by Kait Nolan
~*~
Sawyer
“I’m not going.”
I didn’t yell it, but my dad immediately changed into the I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-you-anymore expression that had become the norm in the last eight months.
“Sawyer, you’ve got to finish school. You were so close to graduating when you got expelled. If you’d just go to summer school, you’d finish up, graduate, and be ready to start college in the fall like we’d planned.”
Oh of course, The Plan. Dad had been big on trying to get me back on The Plan since our lives fell apart. It was his way of coping, I guess. Ever the scientist, he wanted to restore order out of chaos. Like that could possibly repair the massive hole that was blown in our lives.
I thought about the GED shoved under my mattress upstairs. It would be easy enough to settle this, but then it would look like I was on board with the program. He’d start trying to push me back into Normal Life, as if there was any such thing for people like us. Besides, it was something else to fight about, and these days, I needed to fight like I needed to breathe.
“I’m. Not. Going,” I repeated, letting the edge of a growl seep into my voice and shifting forward into his personal space. My eyes held his in a dominance challenge that should have spurred him to action to knock me down a peg. I wanted the physicality of fists as a release from the pressure constantly building inside me.
But he answered in words.
“Your mother would be so disappointed in you.”
My breath rushed out in a whoosh, as if he’d sucker-punched my gut. Because it was true. Then I leaned in, so close I could feel his shuddering breath on my face, and delivered the only retaliation I had against the accusation. “And whose fault is it she’s not here to say so herself?”
The question slid home like a knife between his ribs, and even though I believed it, I still felt like a dick for sinking so low. His eyes shifted to gold, his lip curled in a snarl, and I knew I’d gotten what I wanted.
At last. I balled my fists, body tensing to move, to finally let off some pressure. But the punch never came.
“She wouldn’t want this,” he said, and his voice was guttural, already halfway to animal. He stepped back.
Fresh fury boiled up. I whirled toward the back door, needing to get out, to move, to run.
“Where are you going?” Dad demanded.
“For a run.”
He opened his mouth, to issue a warning probably, and I lifted my shoes in a sarcastic wave. “On two feet.”
“Be—”
I slammed the door, cutting off the caution and sprinted for the tree line. Once in the shadow of the trees, I paused only long enough to put on my shoes before resuming my futile escape. You can’t run from what you carry inside.
My rage grew with every thudding step, the fog shredded by my passage. I was desperate to shed my human skin and hunt, but I didn’t dare. Not here. Timber wolves hadn’t been native to the area for at least a couple of centuries, and after what had happened to my mother in Montana, where we didn’t stand out in the least . . .
I missed the rugged and unforgiving terrain of the Rockies. Not only because we blended in, but because it was wild. Everything here was too low, too worn, too soft, too civilized. I hadn’t been anywhere near civilized since my mother died.
The air pressed close, humidity draping over me like a big soggy towel. A few more degrees and it would edge into truly hot and sticky. East Tennessee felt like a world away from home, where we were lucky if it got up to 70 as a high in the dead of summer. And I was stuck here. Even if I went along with The Plan and headed off to college in the fall, there would be conditions. Rules. Restrictions.
Wolves don’t like restrictions.
Something moved to my left as I burst free of a cluster of pines. A young buck. It spun away, springing toward safety. Even on two feet, instinct demanded I give chase. I bounded after it, pushing myself beyond human limits of agility and speed to keep the powerful haunches in sight. My muscles ached, and the pain helped to burn off some of the anger. By the time I lost the deer at the river, I was somewhat calmer.
But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough. Our kind require the tempering influence of mated pairs. Two parents when we’re young and through transition. A mate when we’re older. I was only a few months beyond my transition when Mom was killed, enough in control that I wasn’t technically a danger. At least not once the blood rage had passed. But I certainly wasn’t winning Son of the Year awards.
Dad had let the farmer live. The self-righteous, sanctimonious, son of a bitch who put a bullet through my mother’s brain was still walking around, still breathing. Fucking lauded for his actions. Because he, like the rest of his ilk who head up the calls to “thin out” the number of predators in the area in the name of “protecting” livestock, saw a wolf, saw an opportunity, and took it. One shot. One shot that should never have happened because Mom should have smelled the farmer, seen it coming. Taken precautions. But she’d been careless. Furious and careless because of a fight with my father. She’d gone out for a run to blow off steam, as I often did, and she had strayed where it wasn’t safe.
Maybe my father could have protected her. Maybe he couldn’t. But as her mate, it sure as shit was his job to avenge her. To rip the bastard to shreds.
He said that would make him into the monster our kind is reputed to be in legend.
We weren’t so great with the agreeing to disagree.
I didn’t know what I hoped to accomplish by goading him. Provoking him to some kind of action that let me know he was still an alpha male I could respect? Forcing his hand to go back to Montana and do what needed to be done. Or maybe just fueling the fury that was my constant companion. Anger was familiar and in its own way comforting. It was so much easier to cope with than the grief that threatened to swallow me whole.
The sun peeked over the ridge, burning off the last of the morning mist. I wasn’t anywhere near a path I recognized. My explorations of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park hadn’t been too extensive in the month we’d been in Mortimer. Our house was just at the edge of the Park proper, which made for easy access—something I’d have to take more advantage of in the future.
Rather than following my scent trail back, I stuck to the river. Might as well start mapping the area. I'd gone half a mile when I heard the hitched breath. Veering away from the river, I followed the sound into a copse of trees.
I stayed low to the ground and crept closer until I could see who it was.
The girl perched on a huge flat boulder on the opposite side of the clearing, her face raised to the sun so that her long black hair fell in shiny waves down her back. She was crying. Not that she was being noisy about it. She wasn’t hysterical or red-faced and wailing. She was absolutely silent. I caught the faint gleam of tears on her cheeks, saw her shoulders shudder with the effort of holding in her grief. And it was grief. I recognized the expression on her face as one I couldn’t bear myself, and I wondered who she had lost.
Conscience pricked. I should get out of here. What kind of asshole sticks around and watches a girl cry? But something about her pulled at me, so I stayed. It was as if her tears somehow released my own grief. I felt oddly soothed by it. Part of me wanted to go to her and offer…what? Comfort? I wasn’t any good at that. And she wouldn’t thank me for intruding. No doubt she came out here for privacy.
Feeling like a voyeur, I started to back away.
Spots of brighter sunlight flickered on her face, and I paused, looking for the source of the reflection. My eyes fell to her hands. The sun glinted off the blade of a knife where it lay poised against her wrist. She took a deep, shaky breath.
My heart jolted, a thunder of rage and horror. No! I scrambled up, mustering every ounce of speed I possessed to get to that knife. But my fastest wasn’t fast enough, and the knife pressed into the white flesh.