Rescued by the Blackridge Alpha

The first time I saw Caden Ashford that morning, he was kissing another woman. Not that there was anything unusual about it. Rosalie Wynn had been attached to his side for as long as I could remember, and nobody in Silvercrest questioned whether she would eventually become his Luna. She was beautiful, came from one of the strongest bloodlines in the pack and had spent most of her life preparing for the position. If the Moon Goddess had any sense of practicality, she would make them mates and save everyone the trouble of pretending there was another possible outcome. I shifted the three wooden crates in my arms and continued across the courtyard. Preparations for the Founding Ceremony had started before sunrise. Silver ribbons hung between the trees, long tables had been dragged from storage and arranged around the fire pits, and several warriors were attempting to hang lanterns from the lower branches of an oak. One stood on another's shoulders while a third shouted instructions from below. Nobody seemed particularly successful. Caden and Rosalie stood near the packhouse steps. His hand rested against the small of her back now, the kiss already over. They were talking to one of the council members. Caden had returned to Silvercrest late last night after spending nearly four months training with one of our allied packs. It was of no surprise to me that Rosalie was seemingly glued to his side. I looked away before either of them noticed me staring. Not because I cared who Caden kissed. He could kiss every unmated woman in Silvercrest for all I cared. Staring at the future Alpha simply wasn't a particularly clever pastime for an Omega. Especially one carrying his wine. I adjusted the top crate and headed toward the main entrance. “Maren.” I stopped. Derek stood at the top of the stairs. His gaze moved from my face to the crates and then toward the doors behind him. “The kitchen entrance is around the other side,” he said. “I know.” “Then why are you using this one?” Because the kitchen entrance required walking around the entire packhouse. Because these crates had come from the eastern storehouse. Because I had already made four trips up the hill and could no longer feel three of my fingers. I glanced at the open doors behind him. “It seemed shorter.” His expression didn't change. “It isn't the entrance for Omegas.” Of course it wasn't. Nia stirred beneath my skin. Bite him. I tightened my grip on the lowest crate. We aren't biting anyone. I felt her amusement. Just a little. “No harm done,” I said. “I'll go around.” Derek nodded and stepped aside. Not to let me through. Just far enough to make it clear the conversation was over. I turned away before Nia could offer another suggestion. The path around the packhouse had turned to mud after last night's rain. Water still dripped from the trees, and my shoes sank into the soft ground with every step. Nia growled quietly in my head. “He's not worth it,” I muttered. I wasn't going to kill him. How reassuring. Maybe I'd just murder his shoe. A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. The kitchen door stood open, and I shouldered my way inside. Heat wrapped around me almost immediately. After the damp chill outside, it was enough to make my cheeks sting. The ovens had been burning since dawn, filling the kitchen with the smell of fresh bread, rosemary and the venison Cook had been roasting for tonight. Half a dozen people moved between the counters. Lottie stood near the ovens with flour up to her elbows, while two younger Omegas were peeling what looked like enough potatoes to feed Silvercrest through winter. Cook occupied her usual place in the middle of it all. She looked up as soon as I entered. “There you are,” she said. I nudged the door shut with my heel. “I've been gone fifteen minutes.” “Twenty-seven,” she corrected, without so much as glancing at the clock. I stared at her over the crates. “You counted?” “I always count when I send you somewhere.” She pointed toward the long wooden table. “Put them there before you drop them.” I wasn't sure whether to be touched or offended. Knowing Cook, concern probably had little to do with it. She was far more likely to mourn three crates of food than one bruised Omega. “Nice to know where I stand,” I muttered. “You know exactly where you stand. Now put them down.” I did, mostly because my arms had started trembling several minutes ago. The crates landed on the table with a heavier thud than intended, and relief rushed through my shoulders. I flexed my fingers until feeling slowly returned to them. Cook opened the first crate and inspected the apples inside. The second held wine, the third several rounds of cheese from one of the farms near our eastern border. “Good,” she said, apparently satisfied. “Help Lottie with the bread when you've caught your breath.” “I'm perfectly fine.” “Your hands are shaking.” I immediately stopped flexing them. Cook gave me the sort of look that suggested I'd fooled absolutely no one, then turned back to the crates. While her attention was elsewhere, I reached for an apple. Her hand slapped mine away before I touched it. “Those are for tonight,” she said. “So am I.” Cook went still. I should have kept my mouth shut. Slowly, she turned to face me. “Exactly.” Something in her expression made me suspicious. “What does that mean?” “It means you're attending the ceremony tonight.” “I'm working tonight,” I corrected her. “No, you're not.” Cook lifted another bottle from the crate and checked its label. “Lottie and Anne can manage without you for one evening.” I glanced toward Lottie. She had apparently developed an intense fascination with her bread dough and refused to look at me. Traitor. “You need me here,” I said. “I need you to stop volunteering for every task that keeps you in this kitchen whenever Silvercrest holds a gathering.” That caught me. “I'm not hiding.” Cook finally looked at me. “I didn't say you were.” Damn. She had known me since I was small enough to sit beneath this very table while she worked. Lying to her had never been particularly successful. I liked the kitchens. There was nothing wrong with that. I knew what was expected of me here. I knew where everything belonged and what needed doing before Cook even asked. More importantly, nobody cared whether an Omega was charming enough for company while she was carrying sacks of flour. “You're twenty-three, Maren,” Cook said eventually. I groaned. “Please don't.” Nia, who had shown remarkably little interest in our conversation until then, immediately raised her head inside me. Of course she did. Cook continued unpacking the wine, apparently deciding that the conversation required no further discussion. She lifted each bottle from the crate, checked the label and placed it in a neat row on the counter. “All unmated wolves attend the Founding Ceremony.” “I attended last year.” She glanced at me over her shoulder. “You served wine last year.” “Which required my physical presence.” “And conveniently kept you busy all evening.” She turned back to the crate. “You volunteered because carrying a tray meant nobody expected you to talk to them.” I picked at a streak of dried dough on my sleeve. “That's a rather uncharitable interpretation.” “It’s also true.” I opened my mouth to argue, but Cook was already reaching for another bottle. “You spent half the evening hiding behind that serving tray.” “I wasn't hiding.” I folded my arms. “It was a very large tray.” The corner of her mouth twitched. She tried to hide it by inspecting the bottle in her hand, but I'd known her too long to miss it. “You can make jokes all you like, Maren. You're still going tonight.” I sighed and leaned my hip against the table. Around us, the kitchen continued as if my evening wasn't being decided for me. Knives struck cutting boards. Someone opened an oven, releasing another wave of heat. Lottie kept her head down, although I was fairly certain she was listening to every word. “I don't see why it matters.” Cook set the bottle down. For once, she didn't immediately answer. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and looked at me properly. “Because you're not going to meet your mate in my kitchen.” “Maybe he's very fond of potatoes.” That earned me a laugh. A real one this time, brief and warm. Cook shook her head before reaching for the last bottle. “You know what I mean. Nia wasn't mature last year.” She placed the bottle beside the others. “This is your first Founding Ceremony where finding him is even possible.” Something tightened low in my stomach. Nia stirred at the mention of a mate. I ignored her. Cook didn't. Her eyes lingered on me for another moment before she returned to the crate. “You're going, Maren.” I suppressed a sigh. As if I needed reminding. Every unmated wolf over twenty was expected to attend. The ceremony wasn't officially about finding mates, but nobody pretended the gathering beneath a full moon wasn't useful. Wolves came closer to the surface during the ritual. Scents sharpened. Bonds became easier to recognize. Last year, Nia hadn't been ready. This year, apparently, Cook intended to make up for lost time. “Wear the green dress.” My smile disappeared. “Absolutely not.” “The green dress, Maren.” “It makes my breasts look enormous.” Cook glanced down at my chest, then back at me. “I fail to see the problem.” I stared at her. She returned her attention to the cheese as if the matter had been settled. It probably had. Cook had been ordering people around for longer than I had been alive, and arguing with her usually ended with me doing exactly what she wanted, only ten minutes later and considerably more annoyed. Nia, on the other hand, seemed delighted by the entire conversation. Green is pretty on me. I scowled. You don’t wear clothes. I took the basket of dough Cook had pushed toward me and carried it to the other side of the kitchen. Lottie was already there, elbow-deep in flour. She raised her eyebrows when she saw my expression. “What happened?” “Apparently I’m attending tonight.” Her face brightened. “Finally.” “I liked you better before you spoke.” Lottie laughed and shoved a lump of dough toward me. “Wear the green dress.” I looked at her. She stopped laughing. "Cook already told you, didn’t she?” “Twice.” “Then definitely wear the green dress.” At moonrise, the Moon Calling would begin. Was there any way for me to spare myself of the embarrassment? I pressed both hands into the dough harder than necessary. Maybe the ceremony would be cancelled. A storm could roll in. A fire could start. Alpha Garrick could suddenly decide that one hundred and forty-three years of Silvercrest tradition had been quite enough. I looked toward the clear blue sky beyond the kitchen window. Unlikely.