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The coffee maker sputters and wheezes like it's on its last breath. I tap the side of the ancient machine, willing it to hang on for one more morning. Just one more. We can't afford another replacement, not when Maisie needs new shoes for the winter.

"Come on, you stubborn thing," I mutter, pressing the button again.

The machine gives a death rattle before reluctantly dripping brown liquid into my chipped mug. I breathe in the aroma, closing my eyes for a brief moment. Small victories. That's what my life has become—a series of small victories amid crushing defeat.

Outside the kitchen window, Silvercreek is waking up.

Mist clings to the pines surrounding our small cottage, one of the oldest and most neglected dwellings on pack land.

The Alpha was "generous" enough to let us have it when we were forced to return three months ago.

Located at the very edge of pack territory, it might as well have a neon sign flashing "Outcasts Live Here. "

The wooden floorboards creak behind me, and I don't need to turn around to know it's Maisie. Her scent—honeysuckle and sunshine—reaches me before her tiny footsteps do.

"Morning, Mama," she says, her voice still thick with sleep.

I turn, and my heart does what it always does when I look at her—swells until it feels too big for my chest. Five years old, with a riot of dark curls that refuse to be tamed and eyes that shift between hazel and amber, depending on her mood.

Right now, they're more amber than usual, a warning sign I can't ignore.

"Morning, Sweet Pea." I smooth down her curls, subtly checking her temperature. Slightly elevated. Another thing to worry about. "Ready for pancakes?"

Her eyes light up, amber flecks dancing. "With blueberries?"

"Is there any other way?" I wink, pushing away the nagging worry. Her shifter genes shouldn't be manifesting this early. Not if she were truly "just turned four," as we've been telling everyone.

The lie sits heavy in my stomach as I mix the batter, but it's necessary. If anyone in Silvercreek knew Maisie's actual age, they'd do the math. They'd realize she was conceived during that summer with Thomas, and everything I've built to protect her would crumble.

"Can I help stir?" Maisie climbs onto the chair I've pushed against the counter, her Miss Sparkle pajamas—a thrift store find she adores—sliding off one shoulder.

"Sure can, baby." I hand her the wooden spoon, watching as her little tongue pokes out in concentration.

The kitchen warms as morning light filters through the curtains I sewed from discounted fabric.

Three months, and I've done what I can to make this place feel like home for Maisie.

Colorful drawings taped to faded wallpaper.

Mismatched furniture arranged to hide the worst water stains.

A braided rug covering the spot where the floorboards are splintered beyond repair.

"Mama, my skin feels all tingly again," Maisie says quietly, her eyes fixed on the batter. "Like right before bedtime last night. Is that because my wolf wants to come out?"

My spine stiffens. I check that the curtains are drawn before responding. "Yes, Sweet Pea. Your wolf is getting more eager lately."

"But I'm not supposed to shift yet, right? Not until I'm older." She concentrates on stirring, amber flecks dancing in her eyes. "The other kids at school say most shifters don't change until they're seven or eight."

"That's right." I drop a kiss on her forehead, anxiety squeezing my chest. She's manifesting early—too early. It's a sign of strong bloodlines, the kind Thomas's family is known for. Another secret we can't afford to have discovered.

"And we don't talk about our apartment in the city, or my real birthday last month, right?" she continues, clearly reciting our safety rules.

"Right again, Sweet Pea. Just like we practiced." I take the bowl from her and pour the first pancake. "Remember what we say if someone asks about your daddy?"

"That he left before I was born, and we don't know where he is." Her little face scrunches up. "But that's not true, is it, Mama? You know where he is."

The spatula stills in my hand. "What makes you say that?"

Maisie shrugs, suddenly interested in the pattern of the countertop. "I saw a photo in the old house. There was a man that looked like me, and he was here. He was with you."

My throat tightens. This isn't the first time she's deduced far more than I ever wanted her to from almost nothing. She’s eerily prescient sometimes. Another inheritance from her father, though she doesn't know it. I flip the pancake, buying time before answering.

"Sometimes photos are just photos, baby." The lie tastes bitter, but I swallow it down. "Don’t think too much about it, okay? Now, go get dressed for school. Ms. Hendricks says you're going to learn about forest plants today."

Her face brightens at the mention of school.

Somehow, despite the years of upheaval and chaos and change that have been her short life, she still manages to love school, to adore her classmates and, throw herself into projects, and come home rambling about her favourite teachers and the things she’s learning.

She’s such a bright kid. As Maisie scampers off to her room, I wonder how much longer that spark of joy will endure.

Twenty minutes later, with Maisie fed and dressed in her least-worn jeans and favorite purple sweater, we're making our way down the winding dirt path toward the main compound.

Fall has painted Silvercreek in crimson and gold, the trees showing off like they're trying to make up for the town's other shortcomings.

The beauty would be breathtaking if it weren't so suffocating.

"Look, Mama! A deer!" Maisie points excitedly to a doe watching us from between the trees, her amber eyes flashing brighter.

"I see it," I say, squeezing her hand in warning. "Remember to stay calm when you see animals, just like we practiced."

She nods, taking deliberate breaths like I taught her. The amber in her eyes recedes, and the deer bounds away, unalarmed. Another small victory. Holding off her shift, the symptoms that keep appearing have become a full-time job for me over the past six months.

As we approach the main square, the whispers start.

They always do. Six years away didn't change Silvercreek's love of gossip. I was a subject of gossip my whole time here before I left—before, after Maisie’s father abandoned me, I fled in the night at twenty, running from both his memory and the other major threat to my child’s safety that lingered close back then.

I recall high school, the constant bullying, and snickering, the sense that there was something deeply wrong with me; I despised my curves, my body, my looks, my voice, everything about myself.

That sadistic fascination with me hadn’t vanished by the time I returned.

But today, not all the whispering is about me.

"Did you hear about the Council meeting last night?" A woman I vaguely recognize in a burgundy sweater leans toward her companion as we pass the bakery.

"Another lottery so soon? I thought they'd wait at least a year after the Alpha's match," her friend replies, voice dropping as she notices us.

My steps falter.

Maisie looks up at me with concern. "Mama? Are you okay?"

"Fine, Sweet Pea." I force a smile, but inside, my stomach twists.

The pack hasn't held two lotteries in the same year for decades.

We pass the path that leads down to the Hollow where, three months ago, I stood at the back of the crowd and watched as Luna Morgan's name was drawn for the Alpha's Mate Lottery.

I remember the sick relief I felt—horrible guilt as Luna faced the pack's judgment, but overwhelming relief that it wasn't me.

That Maisie and I might be stuck in Silvercreek, but at least we could remain in our quiet obscurity.

The school sits at the heart of the small town, a stone building with bright windows and a playground protected by a white picket fence. Ms. Hendricks, the kindergarten teacher, greets the children at the entrance. She gives me a polite but distant nod as we approach.

"Good morning, Maisie," she says with her usual warmth, bending down to beam at her. “Someone’s full of energy today!”

Maisie bounces on her toes. "I found a red leaf shaped like a star on our way here!"

"Wow, look at that! You can add it to our collection board, sweetheart.” Ms. Hendricks's gaze shifts to me, the skin around her eyes tightening slightly. "Luna Blackwood mentioned she'd be stopping by for story time after lunch. The children are quite excited."

I nod stiffly. Luna may be kind to us, but her visits to the school are a reminder of her elevated status—a position she gained through the very lottery that could now threaten my fragile peace.

"Maisie's been looking forward to it," I say, the words sticky in my throat.

I kneel to give Maisie a goodbye hug, inhaling her scent to carry with me. "Be good, remember—"

"I know, Mama. I can keep secrets really good." She whispers the last part so quietly only I could possibly catch it.

My heart clenches. So much responsibility for such small shoulders. Maisie inherited her father’s strong bloodline, his powerful shift—something that should be a blessing but feels like a curse when it threatens to expose our secrets.

"That's right, baby. I'll pick you up at three." I kiss her cheek, and she scampers toward the building without looking back.

Independence. Another trait she inherited from her father.

With Maisie safely delivered to school, I head toward the market. The monthly stipend the pack provides barely covers our necessities, but I've stretched every dollar since Maisie was born. Five years of single motherhood has made me an expert in survival economies.