***
No, not a wolf, only a man.
I mentally shake my head, confused at my initial reaction. The eyes I'm staring into right now belong to a person—Whiskey Guy, to be specific.
Then, why do I feel like I'm suddenly ten years old again, transported back in time to those woods, with the wolf who attacked my brother?
I chalk it up to the alcohol.
My heart continues to beat irregularly in my chest, my breaths coming out in short, quick pants. Both of us seem to be frozen in time—him still poised coming down the last two steps, whiskey glass in hand, a surprised look apparent on his face—me a third of the way fully stood-up, my jaw tensed, tightly pressing my teeth together.
His eyes seem to pull me in, molten honey swirling around his irises. When was the last time I looked someone directly in the eyes like this? And when was the last time I felt so anxious and out of breath because of it?
Never.
I feel faint and frantically grab onto the edge of the counter for stability, standing up fully. The movement seems to break the spell and I watch as his expression morphs into something more akin to amusement as he resumes taking the last two steps down to the basement floor.
He starts walking towards me and I glance around for help, looking hurriedly around the room for my brother's face.
"Nash!" I suddenly spot James a few feet to my right as he shouts over the din of the room. Russell is next to him, stone-faced.
Whiskey Guy's eyes swivel off me and to James, stopping him in his tracks. At the loss of eye contact, I can breathe normally again. I take a large gulp of air to calm my frantic heart.
James casually jogs over to Whiskey Guy, Russell deciding to take his time and walk over.
"Hey, man. You wanted to talk to me about something?" James's voice is languid, but has lost the slight slur it had several minutes ago, as if he'd sobered up immediately after asking me for a drink. I also pickup up on a note of tension hidden within his tone, though it's faint. If James wasn't my brother, I might have missed it, but I notice.
I look at his face, trying to read it—trying to find clues as to why his demeanor has changed so quickly, but he gives nothing away.
Whiskey Guy—Nash—turns his body towards James, nodding.
"James. Yeah—" he pauses, shooting me a glance. "Let's take this somewhere more private?" There's an inflection at the end of his sentence, as if he were asking a question, but it's clear that he meant it as a statement. A command.
James nods his head and jerks it towards the stairs. "Follow me."
As the three of them start for the stairs, James flicks his gaze to me, a warning clear on his face.
Don't get involved.
I give him a slight nod back, indicating that I understand. My throat feels like it's constricting, my mouth dry, as I watch them retreat up the stairs.
Once they're out of sight, I grab my forgotten drink from the counter and chug it down, not caring about how I hadn't mixed it yet and the bottom is straight vodka.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn't good.
I don't understand at all what is going on, but if James felt the need to warn me, then it must not be good. My brother has gotten himself into a fair share of trouble over the years—fights, gambling, disappearing for days on end with no warning, drugs... I can't be sure of what's involved this time and I force myself not to assume, yet the knot in my stomach continues to tighten.
I wait a few minutes, just to be sure, and then go up the stairs—intent on following them.
It's not the best idea I've ever had, but I have to know what's going on. If James is involved with drugs again, I don't mind being the snitch, I don't mind if he hates me or never speaks to me again for the rest of his life—anything as long as I can keep him safe.
Ever since I dragged his bloodied body two miles through the woods 12 years ago, we've been extremely close. I credit him with saving my life, and he the same with me for his.
I won't let him down now.
I have an idea of where they're going, the most private place available in our childhood home—the pool house in the backyard. My suspicion is confirmed as I get to the kitchen and just barely see a glimpse of Moose's green hoodie disappearing out the back door. Where one goes, the others always follow.
I turn around and make my way through the living room, and then to the front door. If I try to cross the backyard, there's no doubt in my mind that they'll see me. I have to take the roundabout route and jump the back fence on the other side of the pool house.
Throwing on a pair of boots I keep by the front door, I step out into the night and shiver. Shit, I should have brought a jacket. The temperature has plummeted since Moose and I were out here earlier, reaching well below 20 degrees.
A light dusting of snow is covering everything in sight. There have not yet been any cars down our street, nor footprints leaving indentations in the snow—everything is pristine and white, as if a baker had meticulously sifted powdered sugar over the world around me.
If I wasn't so anxious, I would have thought it beautiful.
I hop off the side of the porch and slowly creep through the snow along the side of the house, sad to be the one to disrupt the perfect surface. I try my hardest not to make any noise. Thankfully, the snow is light and fluffy, hardly crunching as I gingerly step through it. I strain my hearing as I sneak along the fence line, listening for any one of four distinct male voices.
I hear nothing.
What if I'm wrong? I shake my head, I have to at least try.
After a few moments, I've made it to the back of the yard, the pool house building visible over the fence. There's a faint glow from the windows, indicating that someone must be inside. I push out a breath and size up the fence. It's been a few years since I hopped one and I'm nervous. Hopefully I don't bif it and fall face first over the other side. That'd be real sneaky.
Grow some balls, Emma, I chastise myself. Just do it. You can worry about the fallout if you fail, later.
I raise myself onto my tip toes and reach up to grasp the top of the fence. Now, all I need to do is jump and use my momentum to propel myself to the top.
Easy-peasy.
Not.
I do a test jump and wince as the snow crunches beneath my boots at my landing. My next jump has to be the real thing.
I strengthen my grip on the top of the fence and take a deep breath. On the exhale I leap up and use my arm strength to pull myself the rest of the way to the top. Quickly, I throw a leg over so I'm straddling the fence and survey the backyard below me.
No one is standing around outside. Good. I'm lucky that the back end of the yard is shadowed by large evergreens, masking me from being seen by anyone currently on the back deck. I swing my second leg over so that I'm sitting on my ass on the edge of the fence and jump down, trying to channel my inner cat for the landing.
Somehow I stick it, only a small thump sounding as my boots smack into the pine-needle laden ground.
I check the immediate area again for any onlookers and smile slightly to myself as I see there is still no one. I crouch-run over to the back wall of the pool house and listen, checking to see if the wall is thin enough that I can hear any voices through it.
No dice. Of course it wouldn't be that easy.
I think about what to do next. I can't just waltz in and expect them to keep up their conversation. Texting Russell or Moose to clue me in on what's being discussed is off the table, too. A freezing wind kicks up and I shiver, once again cursing myself for not throwing on a jacket.
Wait, the window!
A few years before I left home, my father had accidentally sent a rock flying while mowing the back lawn, catapulting it into one of the side windows of the pool house and creating a two-inch gap in the glass. I'd bet my left pinky toe that they still hadn't fixed it all these years.
I creep over to the window in question and punched the air enthusiastically. It's still broken! I press myself against the wall under the window and sit very still, hoping to hear voices through the crack in the glass.
"—And you honestly thought that I would just sit here and wait—watching as you tried to take everything from me—without putting up a fight?" Nash's voice. It's faint, but I can make it out.
James scoffs. "Obviously not. I wanted us to have a conversation, and maybe reach an understanding. We both know that it makes more sense for it to be me. A lot of the other members are already on my side, Nash. You'd be ignorant to look past that."
More sense for him to be what? And members? Members of what? The words race around my mind as I try to make sense of what they're discussing.
A loud thump sounds and the wall I'm leaning against shakes with some sort of impact. I gasp and clamp my hands over my mouth, hoping the sound isn't loud enough to be noticed. Thankfully, more noise comes from inside the pool house—sounds of a scuffle.
"Don't. You. Dare. Talk to me like I won't rip you apart, Townsend." My spine tingles at the pure venom and power in Nash's voice. It sounds like he is closer to the window, making his words easier to hear.
I hear a strained breath. James?
"Let him go, Nash." Moose says, impassive, though I can hear the slight warning in his voice. It's as if he's struggling to remain neutral in the situation.
"You'd do best to let this play out, Abbott." Nash throws back. A second later, I hear a large inhale of breath and a cough, like someone suddenly remembering how to breathe.
Had Nash been choking James? I feel my blood boil at the thought.
"This is the last I want to hear about this. From any of you." Nash states, the words sounding final. "Next time, I won't be so... amicable," he adds.
"You're putting me in a shit position, Nash." James's voice is hoarse as he finally speaks up, confirming my theory about Nash choking him.
That slimy bastard, I clench my fist.
"Call for a fucking vote and let the pack decide." He continues. Moose and Russell grunt in agreement.
Pack? Please tell me my brother isn't mixed up in some sort of... cult.
A low growl emanates from inside the pool house, causing my heart rate to spike. It's somehow familiar, but I can't put my finger on why...
"You're naive to think that's how this works. The only way for you to take the title from me is to either—one, run me out of the pack—or two, kill me. Neither of those options have good odds for you."
The words chill me to my core. Murder? What the actual fuck is this guy on?
"It's barbaric, but that's what tradition forces. No one will accept a new Alpha otherwise. I don't expect you to understand, Townsend." Nash continues, sneering James and I's last name with disgust. "Now, get the fuck out of here, before I do something I regret."
Tradition. Alpha. My mind is still reeling when I hear the door to the pool house creak open. I scramble from my place under the window to the back of the structure so I'm not seen. I listen as three sets of footsteps—James, Moose, and Russell, exit and begin the trek back to the house.
Nash remains inside for several additional minutes before turning the lights out and exiting as well. I hear him pause outside of the door and I clasp my hands over my mouth to conceal my ragged breathing.
He doesn't move for a few beats.
He knows I'm here, my brain screams at me. Yet, I stay rooted in place, listening.
After another painful few seconds, I hear his footsteps in the snow, heading back towards the house. I release my breath and let my hands fall from my face.
What the fuck was all that?
***
