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She zipped the duffel with a little more force than necessary. “What does he want?” There was no need to define he. Only the Alpha had the authority and resources to send five Hunters to upend her life.
Remy shrugged.
“You’ve got to have some idea.” She pitched her voice as low as possible. The others could probably still hear, but they’d have to be actively listening…which they probably were.
Remy kept his voice just as low. “He wants to talk to you himself.”
“He could have picked up the phone.” She swallowed against the urge to raise her voice. Whisper-shouting was the most unsatisfying form of communication ever. She jabbed a finger toward the living room. “He didn’t have to send a small army as escort.”
“Maybe he was worried about you running away. You do have a history of doing that.”
Lizette felt like she’d been slapped. She lowered her gaze so he wouldn’t see how much his statement hurt.
But Remy was too observant to miss it. He pushed away from the door and pulled her into a hug. His scent washed over her—peppermint and a hint of something clear and sharp that made her think of fresh snow. Wolves were nose-blind to their own scent, but she knew she carried notes of it, too—a legacy from her mother, who’d been born on the Hudson Bay in Quebec. “Liz,” he whispered in her ear, so soft only she could hear. “I’m a dick.” She shook her head, but he hugged her tighter.
“Yes, I am. I’m sorry, and I didn’t mean it that way. I know you don’t like to talk about your foster family.”
“It’s all right.” She struggled against his grip. “Remy. Can’t…breathe.”
He released her and stepped back. “Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression sheepish. “I’m still a hugger.”
She smiled. “It’s okay.”
“I mean it, though. I’m sorry about—”
“I promise it’s okay. And it’s not that I don’t like talking about them…” She groped for an explanation he’d understand. Unlike her, Remy was raised by werewolves—had spent his entire life surrounded by people just like him. “That part of my life feels like it happened to someone else, you know? I can’t really go back and visit, and I don’t think they’d even want me to.”
“Did they a***e you?” His expression darkened. In a heartbeat, he looked ready to tear someone apart limb by limb.
“No! Nothing like that.” She sighed inwardly. For the first time, she realized she’d been wrong to be so tight-lipped about her childhood. Apparently, he and the rest of the pack interpreted her silence to mean she’d been mistreated. The humans who raised her after her parents died had been decent, if somewhat strict. Aside from some uncomfortable ogling from their oldest son, she’d never been abused or neglected.
She leaned around Remy and glanced at the door, choosing not to whisper —the more wolves who heard her story, the better. “I didn’t run away because they were cruel. I mean, being a foster kid isn’t the greatest. They had five kids of their own, and they didn’t have a lot of money. I didn’t realize it until I was older, but they took me in because they needed the money from the state. But they weren’t bad people.” She took a deep breath, grateful to Remy for his willingness to listen without interrupting. “Things were fine until I turned thirteen. I started…changing. Not like the change, although I guess that was part of it. I started to hit puberty, and I got these… urges.” She couldn’t describe it.
“You felt like crawling out of your skin,” he murmured.
Yes. He knew. Of course he knew. “I thought I was going crazy.” She’d wanted to climb the walls. Some nights, she’d woken to the sound of a low, menacing growl only to realize it was coming from her.
At first, she thought it was something every girl experienced—some strange passage from childhood to womanhood. But when she tried talking to her foster mother about it, the woman took her to the family’s minister for a “spiritual cleansing.” A few weeks later Lizette started getting unusual cravings, and her foster father caught her sneaking bites of raw hamburger from the fridge.
And then the other cravings started…
She avoided Remy’s open, earnest gaze. He didn’t need to hear about her foster parents’ frantic phone calls to the church, or the surprise exorcism in the family’s shag-carpeted living room. She settled on an abbreviated version of the truth. “I ran away because I knew I’d never fit in. I thought something was wrong with me, and I didn’t want to be a burden.”
He ducked his head until he caught her gaze. “Nothing is wrong with you. Everyone goes through a weird stage before they make their first Turn. I just can’t believe your parents—your real parents—didn’t tell you the truth about what you are.”
“They might have…eventually. Remember, I was only seven when they died.”
“Seven is old enough to keep our secrets.” He hesitated.
“What is it?”
“They didn’t die at the same time, Lizette. Your dad must have had a month or two—”
“Three weeks.” At least that’s what she’d been told. Her memories were vague. Werewolves mated for life—literally. When one mate died, the other followed. A werewolf who lost a mate might linger for a year, maybe two, but most passed within a few months. The weeks after her mother’s death were fuzzy, but she remembered her father’s hair turning gray overnight. One morning he rinsed Lizette’s cereal bowl in the sink, placed it in the top rack of the dishwasher, and walked out the back door. She never saw him again.
“He should have told you,” Remy insisted.
“They weren’t connected to a pack. Maybe he tried and ran out of time.”
“Maybe.” Remy bumped her shoulder with his. “I’m just sorry it took us so long to find you, Liz. But we’re here now. You’re with your family. Your real family.”
- Writer
