Chapter One Present Day

Randy

T he sheets are a sweaty mess when I wake up tangled in them, alone. My heart is still pounding, but I refuse to think about the dreams that are more memory than anything else. I haven’t had one in such a long time. I was beginning to think I’d finally moved past all that, that maybe it was out of my system. I guess being at the old cabin is enough to bring it all back.

The room is freezing, and the damp sheets clinging to my back make it even more miserable. I roll slowly out of bed, the cold reminding me that my back isn’t fond of change. In my high school and college days, we’d all sleep out here on mats and sleeping bags right on the hardwood floor. But as I creep closer to fifty, my back can’t even handle the cheap mattress I brought out here to sleep on. It pops and creaks, as do my neck and bad knee, when I stand and stretch.

Unfortunately, I can’t keep my wolf form as I sleep–only a true Alpha can do that. So each of the last three nights I’ve been here, I’ve had to just suck it up and do my best to bundle up before I go to bed, only to have to strip out of damp, sweaty clothes in the morning.

I quickly pull my sweat pants and boxers off and let my wolf slowly take over. My skin stretches over muscles that bulge and grow as the transformation occurs. My legs grow longer, the hair on my body becomes prominent, my ears move higher on my head and grow more sensitive until every sound in the cabin–from the mouse trying to dig in from the outside to the cat’s snore in the next room–is a loud and growing crescendo in my ears. It’s then that I know to back away from the wolf in my mind, leaving my body only partially transformed.

Instantly, warmth spreads throughout my limbs and into my extremities. My feet no longer feel like blocks of ice, and my fingers move freely.

I dig through the dresser until I find clothes that fit me in partial shift, then get the morning started.

The cabin is small and sparsely furnished. Beside this bedroom, there’s a great room that’s part living room and part kitchen. There’s no real dividing line between the areas. Zelda’s old dining room set–four plain chairs with a wooden table–sits close to the kitchen sink, while the “living room” is just an old couch pushed near the fireplace on the opposite wall. Off the front door is a tiny bathroom. That’s about it. I’ll need to find a real place to live with central air and heat, but for now, this works.

Long ago, when dad was still alive, the boys and men of our pack would crowd in here during hunting season. We were a different pack then, in a way I could never recreate when I had to take over as Alpha. In all those years, I never once brought my brother’s sons here to hunt. Honestly, I couldn’t bear it. The land had always felt tainted by the memory of my failure.

Besides, I was drowning. Betas don’t lead packs for a reason. And it always felt like we were one minor setback away from ruin, so I made no time for things like this–for bonding, for breaks, for spending down time with the pack. I kept them all alive and fed. That was enough.

I step out into the great room in bare feet. It is just as cold as my bedroom. The fire in the stone fireplace has died, and my breath clouds in the air as I move across the worn hardwood.

I put on a pot of coffee, then head back to the bedroom to change the sheets before I start a fire. Thankfully, even in retirement, I have enough shit to do to keep me occupied for the entire day. It’s still early, but there’s a ton of work to be done. The animals need to be fed, their stalls cleaned out, the cattle moved in closer. An early winter storm is coming. I’ll need to pick up the hay I bought from the Gobelin down the road in case we get snowed in.

Chewpawca, the grumpy old cat I’m keeping an eye on for my nephew, gives me a dirty look when the noise of my movements disturbs his beauty sleep. He stands up from his nest on the couch, stretches, and meows. It’s a strange grumpy sound, as if he’s just quit a two pack a day habit. Knowing him, that might be exactly what he’s just done. Despite his age, he gracefully hops down from the couch and follows me to the sink where his food bowl sits on the floor. I get one loud warning meow before he starts to whine for me to fill the bowl.

“You know,” I tell him as I watch him gobble his food down, “you could try slowing down. You might even taste it.” He ignores me, grunting with each bite.

I’m not a breakfast person myself, so I down a cup of coffee as Chewpawca continues to grunt through his meal, pull on my boots, bank the fire and then head outside. The sky is clear–there’s still no sign of what is supposed to be coming our way.

I spend a little bit of time in the barn, checking on the horses stabled there. At the moment, there’s only two–Ramona and Grace. Ramona greets me with a neigh as I release her to wander around outside. Grace does not.

Grace is still pissed that I’d dare bring another horse into her territory. She looks away as I open her stall, and doesn’t leave until I pretend to be incredibly occupied with shoveling her shit out of the stall.

I’m about to head out to feed the rest of the animals when my phone does something it hasn’t done much lately–it buzzes with a message. When I was still working, it never seemed to stop. Now, all of my texts are from my sister-in-law, Zelda, reminding me to eat, asking when I’m coming to dinner next, and demanding proof of life.

More annoyed than anything, I pull the phone out of my pocket and squint to see the tiny text. It’s Eddie, the kid who’s the default head of security for the pack business.

Alarm’s going off at the Wild Hare. I can’t get it to turn off. Should I call Zach?

By all rights, all of this is now my nephew, Zach’s, problem. He’s the Alpha now. When I handed that responsibility over to him, I left the family business to him and his beta, his brother, Zander. But his wedding was just a few days ago, and Zander’s up at their mother’s house with his new baby. No need to drag them out of warm beds, away from their mates and into the cold when I’m already up and dressed.

No, give me twenty minutes and I’ll be up there.

I head back inside, wash my hands, and grab my keys. Chewpawca is still hovering over his food bowl. He hisses as I attempt to scratch his head. “Sorry, I should have guessed that you weren’t a morning person, old man,” I tell him, walking out and locking the door behind me.