Chapter 6 - Moira

"What's that smell?" Vera asked, pinching her nose. She was in her scrubs, stopping by for her usual donuts and coffee before work, a fluffy coat thrown over the top to fight the September chill.

"Oh no," Moira cried, running to the oven. "Oh no, no, no."

She yanked the tray out of the oven but it was too late—the pastries were burnt to a crisp. Butter, flour, and sugar, all wasted, turned into black husks. She dumped them into the trash and tossed the sheet pan into the sink, furious at herself.

"Woah," Vera said, following Moira into the kitchen. "I don't think I've ever seen you burn anything before. Also, it stinks."

"Open some windows, would you?" Moira started pulling ingredients out to make a second batch of the pastries. This time, she'd remember to set the timer. "And pour me a coffee."

It was a testament to how frazzled Moira looked that Vera did as she asked without bickering. The cold morning air sliced into the room, cutting through the smoke and the heat from the oven. Vera poured two cups of coffee and kept one for herself, sliding the other over to Moira, who pounced on it like a drowning man on a life preserver.

"Rough morning?" Vera leaned against the counter, getting in the way while Moira tried to make the pastries again at double speed.

There was no way they'd be ready for the early-morning crowd, but hopefully, she'd get them out before the afternoon. It was all because of her sleepless night. She'd spent hours tossing and turning, staring at the clock, kicking off her blankets. Loaf had stalked off, annoyed, sometime after two o'clock to go sleep on the couch.

"Rough night," Moira replied. "And rough morning. I just can't get the whole tree thing out of my head. Who would do something like that? And why? Just to hurt us?"

Vera's eyes flashed. She was fired up about the whole thing as Moira was, maybe more so, and it all came out in fury. Moira envied her. All she could feel was anxiety. It had been bubbling in her like a toxic brew ever since she'd heard that Jonah was coming to town.

"Whoever it is, we're going to find them, and we're going to make them pay. You're safe, you know that, right, Moira? They're not going to hurt you."

"It's not me I'm worried about," Moira said, dumping the dough onto the counter. She kneaded it, working her fears out on it. "I'm worried about the pack. Did you see Adria's face? She was devastated."

"We all were," Vera said. "I can't believe I lost their trail. I think we should stake out that lighthouse and see who shows up."

"What did Spencer have to say to that idea?" Moira asked.

"He said no, of course. He wants to reach out to the Silversands first and see if they know anything about who might be living there. That staking it out without talking to them first would lead to bad blood." Vera put the last two words in air quotes, rolling her eyes. "Like they didn't start the bad blood when they carved up our tree."

Moira put the dough in the fridge to chill and set herself a timer. It'd be the first of many that day, when she normally had her own, finely tuned internal clock to run the kitchen. Today, her insides were in turmoil, and that clock couldn't be trusted.

"Maybe it was just a stupid teenager," Moira said, but it sounded hollow even to her own ears. "A dare or something."

Vera shot her a look. "I know you don't believe that. You think it was Jonah."

His name hung in the air between them, lingering like the smoke. If only he was as easy to dispel with an open window.

"It just seems too coincidental, doesn't it? He's not around; everything is fine. He shows up, and suddenly bad things start to happen." Moira didn't understand how everyone else seemed blind to this fact.

Vera poured herself another cup of coffee but snatched the pot back before Moira could do the same. "No, you've had enough. I can see you vibrating from here. Between the caffeine and your nerves, you're about to explode."

Moira glared. She felt wired, and not in a good way, but she wasn't going to admit that Vera was right about anything.

"Plus," Moira went on, heading back to the front of the shop to flip the sign to Open. "He's a White Winter. You know what they're like. First, he leaves his pack, then he joins that pack of monsters? No loyalty."

"You left your birth pack, too," Vera pointed out.

It hadn't been an easy decision. Months of bullying, of misery, had driven her to leave the Silversands behind to make a new start with the Rosewoods. She hadn't gone far, but it had been enough to change her life. There had been times when Moira's despair had seemed inescapable, a monstrous beast that clung to her, and it was only with the Rosewoods that she'd learned to smile again. To let people in.

"I left it because of him!" Moira slammed a stack of boxes down on the counter and started assembling them, attaching stickers with the shop's logo. "What was he running away from? He was the bully. I think he just wanted to find a pack where he fit in, a pack as mean as he is."

With a thoughtful look on her face, Vera changed the subject. "Have you heard anything about the bakery?"

The bakery. It was everything to Moira, and it was all balanced precariously on one old woman's whim. Without it, Moira would be unmoored.

"Not yet," she replied tersely. She'd rather talk about Jonah than about the bakery, and that was saying something.

She didn't miss the relieved look that spread across Vera's face at her words. Something in her snapped.

"Can't you just be happy I found something I love?" Moira creased the next box in the wrong spot, her hand shaking. She tossed it into the recycle pile.

"I just think it's a bad idea, tying yourself to something like this. Are you really going to be a baker your whole life? What about something a little more…" Vera gestured vaguely with her hands, knowing what she wanted to say; Moira was sure, but not how to say it in an inoffensive way.

"Lucrative?" Moira prodded.

"Respectable." Vera finished. "Something with a degree. A title. When people ask, I have to tell them my sister works at a bakery. It sounds so pathe—"

"Don't say it," Moira warned, rounding on Vera. Her face felt hot, and she knew she was flushed, her hair a mess, apron dirty. She knew Vera was taking it all in and mocking her for it. "Did it ever occur to you that I don't care about any of that? That I don't want to go to school just so people have to call me ‘doctor'? Some people become a vet because they want to help animals, you know, not because they want a title."

It was a low blow. Moira wished she could snatch it back as soon as she said it, even if Vera had said worse to her. Her sister's face clouded. Unlike Moira, when Vera grew angry, it was like the curtains were pulled down, and all emotion drained from her face.

"Vera, I'm sorry," Moira began, reaching for her sister's arm.

"Thanks for the coffee." Vera pulled away, blue eyes gone steel grey. She pulled cash from her wallet and slapped it down onto the counter before shrugging into her coat and walking out.

The money sat on the counter, a reminder of what an awful, ungrateful sister she was. Still reeling, Moira shoved it into the till and went in back to splash cold water on her face. Her complexion was splotchy. There wasn't much she could do about it—unlike Vera, Moira's emotions were plain on her face. She didn't have Vera's ability to turn them off when she wanted to.

She steadied her hands by going through the motions of fixing her hair, twisting it up with a claw clip, and dabbing on some lipgloss.

"Just forget about it for now," she said to her reflection. "Put it aside. There's work to do."

Easier said than done. The ding of her first timer startled her, but she was grateful for it—in the fight with Vera, she'd entirely forgotten the pastry chilling in the fridge. She shaped them and put the tray in the oven, setting a second timer. By the time the first customer came in, the splotches in her cheeks had faded to something that could pass for blush, and her hands weren't shaking.

She poured coffee and filled boxes, managing not to burn anything else that morning. In the lulls between customers, she pulled out her notebook and finalized three options for the wedding cake order.

During lunch, she mixed up a spice cake batter, unable to sit still with her racing thoughts and churning feelings. It was a decadent cake studded with nuts and dried fruits, heavily scented with warm fall spices that perfumed the whole shop, and by the time she pulled it from the oven, her mind had settled.

The afternoon was surprisingly busy. By three o'clock, the case was nearly empty, and she was considering closing early to bake some test layers for the wedding cakes. She wanted to try a lemon-soaked white cake for the middle layer, something that suited the beach wedding. The next time the door opened, she wished she had.

Jonah stood in the doorway, half-in, half-out of the shop, holding the door open with his toe. He pulled his knit cap off his head and kneaded it in his hands, staring at Moira like a deer in the headlights. In the dim light of the pub, she hadn't managed to get a proper look at him, but she could see him clearly now in the afternoon sun, and it confirmed her worst fears; he'd gotten stupidly hot.

The gangly boy she'd known in high school was gone, replaced by a full-grown man. He was still lean, but she could see the muscle beneath his shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show a triangle of tanned skin at the base of his throat. She found herself staring at that patch of skin, transfixed. Then she looked up and met his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" She blurted out, the words erupting from her.

His eyes grew larger, his grip tightening on the hat in his hands. "Hey, Moira."

She couldn't believe his audacity, showing up at her workplace when he knew, must know, that she wanted nothing to do with him. Her grip on the piping bag tightened, and frosting spurted out onto the counter in front of her. Furious, she grabbed a wet rag and started to scrub it off before it could harden, hoping that by the time she looked up again, he'd be gone.

The door closed softly. But he hadn't left. He was standing properly inside now, though as far away from her as he could. If she had been Vera, she would have cursed him out where he stood. She would have given him the tirade he deserved and sent him scurrying out the door. But she wasn't.

With Jonah in front of her, she was the insecure, embarrassed teenage girl from high school all over again, the one who never could speak up when he was picking on her. The one who'd walked home each day, crying. Why did he still have this power over her?

They stared at each other across the bakery. Moira wondered what Jonah saw when he looked at her, if he still saw the girl she'd been, or if he saw her as she was now, as Vera saw her, wasted potential.

"I know you don't want me here," Jonah said, holding up his hands as if he expected her to lunge at him. As if he hadn't been the one to turn her spineless in the first place. "And I promise, I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be."

"Are you here to apologize after what you did to the tree? Because you have some nerve showing up here after that. And it's Adria you should be apologizing to, not me." Somehow, she found talking about the pack's troubles easier than her own. Easier to defend a friend than herself.

"The tree?" Jonah looked confused. An act, she was certain of it, from his puppy-dog eyes to the slumped shoulders. "What happened to the tree?"

Moira crossed her arms over her chest. It helped hide the smear of chocolate frosting across the area, and gave her hands something to do other than shake.

"Someone vandalized it. Tried to chop it down. Doesn't that sound like the sort of thing a White Winter would do?" She'd almost said something a bully would do, but she'd bitten her tongue. Bringing it up now would just make her seem childish and weak, unable to get over something that had happened so long ago.

He looked over his shoulder, out the big front window of the bakery, like he could see the tree from there. Then he sighed, and his shoulders slumped farther down, diminishing his height. "It does. Or it did, anyway. They're trying to turn that reputation around."

Adria had said much of the same to her, but she couldn't believe it. People didn't change, and that pack never would either. Jonah was a bully then, and he'd be a bully now. Was there any more proof of that than the fact that he'd joined a bully pack?

She pursed her lips. "Did you do it then?"

"No!" He said, with a vehemence that made her take a step back. For a second, something had flashed in his eyes. Fury? Passion? "No. I didn't do it. I just came back for my father's funeral."

The Silversand Alpha. During her time in the Silversand pack, she'd known him as a distant, unapproachable leader, nothing like Spencer or Adria. Those two gave everything they had to the Rosewood pack, caring for it like a family.

"Fine, but why are you here?" Moira asked, waving around at the bakery. Did she have frosting on her face, too? She could only imagine how disheveled she looked after a full day of work. "In my bakery. Right now."

"It's yours?" Jonah brightened, looking around the place with sudden interest. "That's awesome, Moira. And you made all of those?"

He drew closer, peering into the bakery case with a boyish smile on his face. It transformed him so that even she, despite herself, leaned in to be closer, to watch and see what brought him to life like that. Then, realizing what she was doing, she pulled back and bit the inside of her cheek, hard, to knock some sense into herself. It had been a hot minute since she'd last been on a date, but her body should know better than to react to that man.

A sinking shame filled her that had nothing to do with her unexpected, and misplaced, attraction and everything to do with what she'd led Jonah to believe. That she owned the bakery. No, she was not even the pathetic owner of a bakery in a dead-end town, Vera's worst fear and Moira's deepest wish. She was only an employee at the bakery in the dead-end town.

"I just work here," she amended, and the words felt like lashes against her soul.

It would fill Jonah with joy to know how little she'd accomplished in her life, and she waited for the mockery that was sure to follow.

He drew himself up, leaning one arm against the counter. "Did you make those?"

She nodded.

"Then you're very good. They're amazing, and this place is lucky to have you."

Hearing words of praise she'd so often longed for, from the mouth of a man who had only ever hurt her, sent her spinning. She struggled for solid ground. It was probably part of a setup. Something he would use against her later as a longer-running gag.

"Please," she begged, just wanting him gone. She wanted the whole day over. "Just tell me what you came here for. I have things to do and—"

"And you hate my guts, I know. So you won't like what I'm about to tell you." He drew circles on the counter with his index finger, tracing the whorls in the woodgrain.

He was staying, wasn't he? That was the worst news she could imagine. He had decided to stay in town, her new neighbor, and she'd have to face him every day. Jonah would witness her pathetic life in real time.

"Do you remember the soothsayer?" He asked, still not looking at her.

The old wolf had mystified her as a child. She'd hoped and prayed to be one of them, to have a magic inside of her that made her special, but hadn't been surprised when she'd found out that was perfectly ordinary. Even then, she'd known that about herself.

"Yes," she said, irritated. "And?"

"He stopped me in the cemetery." Jonah let out a long, slow exhale.

Finally, he looked up at her, and she realized she was holding her breath and hanging on to his words. What is it, what is it? She repeated to herself, running through all of the possibilities, each more horrific than the last. None of them prepared her for what he said.

"And he told me we are fated mates," Jonah said. Out loud. To her face.

Moira laughed. It bubbled out before she could stop it. It had to be a prank, just a cruel, sick joke that was exactly what she expected from him. Jonah wasn't laughing, though. His face was strained.

"Look, I know it's not what either of us wants, but the soothsayer is never wrong. You know that running from fate leads to terrible things." Jonah's voice was pitched low, pleading, and he leaned closer to Moira.

For a second, she didn't see the bully from her childhood but a sad, desperate man. And she knew he was right. Trying to run from what the soothsayer foretold would only lead to trouble. There was no escaping fate. Still, she had no reason to believe that Jonah was telling the truth apart from his earnest face, and that was something she would never trust.

"You are the terrible thing," Moira said. "I can't imagine a fate worse than being tied to you."

And she meant it. Whatever else life might throw at her, it was better than being Jonah's mate.

He winced like she'd struck him. "There's more to it. The soothsayer said the fate of the Silversand pack is somehow connected to us. If we aren't mated and leading the pack together, something bad will happen to the pack."

"Something bad already did happen to the pack. Your father." But Moira's conviction was crumbling.

She had grown up in the Silversand pack and loved it, despite its alpha's neglect. She'd only left to escape Jonah. If ignoring the prophecy meant the downfall of the pack, was it worth it?

To his credit, Jonah didn't argue. "You're right. And I want to fix it. I mean, I want to run away and never look back so that I don't have to face anyone. But I can't do that. I can't run away from this."

It was clearly an argument he'd been having with himself for a while. She felt a pang of sadness for him, for the complicated legacy his father had left behind, then stifled it. If it were anyone else with that tortured look on their face, she'd have offered them a hot cup of tea and a pastry. Anyone else but Jonah.

"I'm a Rosewood now." Moira reminded him.

She hoped she was coming off cool, detached. That the whirlwind of emotions inside of her was not written plainly across her face. She didn't want him to see how the girl she'd been, lived just a few inches below the surface of the woman she was now.

"I know, I know. And you'd be doing me a favor, and that's the last thing you want to do." He sighed and ran his hand through his curls, tousling them. "Look, there must be something I can do to convince you. Something you want that I could provide. We don't have to be real mates. It can be a… a business transaction."

Moira opened her mouth to refuse, offended, then snapped it shut. She looked around the small bakery that she'd poured her hopes and dreams into. One thing might be worth tying herself to Jonah for, and she was standing in it.