Page 4

Another horrified shudder runs down Avery’s spine. “Don’t forget to take a shower,” he advises Sascha, knowing without being told that his werecreature stink will give them away to any shifter familiar enough with their scent. Before Sascha can distract Avery with a response, Avery books it.

It’s past seven AM when Avery trudges under the wooden archway announcing his arrival at Dennings Farm.

Exactly nine days ago, Avery followed this rocky dirt road to the chipped-paint office of Farmer Howard Dennings, who greeted him with a grunt and a fifteen-page contract detailing the terms of his stay.

He left the building wishing he could flag down the rickety stoner bus he rode up here in and beg them to take him back to Pontiac.

Not that he can go back. Last month’s incident came way, way too close.

He’s lucky the Parahuman Civil Compliance officer who caught him didn’t demand a blowjob before connecting him with Dennings’ work farm for packless werecreatures.

Fuck Dennings for profiting off people’s desperation, but at least the job included food and shelter.

Depending on one’s definition of ‘food’ and ‘shelter,’ anyway.

Avery should have stopped to ask if the hotel stay included breakfast, because on the farm, plates are handed out at six AM on the dot.

Anyone who doesn’t make it to the second floor above the stables before that gets locked downstairs, with the expectation that they get right to work mucking stalls. Now he’s too late to even do that.

He manages to slip into the schedule room to check the task list without being caught.

Fortunately, there’s no punch system, as they don’t technically clock in or out.

Living on Dennings Farm is an around-the-clock arrangement.

Workers have precisely scheduled breaks for meals and one assigned day off per week.

Last night was Avery’s, but he’s fairly sure he read somewhere that breaking curfew may result in losing free hours. Because of course.

As of twenty minutes ago, Avery was supposed to be feeding animals. If he can get to the chicken coop safely, he’s sure they’ll be too happy about getting their seed mix to rat him out for being late.

Unfortunately, if wishes came true, he wouldn’t be a werecreature in bumfuck ‘up north’ Michigan.

Avery rushes through coops full of chickens, geese, ducks, and quail, scattering additional seed for the free-roaming peafowl.

None of the supervisors bother him during this process, which is a major relief after this morning’s humiliation.

Good things don’t last at Dennings Farm, though, and when Avery shows up to the store to help stock, he’s a whole five minutes behind schedule. Shit, make that six.

The bored-looking clerk perks up when Avery rushes in with a box of freshly packaged greens to put in one of the fridges lining the wall.

He’s a meaty-looking guy with a smarmy expression and greasy demeanor, and when his swollen red eyes settle on Avery, he can feel the target as it’s taped to his chest.

“You’re late.” His nametag reads ‘Atwood,’ and his clothes reek of a strong cologne which fails miserably at masking the lingering weed odor.

“You’re…” Probably not supposed to be smoking on the job , Avery wants to say, but he bites his tongue.

Farmer Dennings is a human but hires shifters as supervisors to keep the werecreature laborers in line.

“I’m sorry. I got cornered by an angry goose and barely escaped with my life. At least I made it here at all.”

In retrospect, that answer was probably worse.

Atwood doesn’t react at first. He narrows his eyes into slits, a deep furrow forming between his eyebrows.

Then he says only, “Get to work, noob,” and pulls out his phone.

While the store hasn’t opened yet, the uncaring way he plops it on the counter suggests he isn’t concerned about keeping it out of sight.

At eight-thirty, the store opens, and Avery still isn’t finished stocking.

The schedule said he was supposed to have a trainer, since this is his first time in the store after the initial tour, but no one shows up, and he’s too afraid to ask.

Atwood offers no assistance other than to snort when Avery struggles with customer questions .

Nothing continues to happen, but with every passing minute, Avery feels more and more exposed. Whenever he digs into the freezers, he feels Atwood’s eyes on his back, but by the time he turns around, the shifter is back to staring at his phone.

When the crates in the back are finally empty, Avery is not only mentally exhausted, but starving .

His body feels fine other than that—thanks to the werevirus, all the aches and pains he accrued on his way to thirty went away.

Less favorable is the appetite required to sustain a supernatural metabolism.

He hasn’t eaten since dinner yesterday, well over twelve hours ago.

He’d rather eat his own foot than engage directly with Atwood, but the only option for getting food outside of mealtimes is buying from the store.

Anxiety courses through him as he grabs a turkey sandwich and cup of cut vegetables from the fridge, figuring they’ll be the easiest to eat while walking to his next scheduled task.

Though he tries to calm down, Avery knows he’s projecting fear pheromones, and there’s no way a shifter won’t pick up on it.

Damn them and their heightened perception.

Avery ignores the fact that he also has heightened perception, focusing on begging his hands to not shake when he sets his selection on the counter in front of Atwood. “Can I buy this?”

It’s a moment before Atwood looks away from his phone. He considers the food, raises his eyebrows, then flicks an unimpressed look at Avery. The silence stretches, making it more and more difficult for Avery to hold still instead of squirming.

“You got money?” Atwood finally asks.

“Yeah.” Avery tugs his wallet out of the shorts he didn’t have time to change out of, even though full-length pants are recommended.

It was legally required for a pamphlet on safety protocol to be made available, but nothing from it is enforced.

Farmer Dennings already said medical emergencies are none of his business, even work injuries.

Avery waits for Atwood to scan the items to retrieve his total, but all Atwood offers is more of that damn staring. Becoming impatient, Avery asks, “How much do I owe?”

“Twenty dollars.”

Jaw dropping, Avery looks down at the prices on both items. The sandwich is nine, and the vegetables are four. “These only say?—”

“I know what they say,” Atwood snaps. “I’ve had to watch your incompetent ass all morning. You’ll pay what I say you’ll pay.”

Avery already knows he doesn’t have twenty dollars in his wallet, so he grits his teeth and says, “Just the sandwich, then.”

“Twenty dollars.”

This isn’t the first time a shifter has tried to take advantage of him, and it’ll be far from the last, but at this point Avery is hangry , so he doesn’t consider the consequences before smacking his palm against the counter. “The sandwich is nine fucking dollars. You can’t just demand?—”

Atwood’s hand shoots out faster than Avery can react.

His enhanced senses allow him to see every inch of the gesture in slow motion frames, but his reflexes aren’t there yet, so he doesn’t manage to dodge before Atwood snatches the collar of his t-shirt and drags Avery half over the counter.

“I’ll demand you do whatever the fuck I want, you pitiful shit.

You’re here, you do what you’re fuckin’ told, were-bitch .

” He holds on a second longer before shoving Avery back. “Get out of my sight.”

This time, Avery is more than willing to comply.