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“Well, good, looks like we have the same body type.”

I nearly jump out of my skin the moment I open the bathroom door and find a woman standing outside the bathroom, clothes draped over her arm. She has the same facial features as Dorian, the same inky black hair, but hers is longer, hanging above her shoulders, and highlighted with streaks of silver.

There’s a little nose ring nestled in her right nostril, and tattoos snake up and down her arms. She closes one eye as she looks at me, and despite the fact that I know she’s not checking me out, I blush.

Ash said we have the same body type, but she is gorgeous , with an hourglass figure and strong thighs stretching out from the hem of her athletic shorts. It’s the middle of the night, but somehow her eyes aren’t tired, and her hair doesn’t look a mess.

“Come on,” Ash says, as though I haven’t just been standing here, speechless. “I’ll show you to the guest room.”

There’s something odd about the way she’s talking to me, reserved and slightly friendly, like she’s not sure what she thinks about me. Ash wasn’t there for the incident all those years ago, but I have no doubt that she might blame me, too.

“I—” I start, my voice coming out hoarse, but she holds her hand up, shaking her head and pushing open the door to a room.

“Don’t wanna hear it,” she grunts, in a remarkably similar fashion to Dorian. “Not tonight. I’m way too fucking tired, and I figure Dorian has to know what he’s doing, right? That’s why Gramps chose him for the leadership spot?”

I’m stunned silent—at the easy mention of their grandfather, and the strange way Ash talks about that leadership role. This pack has never had a female leader, and the thought never even occurred to me that it could be her over Dorian.

We’re silent as she sets all the clothes on the bed—sweatpants, T-shirts, one dress, a pair of shorts, a pair of loose pajamas. None of it is my style, but I’m grateful to cover my body, and Ash pointedly looks away while I slip the pajamas on.

The whiplash of the day hits me. It’s the early hours of the morning. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was standing in my kitchen, cooking banana fosters pancakes. Preparing myself for the day, not looking forward to seeing Jarred again, but okay with it. It was my life.

And now—now this is my life. Standing in Dorian’s guest room with his sister, putting on her clothes, having lost everything and been humiliated in front of everyone.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, gesturing to the clothes, eyes on the floor. It’s natural for me to cast my eyes down when talking to an alpha. I realize, with a start, that earlier I was looking Dorian right in the eye, repeatedly, without even thinking about it.

“Sure,” Ash says, and I can feel her gaze on me, sweeping up and down my body. “Listen, I have no idea what’s going on here, but … I know things haven’t been easy for you. I trust my brother not to be a shit, but in case he is…” She crosses the room, scribbles something down on the paper, and thrusts it in my direction. “My number. Call me if you need to.”

My throat grows, and I stare at the chicken scratch writing on the paper under my nose. How is this possible? I left this pack because I was so unwelcome, so uncomfortable among them, and now here’s the granddaughter of the man they say I killed, telling me to call her if I need anything.

“Kira,” Ash says, her voice low. “You were just a kid. I get that, now. Seriously. Call me.”

With that, she turns and walks out of the room. It takes me several moments before I remember myself, cross the floor, and press the lock into place, hands shaking and mind swimming with confusion over what the hell is going on.

***

When I wake up, it’s to the golden light of afternoon sun streaming in through the windows, catching dust that floats lazily through the air. I blink against the light, stirring in the bed, confused about where I am, until I hear the noise that must have woken me up in the first place.

“Kira,” Dorian’s voice comes through the door, and my eyes dart to the alarm clock on the nightstand in front of me. It’s four in the afternoon— four in the afternoon. How long did I sleep?

His voice comes through, something like worry tinging the edges of it. “Kira, come down and eat something. I know you’re awake in there—I can hear you moving.”

I get to my feet, my legs wobbly, and realize I’m thirsty more than anything. After a moment, I manage to croak, “Coming. Just give me a second in the bathroom.”

He lingers for a moment, the wood in the hallway creaking under his feet, then I hear him turn and walk away. I wait a few minutes before unlocking and slowly opening the door, my heart thudding in my chest as I look left and right, like I’m crossing a freeway, before darting into the bathroom across the hall.

I’ve been in Dorian’s custody for nearly a full day now, and I still have no more answers about why he bought me at that auction. At first, I thought it would be for some vicious retribution, some continuation of how he treated me when we were kids.

But last night, Ash was so nice to me. She wouldn’t be nice to me if I was purchased for some nefarious reason, right?

In the bathroom, I find a toothbrush still in the package, along with a grocery sack stretched to the max with various bottles. I pull them out one by one, my incredulity growing with each. A shampoo for curls, for dry hair, for dandruff. Four different body washes, one unscented. Razors, face wash, face cream, lotion—it’s like someone walked into a CVS and picked products at random.

Popping the toothbrush out of the package, I add toothpaste and scrub. When my mouth is clean, I wash under my arms and generally freshen up before choosing the spray deodorant and liberally applying it.

It’s silly, but for some reason, I want to look nice. No matter how much I chastise myself in the mirror, I’m still braiding my hair over one shoulder, sniffing myself to make sure I smell good.

Back in the guest room, I pull on a pair of jeans that hug my curves so thoroughly you’d think they were built right onto my body. One of Ash’s cropped, boxy band tees hangs from my shoulder, and I realize that though this isn’t my personal style, she was right—we have the same body type, and her clothes fit me like a glove.

When I finally walk down into the dining room, Dorian is sitting at the head of the table, his fingers laced together, gaze unfocused. With a start, eyes locking on the serving dish and two plates set at the table, I realize he’s waiting for me.

Something strange filters through my chest, and I move slowly into the room, taking shallow breaths. His head snaps up to me, his pupils dilating wide before normalizing. He clears his throat and pulls the lid from the microwaveable container in front of me.

The smell hits me at once—it’s chili from the can.

If this was a different situation, I’d laugh. Of course, a single guy, living in a house this big, with a beautiful dining room, would eat something as pitiful as canned chili for dinner.

But it’s not a different situation, and all this does is remind me of all the fresh produce in my fridge at home. No, not home. My old house, with my little herb garden and the light twinkling in through the windows, dancing through the crystals I hung from the curtains. The grief and loss hit me all at once, and nausea rises in my throat as I stare at the canned chili, watching Dorian spoon it into the bowl for me.

“Crackers?” he asks, and I shake my head numbly.

He clears his throat again, takes a bite, then glances over at me. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

I blink at the chili, afraid that if I open my mouth, I might not be able to say anything. Dorian shifts in his chair, takes a deep breath like he’s trying to control himself, and says, “Kira, you need to eat.”

“I—” Pressing my lips together, I frown at the bowl, the beans and tiny, sand-like chunks of beef. I could make a real chili—pick the peppers myself, dry them, and powder them like I did at home. Rehydrate the beans instead of adding them from a can, maybe do a mix of beef and bison for better texture. I’d cook it lovingly, all day long, and serve it with warm cornbread, drizzled with honey.

“You haven’t had anything all day.” When I look up, Dorian is gripping his fork in his hand, the knuckles turning white. “Are you trying to starve yourself?”

Without thinking, I’m standing from my chair, heart thudding, little spots crowding my vision. Memories from high school—him and his friends, commenting on my body, on my weight. Emin is either joining in or standing by and doing nothing about it.

My own mother, serving me at dinner, sliding me a tiny portion compared to everyone else.

“You got your father’s build,” she’d tutted, not caring that he had a beer belly and was asking for seconds. With a little shrug, she acted like nothing could be done. “So we need to cut back on your calories.”

“Kira—” Dorian is standing, something like fury and urgency suspended on his face. “Sit down. We need to talk—”

He takes a step toward me and I shake my head, stepping back so quickly I nearly trip over myself. “ Don’t touch me,” I hiss, which seems to stop him in his tracks, his mouth dropping open, like that reality was never on the table.

Of course it’s not—he rejected me. He’s never going to touch me.

My body is swirling with so many emotions, not helped at all by the confusing, tugging onset of heat deep in my core, so I do the one thing I actually know how to do. I turn, moving quickly, racing up the steps until I’m back in the guest room.

When the door shuts behind me, I reach back and lock it.

I have no idea what Dorian actually wants with me, or what’s going on here. But I do know one thing—I need to get the fuck out of this town.