Outside The Pack

3

“By the way, Mom, how are the new peppers doing?”

“Really well, actually. I want you to look at them when you have the chance.”

I grinned. Though Mom knew just about all there was to know about gardening, she often asked me for a second opinion because of my “natural affinity for the soil,” as she liked to call it. The only parts of my life that weren’t exceedingly difficult were those I shared with her. Especially gardening.

The best part about the community garden was feeling fresh, cool dirt on my hands and talking to my mom. Peppers were a new addition to the garden, and I felt exceedingly pleased that they were thriving. Gardening came so easily to me—it was the only thing I was any good at.

The dining hall was constructed entirely from wide pinewood planks. The floors, walls, ceiling, tables, and benches were all pine. The whole building already smelled savory and sweet. Mom and I stamped our feet on the rug by the door. With the morning dew off our boots, we walked toward the back of the dining hall to the kitchen.

We exchanged brief pleasantries with those already in the kitchen—familiar faces from other houses who shared the kitchen duty with us that morning. I glanced at Mom. The others might have stayed quiet around me because of my low status, but Mom’s presence encouraged the others to be nice to me. Her status as one of the oldest members of the pack, and as someone who helped those who were sick without expecting anything in return, inspired respect throughout the pack and even adoration in some. Of course, that deference didn’t extend to me.

Breakfast—oatmeal, bacon, scrambled eggs, and wild berry jam—had already been cooked, so Mom and I took our spots among the others where plates and bowls were stacked. We just needed to plate the breakfast. I enjoyed cooking and even liked washing dishes—something about being surrounded by food or burying my hands in warm, soapy water relaxed me—but I didn’t so much enjoy being visible like this. Serving breakfast was fine but feeling the constant need to duck my head and avoid eye contact with the pack was stressful.

As everyone began working, murmured conversation started up around us. Though we didn’t join in, the chatter added some intrigue to what would otherwise be a monotonous task. I caught murmurings of, “Such a shame about Gregor—” “—will other packs try to move in on us while he’s sick?” “How many of us would even miss that old—” and “—at least when he finally kicks the bucket, the funeral will get me out of laundry duty.” The latter two comments were met with harsh shushing. No one wanted to speak out of turn too loudly, or they would face the wrath of Troy or one of his goons.

Despite the mixed responses to the news of the Alpha’s declining health, the general mood in the mess hall was somber and quiet. I zoned out as the conversation continued, losing myself in the mindless motions of filling bowls with oatmeal. Occasionally, a pup I knew would skip up to me and smile as I gave them food. It didn’t matter how poorly the other wolves treated me or how exhausted I was, there was always a smile where pups were concerned.

But when there weren’t children around to brighten my day a little, I allowed myself to zone out. As the dining hall faded to the background, I started thinking about the pack.

The Kings were a large, wealthy pack whose territory ran from the borders of the Kaniksu and Kootenai National Forests in Montana as low as Sandpoint and moved west across the Idaho panhandle and Kootenai River. The territory ended right along the border with Washington. The Kings had over five hundred homes and families and powered their compound with solar-powered electricity. They were one of the lucky packs with plumbing and clean running water at their disposal.

Every family rotated through shared tasks for the pack—cleaning, cooking, preparing for ceremonies, and maintenance. Some members had a specialty they contributed to regularly, like healing, teaching, or hunting. Due to this dynamic, wolves operated as a family—everyone looked out for each other. Though the women in the pack weren’t allowed to take up positions that men held and were raised to prioritize their beauty so they could settle down with a mate. I hated the way the pack treated women like objects and prizes to be won and lusted after.

For me, as both a woman and a human in the pack, it was tough. It made me wonder how different my life would be if I were a human man. Would they respect me for my strength? My deeper voice? Would they let me hold a weapon or send me on dangerous missions? Maybe they would have killed me earlier. I don’t know. That line of thinking never went down a good path.

As things were, at least I had Mom on my side. She loved me and did everything she could to make me feel comfortable, but there was only so much she could do. After serving the oatmeal, I picked up the empty stockpot and carried it into the kitchen.

There were bits of oatmeal stuck to the sides and the bottom, so it would need a good soak in hot water if the leftovers were going to be scrubbed off. As I approached the sink, I almost collided with a woman carrying a bundle of fabric napkins, nearly knocking me off balance. The heavy, stainless steel pot teetered in my arms as I swayed on my feet. Shifters rarely minded their strength around me.

“Watch it,” she hissed. Given her glare, one might assume that she was the one who had almost fallen over from the impact, not I.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I murmured.