Howl For Me

Chapter One – The Perfect Cage

The kitchen smelled like lemon zest and impending doom. Or maybe that was just the tart shells.

Iris Vale blew a rogue curl out of her eyes, her fingers meticulously crimping the edge of another tiny pastry cup. One, two, three… press. They had to be perfect. Not “pretty good,” not “homemade charming.” Perfect. Her mother’s definition of perfect, which was somewhere between “museum-ready” and “frighteningly precise.”

“A lighter touch, Iris,” her mother’s voice floated from the breakfast nook, smooth as the satin ribbons on last year’s graduation gifts. “You’re framing the curd, not wrestling it into submission.”

“Right. Framing. Not wrestling,” Iris muttered under her breath, her lips barely moving. Out loud, she said, “Yes, Mother.”

She could feel the weight of her mother’s gaze between her shoulder blades. It was the same gaze that had once spotted a single, uncrossed ‘t’ in her third-grade essay from across the room. Iris was convinced her mother had some kind of latent superpower: the ability to detect imperfection through walls.

A low, familiar thrum started up in her bones. It was a faint, restless vibration, like a phone set to silent in her chest. Her wolf. It was always nudging at her, especially during the more soul-crushingly mundane tasks. Ooh, citrus! it seemed to whisper. Sunlight on the floor! Can we lick the spoon? Just once? For chaos?

Iris took a slow, covert breath. She pictured the mental box her therapist had suggested—sleek, white, boring. She mentally shooed the wolf-vibe into it. In you go. No spoon-licking. We have a reputation to uphold.

The wolf-energy grumbled and settled, leaving behind a faint itch under her skin.

Her mother, Selene Vale, materialized beside her, a vision in cashmere and calm judgment. She placed a cool hand on Iris’s shoulder. “Lovely. Consistency is the mark of true discipline.” Her eyes, the same pale green as Iris’s, scanned the battalion of identical tart shells. “Your father is dining with us tonight. The Silverlake merger is concluding. Perhaps you could ask about their import tariffs on European wool? It shows cultivated intellect.”

Iris kept her smile small and polite. Not too many teeth. Teeth could be misconstrued as enthusiasm, or worse, ambition. “Of course. Tariffs. Fascinating.”

Useful before lovable, the old script in her head recited. She was useful. She was making tarts and would later discuss wool economics. That had to count for something.

The back door burst open, hitting the wall with a c***k that made the hanging copper pans shiver.

Her brother, Kieran, filled the doorway, smelling of damp air, expensive oakmoss cologne, and unearned confidence. His eyes—their father’s eyes, all sharp assessment—landed on her.

“The prodigy baker,” he announced, his voice a bass drum in the quiet kitchen. He strode over and plucked a raw tart shell from the sheet, crunching it obnoxiously. “Hmm. Needs more… personality. Just like its maker.”

Iris’s fingers twitched. Her wolf perked up, ears metaphorically pricked. Rude! it yipped. He’s rude and his hair gel is too strong!

“Kieran,” their mother sighed, the sound brimming with mild, obligatory disapproval. “Don’t harass your sister. She’s concentrating.”

“What’s to concentrate on? It’s dough.” He leaned his hip against the counter, invading her space. “So. Little Omega. Excited for your big, pre-ordained future? Heard they’re vetting prospects from the Ridgecrest pack. Hope you like guys who talk about bond yields and their ancestral land rights.”

The word Omega, in his mouth, was never just a designation. It was a tool. A tiny, precise needle.

A spark, hot and sudden, flared behind Iris’s ribs. It wasn’t the slow burn of deep anger, but a quick, fizzy burst of pure annoyance. The wolf pounced on it, tail wagging. Yes! That! That feeling! Tell him his joke is bad and his face is asymmetrical!

The spark hit a wall of instant, icy guilt. Anger is selfish. Annoyance is petty. Be sweeter. Be quieter. Be less.

The conflict made her stomach do a funny, swooping twist. Nausea, her body’s preferred response to forbidden emotion, lapped at her throat.

“I’m sure the Ridgecrest alphas are very… traditional,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. She focused on arranging the next tart shell. “And I’m sure Father will choose wisely.”

“Spoken like a true Vale,” Kieran smirked. He reached out and tugged the end of her braid. It wasn’t playful; it was a check—a test of her composure.

Iris flinched. It was microscopic, but he saw it. His smirk widened. Victory.

Apologize, her conditioning screamed. Smooth it over. Disappear.

“Sorry,” she breathed, though she wasn’t sure what for. Existing, probably.

“You’re always sorry,” he said, losing interest now that he’d gotten his reaction. He swiped another shell and ambled out.

The kitchen air felt thick and too warm. The wolf inside her was pacing, a restless, grumbly shadow. It didn’t like the tightness in her chest, the sour lemon taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with the curd.

“I need a bit of air,” Iris said, not looking at her mother.

“Don’t linger. You’ll catch a chill, and the pastry dough will stiffen.”

Iris escaped to the back patio, the stone cold under her thin house socks. She breathed in the damp, green smell of the garden. Her mother’s garden, where every rose knew its place and every hedge was terrified of growing out of line.

She unclenched her hands, staring at the faint crescent moons her nails had left in her palms. Get it together, Vale. It’s just Kieran. It’s just tarts. It’s just… your entire life.

The wolf nudged her again, this time with a softer, wistful pulse. It sent an image to her mind’s eye: not of snarling or fighting, but of running. Just running, through untamed woods, with no schedule, no expectations, and absolutely zero lemon tarts.

A real smile, small and entirely her own, almost touched her lips. It felt reckless.

From the kitchen window, she knew her mother was watching. The gaze was a gentle, inescapable leash.

But as Iris turned to go back inside, to the dough and the diplomacy and the perfect, gilded cage, she did one tiny, defiant thing. She wiggled her toes in her socks—the silly, polka-dotted ones she’d bought in secret and wore under her sensible clothes.

The wolf sighed, a contented little huff, and settled down.

The cage was still there. But for a second, she hadn’t felt like just a bird inside it. She’d felt like one who, maybe, still remembered what her wings were for.