Wren
In the dream, I was back at the Harvest Run.
Dreams lie with the truth. That's their trick. It was all exactly right, the bonfires, the drums, the smell of cider and crushed grass, me at nineteen in the blue dress I'd saved three months for, standing in the circle of firelight while the pack watched the newly bonded pairs be announced. Kellan's hand in mine. My name and his, spoken together by the old Beta, and the cheering, and my heart so full it hurt to carry.
Except in the dream, when I turned to him, Kellan was already laughing.
Not at a joke. At me. And the pack was laughing with him, the whole circle, faces I'd known all my life, all of it curdling at once the way milk turns, and Kellan raised our joined hands like a trophy and said, in that easy voice, to everyone:
"Did y
