols so they crisscross the crone’s land.

“You will, won’t you?” The crone winks. “A real close eye on one in particular.”

Her amusement doesn’t amuse me, but I don’t let my displeasure show. You can’t dominate the crone. It was the one decent lesson my father taught me. He said witches dance between raindrops. Any male who thinks to control one doesn’t understand nature.

“That’s why I’ve come,” I say.

“I figured. I thought I had a day or two more. I should’ve left last night.” She sighs. “Well. You’re here. I’m busted. Cup of tea?”

“If you’re so inclined.”

Tea’s not my thing, but I’m not gonna be rude.

She leads the way to her front door, and once inside, she throws me a pair of athletic shorts before busying herself building a fire. I make myself comfortable at her kitchen table.

Like the crone, the cottage hasn’t changed from when I was young. My mother used to bring me up here. The females would go out to the shed for some female business, and I’d be left inside with a cookie and a glass of goat’s milk. My mother warned me not to touch anything, but she needn’t have. I felt then like I do now—like an alien on a strange planet. And all the shit could be poisonous. How would I know?

It doesn’t smell like pack in here. It smells like earth. Herbs. Dust and age and wood and sunshine. It confuses the nose, clings to your hair and skin.

If a predator was stalking me, he’d be able to get damn close before I clocked him. That’s dangerous.

I was always happy to leave after my mother had her cup of tea and chat with the crone. After I shifted the first time, she didn’t bring me with her anymore, and that was fine by me.

The crone disrupts my reminiscences by setting a plate with cookies in front of me. Oatmeal. Same as I remember.

She raises a gray eyebrow. “Your favorite, weren’t they?”

I nod.

“What did my mother come here for?” We always left with a small brown bag. I had a child’s lack of curiosity. To be honest, I’m not really sure why I’m wondering now.

“Not my tale to tell.”

“She’s long gone.” Wasting sickness got her in the last wave.

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “There are others?”

“Always.” She goes back to the fireplace to hang the kettle.

“You know why I’m here.”

“I do.”

“Is Una Hayes my mate?”

“Did you ask her?”

Did I? I definitely did. Didn’t I?

She said I wasn’t. She agreed with me that she wasn’t. I search my memory for the exact words. It’s never this hard with males. I hate semantics. “I don’t know. She said you fixed it. What does that mean?”

“At the risk of repeating myself—did you ask her?”

I grab a cookie and take a bite. It’s good.

“Is there a reason you’re busting my balls?” I say after swallowing. The crone laughs, and she comes to sit across from me. She breaks a cookie in half and begins nibbling.

“Besides entertainment value?” She leans back in her chair. “I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine first.”

“Fine. Shoot.”

“What do you remember about your first shift?”

“Pain.” It’s a strange question, but I’ve been asked it before. I shifted at nine years old. That’s unheard of, and wolves are nosy.

“What else?”

“Blood. Screams. I thought I went blind for a while.”

“Do you remember what happened before the shift?”

“Not really. It was a normal day.”

“Do you remember after?”

“Nothing. It’s a big blank. Where are you going with this?”

She smiles and rests her hands on the table top. For an old woman’s, they’re smooth and straight. “I’m going to tell you a story. It’s also not my tale to tell, but—” She lifts a shoulder. “Rules are made to be broken, right?”

I disagree, but I nod anyway.

“It’s hard to know where to start.” She sighs.

“How about the beginning?”

“’Beginning’ is subjective, isn’t it?” She looks to me for a response, but philosophy is not my thing.

She sighs. “I guess I could start with a sunny day, a young male playing on the commons, waiting for his friend. Or the night sixteen months earlier when your father snuck into the Fane cabin to take what he felt was his due from his lieutenant’s mate? She was in heat after all. And Fane was at a fight in Moon Lake.”

“You’re talking about Thomas Fane.” That’s Mari’s father, the last male my father put down for moon madness.