Chased by My Grumpy Alpha

3

I was born with a latent wolf. Shifters like me are typically killed at birth, but my mother was the previous alpha’s daughter, so I was spared.

I don’t remember much of my childhood, but I recall my mother’s warm hands cupping my face and telling me to hold on, that everything good will come my way eventually. I don’t know when that warmth disappeared or when she died. One day, she simply wasn’t there anymore, and I was expected to look after myself.

Finally reaching the very end of the settlement, I open the gate of the small, faded cottage next to the woods. A small cat is napping by the front door, and she stretches when she sees me.

Luna.

She showed up when I was young. She was a kitten herself. And she has been here all these years.

I unlock the door with a groan. “Sorry, Luna. Let me deal with this first.”

After hobbling into the kitchen, I pour some water in a basin and carry it to the small living room, along with a clean rag.

I settle onto the worn couch, wincing as I prop up my injured leg on the coffee table. The basin of water sloshes slightly as I set it down. Luna jumps up beside me, her amber eyes studying my wound with the kind of concern I never get from my own pack.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I murmur to her, dipping the rag into the water. “I know it’s bad.”

The cold pressure against my torn flesh makes me hiss through my teeth. Blood has dried in crusty streaks down my calf, and fresh crimson still seeps from the deepest gouges. I work methodically, wiping away the dirt and blood, my hands surprisingly steady despite the pain.

Once the wound is clean, I uncork the pathetic healing tonic Healer Morrigan gave me. The cloudy liquid looks more like muddy water than medicine. I pour it directly onto the gashes, hoping against hope that maybe it will work better than it looks.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. The bleeding continues, and the pain hasn’t lessened even slightly. If anything, the wound looks angrier than before, the edges red and inflamed.

“Useless,” I mutter, tossing the empty vial aside.

Luna meows in what sounds like agreement.

I lean back against the couch cushions, fatigue weighing heavily on my shoulders. But I can’t just sit here and bleed. Not when I have another option.

Standing carefully, I shuffle toward my back door, the cat following at my heels. Behind the cottage, hidden from the settlement’s view, lies my secret garden. Rows of carefully tended herbs grow in neat lines, each one planted and nurtured by my own hands. Moonbell, silverleaf, crimson sage, and dozens of others that most pack members can’t even name.

I’ve kept them carefully concealed behind large shrubs even though no one ever comes here. This is my own personal collection in the event I ever need it. These herbs are not easy to grow out here; in fact, they are supposed to be impossible to grow out here. But my mother had a green thumb, and so do I. And the one thing she always told me was not to let anyone know what I’m capable of.

I kneel down, swallowing a pained cry as I do. Beside me is a patch of emerald-leafed plants, their surfaces slightly fuzzy to the touch. Healing moss—one of the most potent natural remedies for wounds, but also one of the most dangerous if prepared incorrectly. My fingers work quickly, selecting only the youngest leaves, the ones with the brightest green color.

Even I can’t grow very many of these, so the ones I do manage are for just in case I get hurt.

Back in my kitchen, I grind the leaves with a mortar and pestle that belonged to my mother. The stone is worn smooth from years of use, and sometimes I imagine I can still feel the warmth of her hands on it. I add a few drops of water and a pinch of dried moonbell petals, creating a thick, verdant paste that fills the kitchen with a pungent, medicinal scent.

My mother’s journal sits on the kitchen counter, its leather binding cracked and its pages yellowed with age. I flip to the section on wound healing, running my finger along her careful handwriting.

I’ve read this page a hundred times, but I still check the proportions carefully. Before her death, my mother was the most skilled healer the Silver Stone Pack had ever seen. Her knowledge lives on in this journal, and through countless hours of experimentation, I’ve learned to replicate her remedies.

The paste goes on cool and soothing, immediately numbing the worst of my pain. I can feel the herbs providing a protective coating on my wounds. They’re not as fast as proper healing magic, but they are infinitely better than Healer Morrigan’s useless tonic.

I’m just finishing wrapping my leg with clean bandages when there’s a knock on my front door. Luna’s ears perk up, and she bounds toward the sound.

I hesitate for a moment before limping over to the door. I open it to reveal the young healer who entered Healer Morrigan’s office with the bandage earlier. We stare at each other for a moment before she makes an impatient sound. “Well, are you letting me in or not?”

“How did you get away so quickly?” I return to the couch as Selene closes the door behind her. Her green healer’s robes have been traded for simple, brown, traveling clothes. Her auburn hair now falls loose around her shoulders instead of being pinned back in the regulation style, and worry creases her young face.

“I slipped away as soon as I could. I’ve been worried sick since you left the healing center.” Her eyes immediately drop to my bandaged leg, and her nose wrinkles. “What is that smell?”

“Healing paste,” I say, settling back on the couch.

Selene’s eyes sharpen, and she kneels beside me, her expression transforming into a mixture of anger and disapproval. “Astra, this smells like healing moss and moonbell. Don’t tell me you’re experimenting on yourself again! I told you, it’s dangerous. You can’t keep coming up with different potions and—”

“I didn’t ingest anything.” I close my eyes and tilt my head back. “But that tonic Morrigan gave me was useless.”

“You knew I was going to come,” Selene argues with me, inspecting my leg. “Couldn’t you be patient for once?”

Before I can respond, her hands start to glow with a soft, silver light. She presses her palms against my leg, on top of the bandage, and warmth spreads through the injury. The pain recedes further, and I can feel the magic encouraging my body’s natural healing processes.

But after only one minute, Selene’s magic flickers and dies. She slumps forward, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “I can only do so much. My healing magic is still weak.”

“You did plenty,” I assure her, testing my leg by straightening and bending it. It’s still tender, but the worst of the damage has been repaired. “Thank you.”

“You need to stop messing around with dangerous herbs,” she says, her voice stern but worried. “What if you’d measured wrong? What if—”

Another knock interrupts her lecture, this one more confident and rhythmic. Luna meows and runs to the door again.