Page 6

I keep my head down as I walk along the familiar road, but even without looking, I know exactly what passes by on either side. The Grimmer family house, that large bush in the corner of their yard that we came to use as a marker for our street—brown and dry eleven months out of the year, but flowering intensely for the entire month of July, the fragrant scent of it settling over half the neighborhood, sweet, sticky, and alluring.

It’s dead right now, though. A moment later, I walk by the Barnett house. I was friends with another Omega girl growing up, but as I got older and started insisting I had a gift, they pulled away, parents offering up reasons why we couldn’t play together until finally, as a pre-teen, her mother looked me up and down and said, “Will you ever get the hint?”

My mind flashes with memories of all the other kids on this block, how each of them had their first shift. A few, at first, then an avalanche. And when the dust settled, I was left sitting there, alone and on the outside.

A streetlight flickers gently as I walk past. Down the road, a dog barks, then goes silent.

And then, all at once, it’s in front of me. The crack in the sidewalk, you’d have to maneuver around with your bike. The rock lawn, so we wouldn’t have to deal with the upkeep of grass. Aloe plants in the front yard, the faint smell of the lemon tree still holding on in the back.

Our house. My childhood home, a kind of modern adobe style, with large, rounded windows and a covered entrance area. Cool brown stone and dark wood accents, warm, golden light spilling from the windows, so rich and palpable I feel like I could reach out and touch it, run my hand through it like water.

I’m on the front stoop, the strange feeling of being an outsider in my own home washing over me. To my left, a lizard skitters along the wall. Insects sing, and a gentle, fresh breeze pushes through, ruffling the edges of Dorian’s cloak, which I pull tighter around myself.

Maybe if I opened the door smelling like Dorian, it could help to sway them in my direction. But he smelled of nothing tonight—his scent so noticeably missing that it made me sick.

Nausea roils in my stomach as I stare at the blue door in front of me, smell the scent of garlic and onion leaking through the door. So Dad made spaghetti.

Shaking, I raise my hand and knock on the front door.

After everything that happened, I know they won’t be thrilled to see me. The incident, which I don’t want to think about in too much detail, gave them almost no choice. I was already a low-standing omega. When I left, it was likely a relief to them.

But I’m here now, and I’m still their daughter.

We still had good times—family game nights, birthday parties. My parents, while not perfect, love me. I know they do.

When the door opens, it lets the light and smells of cooking flood out onto the stoop, and I get caught in it for a moment, my focus drifting to the chipped tiles of the floor in the entryway, the same as ever.

If I was a cartoon, I might float on the current of light, warmth, and the smell of dinner right inside, folded into the life I once had.

But this isn’t a TV show, and my mother stands there, five years older, but looking mostly the same—her eyes wide, her lips parted slightly in surprise. Rather than take me all in, scan me up and down like she used to when I was a teenager, she just stares into my eyes, like she’s worried I might be a shapeshifter, some conman in the vague shape of her daughter.

“Kira?” she whispers, and in the next moment, she’s glancing over her shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest, and stepping out onto the stoop with me, forcing me to take a step back from the door, angling her body like I might try to slip past her, push my way inside.

Her long gray hair rests against her chest, which is covered in one of her vests. Right now, it’s a paisley pattern, the pinks and yellows swirling. Inappropriately cheerful compared to the look on her drawn face.

Things are complicated between us, but I can’t deny the deep, primal urge inside me. The little girl who just wants her mom.

“Mom, I—”

She glances up and down the street. “What are you doing here?”

The words sink like stones in my stomach. “There’s—well, I need a place to stay. There was a problem with my other pack—”

“You left another pack?” she asks, dropping her voice so it’s practically inaudible. The disappointment there, coupled with a complete lack of surprise, makes me feel sick.

“Well, that’s not exactly what—”

“I’m sorry, love,” she whispers, taking another step and forcing me out of the illumination of the porch light. Her perfume—light, like white tea and rose—washes over me, hitting with a sense of homesickness so strong it makes me physically sway. When her eyes meet mine, they’re pitying, but not broken. “Can you lower your voice? I don’t want your father to hear. This will be very upsetting for him.”

For the briefest moment, I feel a flash of anger, strong and sure, and I want to scream at her, This is upsetting for me ! I want to tell her that hours ago, I was standing on a stage in front of dozens of people, shivering in the cold, feeling lower than I ever have.

“I’m going to get back on my feet,” I insist, knowing I can’t stay here. “I just need somewhere to stay in the meantime, so I can—”

She’s already shaking her head. “Kira, I love you. You know that—but there’s nothing we can do. It’s out of our hands, and you know we can’t jeopardize your father’s place in this pack. He and Emin have been working night and day to improve our standing after … what happened.”

I stand numbly for a second, the mention of my brother instantly conjuring images of us in this house. Playing in the front yard, acting like normal siblings before we became teenagers, and he became best friends with Dorian, and the two of them turned on me so suddenly and completely it was world-shattering.

At one point in my life, I had an older brother who would protect me from anything. Who truly cared about me and just wanted me to be happy. Then, maybe because of pack politics or just because that’s what happens to boys when they grow up, he hated me.

“Mom.” Now I’m the one dropping my voice, looking up and meeting her eyes. Eyes that are like mine, but also not hers, more stable, a sure brown instead of the colors constantly shifting in my own, like I don’t know who I am. “Please. I have nowhere else to go.”

She stares at me for a long moment, expression shifting quickly. For a second, I think she might actually relent and allow me inside, but there’s a sound from inside the house.

“Mhairi?” My dad’s voice. Low and inquisitive, serious as always. “Who is it? Dinner is ready.”

Mom takes a step back, head shaking again as she looks at me. Regret and guilt are there, but another emotion takes center stage, so bright on her features that taking it in is like staring at an oncoming comet.

Shame.

“I’m sorry , Kira,” she whispers, taking another step back, easing away from me and into the life she’s built in my absence. “We just can’t . I love you. Try and stay safe, okay? And—”

“ Mhairi ?” His voice is getting closer, and I don’t miss the flash of panic on my mother’s face as she whirls around, slides inside the house, and flicks off the outside light without giving me so much as a backward glance.

So, that’s it then. They want nothing to do with me.

A sob rips from my throat as I turn and hurry back to the street, certainly not wanting my mother to glance out and see me still standing there, waiting for her love.

After all this time, I’d at least kept in my mind that my parents would be there for me, if I really needed them. Leaving was for me—I couldn’t stand the ridicule, didn’t want to see what kind of punishment the council might pass down to me—but also for them.

My parents have always prized their place in this pack more than anything. My father, scraping tooth and nail to find a place near the leader, among the other alphas. They’ve always wanted to rise through the ranks.

Having an omega daughter might have helped with that if I was conventionally attractive.

My feet are heavy and awkward as I stumble down the street, heading back for the main road that will take me out of town. I don’t know what my plan is—my heat is coming soon. I’ll be vulnerable if I’m out on the road, hitchhiking, and I don’t even want to think about what could happen to me if I come across the wrong alphas.

But I have no other choice.

Another thought rips through me—what really would have helped would have been mating with the leader of a pack. Dorian’s face flashes through my mind, his features twisted with hate, his words from years ago filtering back to me.

“You are not my mate, Kira. And if you ever say something so blatantly false again, I’ll kill you myself.”

A shiver runs over the backs of my arms, tears already running down my face, thoughts racing through my mind. But everything comes to a sudden, halting stop when I turn the corner and run face-first into a towering man.

Fear rises in me—it’s already happening—but then I realize it’s Dorian, and he’s drawing back from me, careful not to touch my skin, his eyes skipping up and down my body before finally landing on my tear-stained cheeks.

“Alright then,” he says, taking a step back and opening the passenger side door of his truck, the soft ding-ding from the cab spilling out into the night. “Get in.”