Page 21

Atwood’s shift dissolves into a brief mirage, the sun hot and watery over the pavement, before he reappears, fully naked and scowling. “That whore started it. Keeping secrets. Why’d you even hire it?”

After all the humiliation, Avery barely feels the prick of being called an ‘it’ rather than a man. He’s long known these people don’t see him as a person, not even enough to misgender him.

Farmer Dennings shoves his nephew by the back of his neck away from the road, ignoring when he whines, “But Uncle Howard!” in protest. He watches Atwood retreat for a few moments before turning his attention back to Avery.

His hand lands at his hip, where the telltale bulge of a gun rests ominously.

“You,” Farmer Dennings says. “Don’t come ‘round if you’re just gonna make a damn mess. I don’t feed shit like you just to have y’all causing problems for my business.”

Farmer Dennings seems to wait for a response, but when Avery provides none, he sighs in an aggrieved fashion. Then he crosses the road in several quick strides and, without prelude, kicks Avery hard in the ribs.

Avery spills down the mushy grass he tried so ardently to avoid, whimpering in disgust when he lands face-first in the muck.

His hands claw for purchase, but they’re weak human hands again, scrabbling at a slippery incline, and he can’t even summon enough strength to lift his own weight.

Defeated and dizzy from losing so much blood, Avery closes his eyes and succumbs to the sick realization that he’s not going to see Sascha again.

Out of everything, that’s what hurts the most.

Nearly an hour later, Avery still isn’t dead.

He’d been waiting for it, apologizing to Sascha in his head, cursing Farmer Dennings, Celeste, and Avery’s whole damn estranged family.

Everyone who’s ever held power over him, including Melissa’s fucking were-fox alpha who refused him entry into the pack, punishing him for a crime he’d never even thought of committing.

All he’d ever wanted, from the moment the werevirus took hold of his system, was to be sheltered from the horrific new reality.

Instead, he was spit on, kicked out, forced to run and run and run to place after place.

All unwilling to welcome the alpha Avery didn’t ask to be, none open to trusting his unexplored strength to protect them.

The alpha’s Catch-22: Powerful enough to violate an existing pack but too weak to care for one of his own.

Avery lifts a shaking hand to scrub at his cheek where Atwood spit on him.

It’s probably gone now, washed away by tears and filthy water, but Avery scratches the spot anyway, begging his body to forget the sensation.

When his arm grows too tired to continue tearing at the raw skin, Avery slumps back into the mud.

In a brief moment of clarity, Avery gets it in his head to call Sascha before remembering that his phone died overnight.

He didn’t bring his wallet to the lake, choosing instead to leave it in his locker at the office, where everyone keeps their valuables if they prefer they not be stolen during work hours.

He obviously can’t fetch a charger or clean clothes from his bunk.

Farmer Dennings didn’t say Avery couldn’t go back to fetch his things, but in this condition, he’d be a walking target.

Best to give it a while for the excitement to die down.

Without his wallet or phone, Avery has no way to contact Sascha, and though he vaguely remembers how to get to the Madison pack lands, he doesn’t trust himself to find the Forgotten Lake entrance without Sascha to guide him.

Shock from the attack eases enough for other emotions to sink in—shame and fear and regret and sorrow and shame , twice as strong once he reviews the circumstances up close.

Maybe he could have just sucked Atwood’s dick.

Lowered his pride, lowered to his knees, gave the shifter what he wanted while the marks Sascha put on his neck burned.

Sascha wouldn’t have blamed him, but Avery sure as fuck would have blamed himself.

Quiet footsteps making their way across the asphalt snag Avery’s attention.

It’s weird because he’s only known them a short time, but Avery recognizes Beryl’s scent.

Even weirder is that he isn’t afraid. Maybe they’re coming to bodily drag him away to throw into Celeste’s waiting maw.

Maybe he’s so pathetic they’re rescinding the offer.

Either way, he can’t bring himself to care.

What Avery doesn’t expect is Beryl picking their way down the incline into the drainage ditch, their boots squelching in the mud. They crouch beside him, frowning, then hover their fingers over the injury on Avery’s back. Just the proximity makes him clench, and they haven’t even touched him.

“You should be healing faster,” Beryl mutters. “Why are you still this fucked up?”

“Dunno,” Avery slurs.

Beryl clicks their tongue. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you gotta get up. You need to get away from here.” When Avery doesn’t respond, Beryl continues. “Some of the supervisors were talking about coming back out to teach you a lesson.”

Avery closes his eyes. Beryl knuckles him in the shoulder.

“I’m not joking, Avery. They’ll fuck you up.” A pause follows before Beryl adds, their reluctance palpable, “Atwood told them that you’re trans, okay? I don’t…”

Sudden tension makes Avery’s wounds ache.

He leans into the pain, trying to get the ursine to wake up and give him strength again.

The beast stays dormant, but Avery ends up not needing it because Beryl gently catches him under the shoulder.

Prying his heavy limbs and disgusting clothes out of the muck hurts beyond his capacity for words, but Beryl is there to slowly ease him upright, saying nothing about his miserable whimpers.

When he’s no longer horizontal, they settle him in a reclining position on the side of the ditch.

“Do you have anyone you can call?” Beryl pulls out their phone and looks at him expectantly.

Avery presses his lips together, then admits, “My phone is dead. ”

“I have a power supply, but you still can’t stay here. Can you walk?”

Dying in the sun sounds preferable. Avery nods anyway, even though doubt fills him. “I can try, at least.”

“All we can do,” Beryl says quietly, then proceeds with the arduous process of helping Avery out of the ditch without injuring him more.

When they reach the road, Avery examines his physical state.

The lacerations have mostly stopped bleeding, but his skin aches, especially where the morning sun beat down on his exposed back.

Each step burns, but with Beryl’s hand a surprisingly gentle support, Avery limps along until the farm’s welcome sign is no longer in sight.

The trek feels like it takes hours. Avery’s energy stores are empty, reducing the ursine to chewing on the only thing Avery has left: His will to live, rapidly dwindling.

They finally stop when they reach a railing on the side of the road, protecting drivers from the consequences of taking the curve too fast. Unable to think of anything but the bruised and burned soles of his feet, Avery plants his ass on the thin metal edge and buries his face in his hands.

Beryl takes his phone out of their pocket. They’ve had it on their portable charger, but when Avery peeks through his fingers, he sees the low battery icon on the shattered screen. It won’t turn on.

“It hasn’t been charging all that great since…” Avery trails off.

Beryl winces, but doesn’t apologize, which Avery appreciates because he doesn’t wanna hear it.

Instead, they ask, “Do you have any numbers memorized? I can’t stay here too much longer.” Hesitantly, they add, “Could you ask that shifter who was with you? The other alpha.”

“I don’t…” It feels like a violation, having the undistilled jo y of his relationship with Sascha out in the open.

All the assumptions that will be made about them.

But Avery gives in, mumbles, “I can try to remember,” and returns to the darkness behind his palms. He tries to envision Sascha’s number, all the times he’s stared at the contact on his screen, zooming in on Sascha’s photos to memorize every pixel of his lovely face.

Finally, Avery extends his hand for the phone. “Let me see.”

Beryl surrenders their phone and watches intently as Avery tries to piece together Sascha’s phone number.

He isn’t great with remembering numbers, but after spending months trying to adjust to his enhanced sensory profile, Avery’s begun to make sense of it.

Along with sight and smell, his memory sharpened. He just has to relax.

Taking a deep breath, Avery calls the number he’s input. It goes straight to voicemail, and the auto-responder is for Kathy-someone. He shudders, but makes another attempt, ignoring the crease in Beryl’s brow and the way they keep looking nervously down the road and into the tree line behind him.

This time, the phone rings. It rings and rings, each one stealing a bit of Avery’s hope. Avery’s heart sinks when the auto-responder picks up, before it nearly bursts out of his chest.

You have reached the voicemail box of Sascha Madison . The automated message continues to drone, but just the flicker of Sascha’s voice has tears of relief gathering in Avery’s eyes. He flicks his gaze to Beryl, who has perked up at the sign of success.

Please leave a message after the tone.

“Um, hi, Sascha,” Avery begins, trying to talk evenly past the knot in his throat.

“I kinda got in some trouble, and I’m injured.

I need you to pick me up. I’m on, uh…” Avery looks around for a road sign.

Beryl murmurs the name of the intersection, and Avery repeats it.

“My phone is dead and I’m bo rrowing someone else’s, so don’t try calling this number back.

I’m just gonna… stay here. Okay? Thanks. ”

Avery terminates the call, leaving his fate in the unknown realm of ‘ Does Sascha check his voicemail? ’

Officially too exhausted to keep standing, Avery limps to the other side of the guard rail and sits down, his ass halfway on dusty gravel and feet sunk into cool, shadowed grass. He wraps his arms around his knees, huddling for safety in his own embrace.

Beryl unplugs his phone from their charger; the battery symbol disappears, leaving only a fragmented reflection of the sky. “Sorry I can’t charge it more.”

Avery waves a hand. “S’fine. Thank you for… getting me here.” He squints at them through the piercing morning sunbeams. “Why did you bother?”

Their eyes lock for a scant second before Beryl returns to watching the trees. “You’ve held onto your pride up ‘til now. I didn’t like seeing it crushed by some shifter bastards.”

A slow nod is the only response Avery can think to offer. Anything else would feel arrogant, maybe even insulting, comparing his refusal to crack with whatever compelled Beryl to submit to Celeste’s control.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Beryl says, before giving him a brisk nod. “Good luck. Hope your friend comes. …Friend?” they repeat after a pause.

Avery’s cheeks warm. “Uhm.”

“Gotcha.” What might be a genuine smile tugs at Beryl’s mouth, exposing a sharp canine.

Their yellow eyes flash. “Have fun, I guess. And don’t try shifting out of those injuries.

If you’re already healing this slow, that means your reserves are almost burned out.

” That said, Beryl shoves their hands in their pockets and walks briskly into the forest. Avery is only able to track their steps for a handful of seconds before all trace of them disappears .

So Avery waits.

Once in a while, a car drives by, wheels crunching on the rough pavement, but Avery makes sure to stay huddled behind the guard rail, hopefully out of sight. He rests his forehead on his knees, hissing when the laceration on his back twinges.

Sascha will come. He hasn’t yet let Avery down, and even if he doesn’t usually check his voicemail, the lack of response from Avery’s number should make the unknown call a necessary clue.

While Avery waits, exhaustion gnaws at his bones, slowly sipping his consciousness until he’s a drop away from passing out. Avery ignores how his body shakes, begging for rest, and focuses only on gripping his damaged phone so tightly, shards from the broken screen dig into his palm.