Offered to the Lion

She woke up before the first rays of the sun. Not out of choice. She did not wake up before the sun because she enjoyed its warmth, or because it beckoned her as it did the wolves who began to stir as soon as the darkness receded and the day broke — restless and wild and halfway into their wolf forms. Rielle woke up because otherwise, her step-mother Celeste would find a new way to torture her into obedience. For just a few seconds, she remained motionless on her cot, lying on her stomach, and staring into the familiar cracked ceiling of her room in the back of the Voss pack-house. Then she moved and pulled her clothes on, putting on her apron while pulling her hair in a simple braid. As she reached for her apron, she touched the gold bracelet on her wrist; it shone in the dull light of the small, grimy, and cold room. This bracelet had belonged to her since as far as she could remember. Her father once told her that her mother put it on when she gave birth to her. It had been the only thing she had managed to do before dying. But he had spoken with malice and resentment, as if he was trying to remind her of everything she had cost him. Rielle's mother was called Sera and she died during childbirth. No one in this household wanted to talk to Rielle about it, even though her death had occurred decades ago. Tucking her gold bracelet away, she went to sweep the kitchen floor. · · · The Voss pack-house was not a house in any conventional sense of the word. It was more like a compound: a multi-story building of stone and timber surrounded by auxiliary buildings, a training ground, guests quarters and extensive grounds which hinted that this family was influential and dominant in this region for generations. This mid-sized pack of wolves numbered sixty shifters, but Damon Voss had married two times into influential packs, and as a result of his politics, the Voss clan wielded much more influence than their number suggested. The kitchen was located in the eastern wing of the house, and by the time Rielle arrived there, Bea — the plump woman who prepared food for the pack — was already busy in front of the stove. Though Bea seldom talked, she kept her silent promises and gave Rielle the best pieces of bread and did not report her arrival times to Celeste. These were important favors. "Floor," Bea said, without looking around. "I know," Rielle replied. Filling the pail, she dropped to her knees and began her work. The kitchen floor was tiled, and every evening these tiles bore tracks of wolves' muddy feet. They returned from runs and hunts very late, tired and dirty, and no one cared to clean up because no one ever needed to do that. Cleaning up was a chore that only Rielle had to do, and she did it systematically, from back walls to the doors. As she brushed, the chill crept from the tiles and into her bones, and Rielle liked this job. Her mind was usually elsewhere. Right now she thought about the forest. On many mornings, when she finished cleaning faster than expected, she slipped through the side door and walked to the stream that flowed along the southeastern border of the property. Twenty minutes of her precious freedom, sometimes fifteen or even ten. She was not supposed to do it — Celeste warned her, softly and poisonously, that Rielle had no right to waste pack's time. But Celeste rarely rose before nine in the morning, and the stream was only ten minutes away, and over twenty-one years of living here, Rielle knew exactly how much she could afford to take without drawing any suspicion. Here, among trees, alone, she felt as if she really lived. She had no idea who she was or who she should be; she had spent her entire life being told that she was inadequate. But in the forest, near the cool waters, her life took on a special meaning that she did not understand. Here she sometimes caught a glimpse of her reflection in the stream and froze — her amber-gold eyes were different from the paler blue-gray eyes that everyone else in the pack had. The golden auburn of her hair was unlike anything in the hair of her family who all had pure silver-blond color. She did not resemble her packmates in the least. Damon Voss was tall and blond, with cold features and imposing physical presence which wolves read as dominance. His platinum and sharp-featured wife was beautiful in her stern elegance and reminded Rielle of the cold season. Mira, his daughter, was nineteen years old and was already attracting attention from several pack wolves who found her worthy of the Alpha's child. Rielle stood apart from the others with her olive skin and different coloring of eyes. And there was something about her that was unnoticeable at first glance — some sort of tranquility which wolves interpreted incorrectly as submissiveness. And she did not contradict them. Submissive was better. By seven, she had completed the floorboards. At nine fifteen, she helped Bea prep breakfast for the thirty-odd permanent residents in the household, served their plates, and cleared them. By half past nine, Celeste descended from her rooms wearing a silk robe. Looking around the kitchen with the look of a woman assessing whether there is a flaw somewhere, Celeste found a flaw in the kitchen: a smudge mark on the window above the sink. "Rielle." "I'll clean it now." "You should have cleaned it earlier." "Yes." Celeste sipped her coffee while Rielle scrubbed the window panes, carefully keeping her breath slow and even and trying not to let herself think about the fact that she had eleven pack wolves willing to do everything she said but that Celeste had chosen to spend the morning staring at her stepdaughter scrubbing the kitchen windows. At eleven, Mira descended from upstairs, wearing the clothes from last night, smelling of pine and another man's cologne. She was eating at the counter and glanced at Rielle twice with the complicated look in her eyes which wasn't really apology and wasn't really remorse. It was something between those two feelings. "Father wishes to speak with you after lunch," Mira told Rielle. "Something about the future." "Okay." Rielle was still for an instant. She added: "He seemed pleased about it, whatever 'it' is." The last time Damon Voss seemed pleased, he had announced his engagement to Celeste. At the age of eleven, Rielle had learned that a pleased smile didn't always include her. When she had cleared the breakfast dishes, she discovered the morning was young enough for her to sneak out. · · · The stream ran cold and pure and smelt of fallen leaves and the damp scent of wet stone. In October, most of the canopy had been stripped away, leaving patches of sky which filtered through in long golden strands — beautiful but fleeting, existing solely in this period between summer's vibrant green and winter's starkness. The usual rock in the stream lay flat and wide, tilted slightly above the water. Rielle took off her shoes and put her feet inside it. Her breath escaped in a soft sound of pleasure at the sharp cold and its clearing effect. There were many reasons why Rielle preferred to take refuge in the forest. The trees didn't care about her; she was just another warm-blooded animal that walked here. They didn't know she had never shifted; they didn't know about how twice in her lifetime and probably many more times when Rielle hadn't noticed, Damon Voss would ask his personal doctor if there was a way to find the source of the anomaly. They didn't know that Celeste referred to her as "the changeling" whenever she thought Rielle wouldn't hear it; they didn't know that the pack wolves had picked that up and used it as joke among themselves. In the forest, she was simply warm-blooded and living, and it was sufficient. She had been watching the path of the water spider across the stream, when she saw it. Whatever she saw was at the tree line, forty feet downstream — barely perceptible in the shadow of two oaks, crouching, large, and the eyes were the wrong color for the forest's wolves. Not gray. Pale amber. They were golden. Rich, full, unambiguously golden. She went perfectly still. Eyes stayed motionless, watching Rielle with intense, focused attention which was not characteristic of wolves she had ever encountered; they were social creatures and constantly checking if they were being watched by the rest of the pack. This presence carried with it the air of certainty and calm — certainty that it didn't need to check anything. That it was the alpha of this particular patch of space and happy in its skin as such. And then, without making a sound, it disappeared. As silent and imperceptible as the presence had been, the absence wasn't less dramatic. Rielle sat by the cold waters of the stream, heart thumping oddly in her chest, not scared, but close enough that it felt frightening. Like something out of a nightmare — but also not exactly like a nightmare. More like…recognition. She had never seen eyes of this color in the forest. Never in all her life. When she returned, she was late. Bea gave her a look. Rielle tied up her apron and didn't explain; the sensation receded slowly, like a fading dream. Except it hadn't really; when the door opened and housekeeper announced the readiness of his master, Rielle entered the study room carrying it: small, peculiar warmth mixed with the chill rising in her chest. Her father stood by the window, looking pleased. Pleased in the most dangerous sort of way. "We need to talk about your future, Rielle," Damon Voss said. "Sit down."