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“I’m tired,” Sascha lies. He’s actually wide awake, planning on texting Avery to see how he’s holding up after his kitchen run. “But I’ll see how I feel later tonight, okay?”

A frown creeps over Samuel’s mouth. “How has your health been this past week, Alexander? I feel as if you don’t talk to me anymore.”

Sascha doesn’t know how to respond to that. “It’s been okay. No episodes recently. I’ve been taking it easy.” This one is only a half-lie. He’d have been going to Forgotten Lake on his own even if Avery wasn’t there to squirm in his arms, seek comfort, and cling to him in the water. The extra energy he’s invested in keeping Avery safe barely feels like an expenditure—at least, not one that isn’t worthwhile.

Samuel continues to frown. Sascha scrambles for more bland, appeasing statements, but none come to mind.

“I was on my way to the kitchen,” Sascha says finally. If nothing else, his dad is always on his ass about eating healthy and staying in shape. “I heard the cooks made a wonderful, uh, salad last night.” He’d heard no such thing, but despitecats being obligate carnivores, Samuel insists on including vegetables in everyone’s diets.We are not animals, his father always said.Our bodies have nuanced needs.

From his expression, Samuel doesn’t believe Sascha’s interest in salad—correctly so, because Sascha has none. He doesn’t call Sascha on it, though, simply nods and steps out of the way. “Enjoy your lunch. I will have your cousins find you later for the run tonight.”

Sascha hurries past, desperate to put his back to his father so he can’t see the deep, frustrated scowl that’s overtaken Sascha’s face. He feels Samuel’s stare all the way down the hall, until he turns toward the kitchen, unable to scratch the sensation of being watched from his nape.

In the kitchen, Sascha asks for a bag, which he stuffs with food not just for himself but for Avery as well. Avery doesn’t get quality food on the farm, and he doesn’t eat as much as he should because of it. Last time Sascha provided food for him, it was fast food and snacks, so this time, he makes up for it, even grabbing the salad in case Samuel asks the cooks about it later. Sascha wouldn’t put it past him.

“Hungry today?” asks Aunt Marty, who is the head cook.

Sascha forces a smile, trying for charming. It feels more like a wince. “Dad wants me to go on a run with Jakob and Garrett tonight, so I’m fueling up. Just in case, you know.”

In case he faints.

In case he can’t handle a simple night of shifting and enjoying the woods.

In case the rift between him and his pack grows ever deeper, until the chasm is dark and insurmountable.

Marty is a distant cousin from the Madison maternal line, and has Sascha’s mother’s shrewd features. She was Denise’s best friend, so Sascha has always called her his aunt. Just as perceptive as his father, Marty tracks pack members’ habits and nutritional needs, with especial focus on Sascha. The responsibility of keeping the pack healthy and fueled up suitsher. Everyone in the Madison pack, it seems, has a role that emphasizes their skillset—makes them an asset rather than a burden.

Everyone except Sascha.

After thanking Marty, Sascha takes off, intent on finding a quiet place to eat before texting Avery about meeting up later. When he gets to a room with no one in it, however, the food never makes it out of the bag. He glances at his phone to check the time and is surprised by the notification for a voicemail. The unfamiliar number he’d assumed to be a spam caller must have left a message. Sascha almost ignores it, wanting to prioritize eating and checking on Avery, but a vague sense of unease has him clicking the visual inbox rather than dismissing the notif. When Sascha sees the transcript, all the breath leaves his lungs.

Sascha punches the button to play the voicemail, heart pounding so hard he can hear the blood pulsing between his ears, nearly drowning out Avery’s broken voice. Without specifics, a host of horrible possibilities arises in Sascha’s mind like a wave, threatening to crush him. He listens to the voicemail a second time so he can write down the location, then bolts out of the room, only to return for the forgotten bag of food.

In his car before he knows it, Sascha guns it down the street leading farther into the pack compound, seeking out the small clinic where he’s spent more time than he’d like over the years. Sascha nearly forgets to turn off the vehicle before running inside, and though he knows panic is making him sloppy and irrational, he can’t stop.

The waiting room is empty, so Sascha stomps into the back, pounding hard on the healer’s door. “Petra? Petra, please, it’s Sascha. I need help. Like, right now.”

Upstairs, he hears Petra’s light footsteps on the old building’s creaking floors. She descends the stairs at a regal pace, and it’s all Sascha can do not to holler for her to speedthe fuck up. Finally, Petra opens the door, peeking out. Sascha seizes her by the shoulders and pulls her into the hall, then into a tight embrace. “Petra,” he says when he’s holding her at a distance again, “I need you to come with me.”

Petra scans him with knowing brown eyes, searching for any sign of injury or madness.

“Someone I know is hurt badly,” Sascha explains. “He needs my help.”

“Ah,” she intones, a soft, thoughtful note. “Who is this person?”

A knot catches in Sascha’s throat. “One of my friends,” he chokes. Sascha is terrified of revealing his relationship with Avery to a member of his pack, but without knowing the extent of Avery’s injuries or how quickly his magic can heal them, he doesn’t have a choice. “Please, Petra. He’s so important to me.”

“That’s vague,” Petra says, cutting cleanly through his bullshit.

“I know. I just need you to trust me. I’m begging.”

Petra sighs. “I only now got to sit down and do my hair after setting a broken bone earlier. Let me fetch my supplies.”

Sascha nearly crushes her in his arms again but holds back because doing so will only slow her down. Instead, he hovers a few feet away, watching anxiously as Petra collects her medical bag: A large, bulky duffel with two compartments, one for traditional medicine and one for supernatural medicine, when human tools prove to be not enough. She then secures her waist-length Afro-textured hair into two twists and ties them back with a scarf.

Once prepared, Petra carefully locks up the clinic, leaving a note about her departure on the door. There are other healers in the pack—her assistants—but Petra is the only one who’s cared for Sascha through twenty-four years of suffering from the spinning sickness. Sascha trusts no one more thanher, and is relieved to have such a person in his corner. He wishes she’d move just alittle bitfaster, though.

With Petra in the car and buckled up, Sascha hits the gas pedal, already having punched the intersection into his GPS. Hopefully, Avery is still there and hasn’t encountered any more trouble.