Broken Mate, Unbroken Bond

It’s kind of a misnomer, the whole “alpha” thing, did you know that? While the dominant male in the pack has a very important role, he shares power with the chosen female. It’s an alpha pair. They’re a team, in charge together. Their job is to ensure that the pack survives and thrives for long enough to secure their future. It’s my job to chronicle the whole thing. I was in Northern Spain, in a sanctuary that specializes in a rescue and release program for the gray wolf. Once upon a time, the gray wolf was prolific throughout mainland Europe and the British Isles. They were hunted to extinction in Britain, and then in Ireland, but some of their number remains across the European continent, particularly in mountainous regions. Up until recently, it was believed that their numbers were steady, neither declining nor rising, but deforestation and human encroachment had begun to drive them back down from the mountains and hilltops, away from the dwindling woodlands and back toward the human towns. This, as you can imagine, has become a problem. They’re misunderstood, these wolves. They’re these fierce, wild icons that people fear. People fear things they can’t control or completely understand. We all do, it’s human nature. With my research and my observations of this special pack I was hoping to change attitudes. Even just a little would be a start. And so there I was, in Parque de los Lobos de Cataluna, about two hours northwest of Girona, putting that Zoology PhD to good use. I got there about five months ago, and aside from the compulsion to check in on my aunt on a semi-regular basis, I wasn’t missing home much at all. Ireland is in my blood, it’s a part of me for sure, but it also rains a lot, the rent is astronomical and there’s not much by way of employment opportunities for someone with a very narrow speciality. My speciality: canidae, or more specifically, canis lupus. It had never really been much of a question. I’d always been fascinated by them. I’d gone through phases of obsession with painted dogs, hunting dogs, foxes, jackals, even coyotes - the whole bloody zoo. But there’s just something about the wolf. I watch the way they move, the subtlety with which they communicate. I look into their eyes and I can see the history. They’re ancient; filled with secrets and a magic that seems so quiet on the surface, but you disturb that glassy cover and you can reveal a tempest beneath. Unbridled power and strength of instinct. The will to live. The Park was a huge, sprawling swathe of land that could have fit my local zoo from back home inside it three times over. But there wasn’t anywhere near the same number of staff, so it was fairly wild and unkept. It provided an amazing habitat for the Cataluna Pack, as I’d called them, and they had miles and miles of space to roam. Wolves can and will cover immense distances every day, so it’s important that even those in captive sanctuaries have the same opportunity to run and hunt. Until the pack is ready to be re-released back into the wild, they'll recover and rebuild bonds with each other there with us, under our care. The July sun was setting behind the Pyrenees, and the wolves were just coming alive. It’s the best time to watch them, and I looked longingly through my binoculars as Stumpy, the female, began her evening rounds just outside the den she’d built in the far northern corner of their territory. Unfortunately, I did have one or two other duties that did not include sitting around on my arse, watching and dictating the odd note into my phone. Plus it was a Friday, so that meant I’d be expected to help out in the bar. The idea of a cool beer was a small consolation, I thought to myself as I began packing my things into my worn, lucky backpack.  Hoisting the bag over my shoulder and with one last, longing look back toward Stumpy, I turned my face toward the waning sun and began the walk back toward the direction of the visitor’s center. It took me some time to get used to the heat there, particularly when the summer kicked in with all its glory. But I’d even managed to get a bit of a tan, despite my very typically pale, Irish complexion. I was covered in dustings of freckles and my auburn hair had picked up a few natural highlights from all of my time spent outside. I still looked quintessentially Celtic, of course. There was no escaping my heritage, not even after five months of hikes and outdoor dining. The temperature would remain high even after the sun disappeared behind the mountains, so I didn’t bother slipping into my cabin to get changed - my khaki shorts and off-white vest top would do for the evening. As I walked by the guest cabins I attempted to tame the unruly waves of hair into a high ponytail, and managed to wrestle it into some semblance of neatness (well, I hope so, without a mirror it was hard to tell) just in time for me to spare a wave for the young family in B. There are camping spots on the grounds of the sanctuary, as well as family-sized cabins, and this is mostly how the park makes its money. Since I arrived, I’d started doing sunrise tours, which were proving massively popular. It gave visitors a behind the scenes look at what goes into running a park like that, along with lots of personal stories and anecdotes about the animals. The second biggest earner though, was the bar. It was rustic - that’s how you’d put it diplomatically. It’s actually just next to the sanctuary, not strictly within the grounds, and most of the regular clientele are from the small town about half a mile down the road. It’s got a satellite TV to play all the most important matches, a pool table, a dart board, and a stocked bar but only one bathroom, which gets shared between everyone, staff and customers, men and women alike. Priorities, people.  I called out a greeting to Juan, who must have been in the back somewhere, closing up the tiny kitchen, tossed my backpack into a corner and then leaned over the bar to grab a beer. Above me the ceiling fan was making that same pained, mechanical noise it has been making for the last week. I was waiting for it to finally die, but every evening it proved that it's tougher than it looked. It was spinning at the pace of a funeral dirge, doing very little to keep us cool, but successfully managing to stir up some of the dead, warm air… The feeling was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Every single fine hair on my body suddenly stood on end as a shiver, beginning at my neck, spread in waves to the tips of my fingers, the balls of my feet. My heart hammered in my chest and I could suddenly hear the thump-thump of my pulse above almost every other sound in the room. Heat flushed through me, warming my cheeks, but I froze for a moment before realising that my back was to a threat, and I was in danger. Regaining control of my body, I finished reaching for the cold bottle of beer, straightened up, and then turned to face the seating area of the bar. That’s when I saw him; the source of the threat that had triggered my fight or flight reflex. It was a man. It was a tall, lean, dark and knicker-droppingly sexy man. And he was staring at me. His eyes were a dark blue, even at this distance I could make out the shade, and that cerulean stare captured my own and it refused to let me go. There was a challenge to the expression, but the deepening frown line on his brow suggested confusion, perhaps even anger. I was normally better at reading animals. Truth be told, most people were a bit of a mystery to me. You don’t get much more mysterious than a big, handsome man staring at you like you weren’t just a snack, but an entire meal. He was wearing dark jeans, frayed at the ends, and black leather boots. The t-shirt was gray and simply cut, sleeves rolled up above the biceps, near the shoulders, showing strong, tanned arms. His stance was stiff but eerily still, and I could almost taste the strange energy crackling away from him, shifting the entire atmosphere of the bar. Then that chiseled jaw with the slight dark 5 o’clock shadow clenched, and those blue eyes narrowed and he began moving toward me at a speed I was not expecting. I dropped my beer and stepped backward immediately. It fell to the floor with a heavy clunk, but I couldn’t hear much else above the sound of my own heart and his footsteps. I was suddenly completely attuned to them, and my eyes were darting from here, there, everywhere, taking him in and noting that he had two other companions with him. They stood back, some distance behind him, but their stances were alert, eyes wide and nostrils flared.  The dark stranger was still coming toward me, and his gaze didn’t flicker or falter, unlike mine. I moved backward again, then belatedly realised I’d backed myself back into the bar that I’d just been leaning over. The corner of the mahogany counter pressed into my spine but I kept leaning backwards, as though any space I could make between myself and this angry-looking mountain man would be valuable. “Who are you.” His voice was low, husky. It was also distinctly Irish. Originating in his chest as opposed to his throat, it came out almost like a growl and it scratched at something inside me. Everything within was screaming to answer him, to not keep him waiting. I was supposed to do whatever he asked… Ridiculous. I’d never done anything anyone ever told me and I wasn’t about to start now just because a pushy bloke with no sense of personal boundaries started barking at me. When I didn’t answer, his expression darkened. He was right in front of me, within touching distance, and it looked for a moment that that was exactly what he was going to do. His gaze was roving hungrily across my face, meeting my eyes, then looking at my hair, my mouth, neck. It rested there for a longer moment, and he parted his full, down-turned lips to speak again. “Ash? What is going on here?” The tall dark stranger was interrupted by Juan, who had emerged from the kitchen and was standing next to the open door, confused and waiting. “Estas bien?” I felt like I couldn’t break the stranger’s stare, but I did angle myself toward the direction of Juan’s voice. Was I okay? I actually had no clue. My colleague was talking again, but this time his words were directed toward the two men, previously still and silent, now advancing on Juan with an unbelievable speed. In the blink of my eye, they were in front of him. One roughly pushed him backward and the Spaniard stumbled into the kitchen. “Hey!” I exclaimed, reacting finally with some force. “Leave him alone!” I was a fool for dropping that bottle of beer. I could have smashed it over this prick’s head. “Your name!” He was all but on top of me now. He was so close I could smell his deodorant, mixed with his sweat from the day’s hot sun, and something else. Something unmistakably earthy. The scent filled up my senses and suddenly it was like this haze descended over me. I gulped, and he closed the distance, demanding with his every movement, every word that my attention return to him and away from Juan, who was still shouting threats from the kitchen. I had no idea why he wanted my name so much. If he was here to rob the place, well, he wouldn’t get much by way of loot, but it seemed kind of counterintuitive to waste so much time trying to get your victim’s name. “What’s your name?” I asked tartly, shocking myself with my own cheek. I couldn’t help it though. Juan was getting the living daylights beaten out of him in the kitchen, or gods knew what because he’d fallen silent, and this meathead thought it was okay to get all up in my space and make demands? Who did he think he was? Incredibly handsome and smelling like a warm campfire, that’s who, but still. He paused, an expression of surprise flickering across his features. He’d been reaching out with both hands, but they had paused too, hanging in the air for a moment. Then he moved again, and before I could react, he’d gripped the bar counter on either side of me. His strong arms effectively trapped me within, his forearms brushed against my hips.  “Dominic Conchobar Mac Nessa.” Damn. Bit of a mouthful. “Traditionalist parents, huh?” I asked, before nervously wetting my dry lips, my tongue darting out to swipe. His eyes followed the movement, but aside from that, he was completely unreadable. “Very,” he rumbled, and he inched forward even further. The closer he came, the quicker my temperature rose. I could feel the heat rolling off him and on to me; it was like a weight, pressing. “The same as yours, I’m guessing.” His choice of words broke the spell somewhat. My eyes re-focused, my gaze sharpened as they stopped their journey along that strong jaw and expressive mouth, and shot upward to meet his stare. “I wouldn’t know.” Dominic Conchobar Mac Nessa blinked, then leaned back. I got the distinct impression that this man wasn’t often surprised. I took the opportunity to make my move. It was ill-advised, but how could I not try? I loosed a kick to his shin, and then using the momentary surprise to my advantage, pushed him with all of my upper body strength. He did not budge. It was insulting, to be honest. I was no weak, flailing damsel, I had some skill and had always been able to mount a reasonable defense of myself, but this man was a rock. A hot rock. He withdrew his arms from either side of me and I felt a rush of cold air where the heat used to be, but he did not move backward. Instead he grabbed my hands, which had been resting on his chest from the push attempt, and moved them behind my back. One of his hands encircled both of my wrists at first, but my refusal to stop struggling soon meant he had to add his free hand to the hold in order to keep me there. There was the flicker of surprise on his face again. He had me pinned; my hands behind my back, my back arched and chest pressed into his. “Tell me your name… Please.” The voice had changed. It was filled with warm promise - it cajoled, it seduced. Gone was the whip-crack of order, replaced by something so pleasant and appealing that I just wanted more.  I could feel my cheeks aflame. The heat traveled downward, past my neck, chest and directly for my core. My n*****s hardened beneath my top, my body responding with force to his nearness. He pushed me back into the bar again, his hips bumping up against mine. A deep, guttural noise came from within his chest, and he bent down, the tip of his nose almost touching my neck, moving along my jaw, to a spot behind my ear as he breathed me in. “Please.” His hot breath coaxed my skin into a ripple of gooseflesh.  I extended my neck for him, inviting him, wanting him to touch, to explore… What is happening. Push the brakes. Stop. A sharp intake of breath and my eyes were open. “Let my friend go. Let Juan go and I’ll tell you whatever you want.” I gulped, swallowing against a lump in my throat. There was something within me responding to him with ferocious strength, but I did not want to let that something out. It did not have dominion here - I did. “I am sorry.”  He let me go and stepped away, all the anger from before no longer evident in his face or his gait. His hands were gone from my wrists. There was still an edge to his voice, but it no longer spelled danger to me. His face went slack for a moment, and then his two buddies emerged from the kitchen. “Has he been harmed?”  The men stepped back inside the bar without Juan. My chest still rising and falling as though I’d just run a marathon, I took a step closer to the kitchen to peer inside. One of the men was glaring at me, and he sneered. “He’s taking a nap.”  I locked eyes with him and glared. After a few seconds, he had the good grace to look away. Then, the imminent danger that these people presented all but forgotten, I stomped into the kitchen to check on the bar’s manager. The anger within flared once more as I looked at Juan's still body, laid out on the kitchen tile. Behind me, the three men were conversing quietly, rumbling away and speaking in a way I’d never heard before. Had I not been so preoccupied with checking on Juan, I might have noticed the way none of them spoke in full sentences to each other. I did notice, however, that the third one, the quiet one with the olive-skinned, Mediterranean complexion, was watching me from the archway. I leaned down over Juan and noted with some relief that his chest was rising and falling. I reached out to gently press the side of his neck and located his pulse, firm and strong. I had no idea what they’d done to him to knock him out so thoroughly, but he looked relatively unharmed. I checked his head for signs of trauma and found none. But just because my friend wasn’t dead, did not mean that I was okay with what had been done to him, or to me.  I stood, hands on hips, and walked back into the bar. I stared at the third man. Up close I believed he was Hispanic himself, as I passed. Instead of responding with a sneer as the other one had, this one looked almost amused, with the corners of his mouth quirking upward as though he found my staring funny. I narrowed my eyes at him and then returned my attention to the big brute who, moments ago, had been smelling me. Now that I had some distance between us, my brain was reminding me how weird that was. “What did you do to him?” I asked. “He will be fine, I give you my word,” Dominic Mac Nessa said in a deep rumble, his head inclined very slightly toward me. “That means feck all to me, pal.” Oh, I was pissed. It was clear in my tone, in my expression, but I don’t think it quite reached the level of warning that passed across all three of the large men’s faces. Both of Dominic’s flunkies took quick steps toward me. I took a quicker one back, managing to escape their reach with ease.  STOP. The voice was like a hammer to my head. It whipped through my mind, crackling and firing, pulling at me with a strength I had never before experienced in my life. The voice was not mine, the order not from me. It was extra. It came from somewhere else. I knew it came from him. DO NOT TOUCH HER. Both of them stilled immediately. Mr. Sneer looked irritated, and was regarding me in much the same manner as one looks at a cockroach. Mr. Smiles, however, looked curious. He glanced from me, to the man who was obviously his “boss”, or telepathic gang leader, or whatever, his lips pursing thoughtfully. “What is your name?” Dominic had never stopped looking at me. He was asking now, aloud, his lips were moving. Unlike when he’d told his boys to stand down. It was time to comply. “Aislinn O’Connell.” Under normal circumstances I would have said it was nice to meet them and buy a round, but there was nothing normal about this. Dominic looked toward Mr. Sneer, who frowned, and then shook his head. “She’s not on the Registry.” “She does not know what we are.” Mr. Smiles’ voice had the soft, lilting hints of Catalonia to it, confirming my suspicion that he was indeed Spanish himself. He was looking at me with kindness, I thought, his brow softened and pulled upward, his small smile a little sad. “She does not know what she is.”