Where I Belong
845 Words
The desert stretched wide and endless under the bleeding sunset.
Scrub brush and jagged rocks broke up the red dust, cactus spines casting long, spindly shadows across the cracked earth.
I walked home alone, the dirt road crunching under my boots, the training ring long behind me.
The pack’s houses were scattered across the valley, each one built low and sturdy against the brutal summer storms — thick adobe walls, flat roofs, wood-beamed porches.
Practical. Solid. Unmoving, even when everything else felt like it was shifting under my feet.
The Wild house sat at the end of the lane, tucked behind a stand of saguaros and mesquite trees.
Home.
Even if sometimes it didn’t feel like it.
The screen door creaked when I pushed it open, the smell of roasting meat and sage hitting me like a punch.
Warm. Comforting.
My mom was at the stove, stirring something that smelled suspiciously like her famous green chile stew.
She turned when she heard me, a bright smile lighting up her face.
“Hey, baby,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “How was training?”
“Same as always,” I muttered, dropping my jacket on the hook by the door.
She crossed the kitchen in two quick steps, her bare feet slapping lightly against the tile, and pulled me into a hug.
Even after all these years, it still surprised me — how young they looked.
Neither of them looked a day over thirty.
Strong bodies, clear skin, eyes still sharp with life.
Werewolves aged slow.
Slower than humans ever realized.
Slower than I ever would.
Dad came in from the backyard, wiping grease from his hands, the faint smell of motor oil clinging to him. His dark hair was messy from whatever he’d been fixing, his t-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest.
“Hey, champ,” he said with a wink, tossing me an apple from the counter. “Still handing out bruises?”
“Taking more than I’m giving lately,” I said, catching the fruit without looking.
“Good. Builds character,” he said, ruffling my hair the way he always did — like I wasn’t practically grown.
Mom swatted him with the dish towel. “Leave her alone. She’s tough enough.”
I smiled — because they meant it.
Because no matter what the pack whispered, to them I wasn’t broken.
I wasn’t less.
Dinner was loud, the way it always was — plates scraping, laughter bouncing off the walls, Dad telling some ridiculous story about nearly getting caught stealing peaches from the Alpha’s orchard when he was a kid.
I should have felt content.
But that ache under my ribs wouldn’t let up.
The one that said you don’t belong here, not really.
Halfway through my second bowl of stew, I set my spoon down hard enough to clatter against the table.
They both looked up, instantly alert.
“Millie?” Mom asked, frowning slightly.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“For the thousandth time,” I said, voice rough, “do you know anything? Anything at all about where I came from?”
Silence.
Dad rubbed his jaw, exchanging a look with Mom.
The same look they always gave each other when this conversation came up.
Sad. Protective.
Helpless.
“We found you in the woods,” Mom said softly, reaching across the table to cover my hand with hers.
“You know that.”
“I know,” I said, pulling away gently. “But…was there anything? A note? A scent trail? Anything that could tell me who my real parents were?”
Dad shook his head. “Just you, sweetheart. Just you, crying under the old moon tree.”
Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I blinked them away.
Crying wouldn’t fix anything.
Crying wouldn’t make me shift.
Crying wouldn’t make me belong.
“I’m almost twenty-three” I said, voice cracking. “Everyone else shifted at twenty-one. Two years. Two damn years of waiting.”
Mom’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Baby…maybe you’re just a late bloomer.”
Dad grunted. “Or maybe you’re not like the rest of them. Maybe you’re something better.”
The words hit me harder than a punch to the gut.
Because better wasn’t what it felt like.
It felt like broken.
It felt like wrong.
I stood, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“I’m gonna go for a walk.”
“Millie—” Mom started, but Dad touched her arm, stopping her.
“Let her go,” he said quietly. “She needs to breathe.”
I grabbed my jacket and shoved the door open, stepping back into the heavy dusk.
The stars were already starting to scatter across the sky, the air cooling enough to raise goosebumps on my arms.
I needed to clear my head.
I needed to forget the way my mom’s eyes had gone soft with pity.
Because whatever was coming — whatever I was — it wasn’t going to wait much l.
- Writer
