The incessant desire to hold eye contact with another individual regardless of the conversation, circumstance, or difference of rank: my biggest character flaw.

I faced the consequences of my troublesome tendency for the first time when I was nine. As every other child around me bowed their heads, surveying the grass where they stood to avoid the bone-chilling scrutiny, I held the fierce gaze of our Gamma. It did not go unnoticed, nor was it appreciated. I was verbally reprimanded for the challenge and reminded of my place in the pack and world.

My parents, specifically my mother, tried for years to break me of my predisposition. She was frightened by my experience with the Gamma and was horrified that a similar incident with the Alpha would be next. My father was disappointed, but he did not have much to say on the subject. He was a man of few words, especially when it came to the High Pack—the Alpha, Beta, and Gamma. As a result of my mother's fear, I was shielded from them. It was an easy feat. I was already an average pack member with little use to the Alpha, but I had no room for improvement thanks to her sheltering. Therefore, I stayed average, only becoming a true member with duties—a tenant who paid rent—when I moved into one of the pack-funded apartments at seventeen.

School had its own clusterfuck of inconveniences. I was accident prone in my training and found it difficult to not meet the eyes of every elder wolf in the building.

As a Werewolf, it is hellish to explain to any superior that a heavy gaze means nothing confrontational to you. The others of the Dark were simpler, more human-like. Being tied to the primal instincts of a wolf had its disadvantages, making our kind both revered and the laughing-stock of the supernatural world.

My duties to the pack were simple, obey and protect. The senior members of the pack, high-ranked Warriors, Healers, and Trackers, dealt with the brunt of pack affairs, leaving the lesser of us to the simple tasks. Occasionally, I would be asked to help clean up. It was an undemanding sacrifice that I was willing to make for safety in a world with feral wolves, blood-thirsty ancients, and magic-happy, Latin-mumbling enchanters.

Despite the questionable past, I never bit the hand that fed me. Our High Pack provided a buffet for us, which was more than enough to secure my loyalty. The Gamma was sure to institute some form of training to each pack member, the Beta never left a person to struggle, and the Alpha protected us all.

I was okay—living in my little apartment knowing I did not mean much of anything to the pack—under those circumstances. It was less for me to worry about or get involved in. My days were more absorbed with making sure I had milk in my fridge, vacuumed my floors, and showed up to my minimum wage job on time. It was the closest to human living I could get, with the occasional ring from one of the Deltas saying that some sort of assistance was needed for a low-level patrol.

I never liked doing patrols. I found them boring, walking up and back a tiring three-mile strip of the territory for two hours. Especially for low-level calls, the time seemed to creep at half its normal speed. Possibly even a third. More like a fourth. However, it was my duty to the pack and the Dark Realm, an instinct that was embedded in the deepest parts of my brain and coursed like a river through my veins. I was tied to pack business, just like every other wolf, whether I wanted it or not.

I couldn't stop myself from checking my watch for the fifth time, hoping that more than another ten minutes had passed. My wish was granted—fifteen minutes. With a sigh, I adjusted my patrol-suit, pulling at the flexible fabric. I could not fathom how the Warriors of the pack wore them almost exclusively. I could pinpoint a few individuals who I had never seen in normal attire. The resilient uniform, made from a fiber designed to withstand any shift from human to wolf and vice versa, was a necessity for any high-ranking wolf that may need to provide their services at any moment. The garment, although it did save us from shredding outfit after outfit, was uncomfortable at best. Luckily, I only had to wear it on the extraordinary circumstance that my name was next up on the list to handle some sort of burden.

A heavy step in the brush in my surroundings pulled me from my sulking. My posture straightened, no longer slumped with boredom, as the steps got closer. The sounds of snapping twigs and crumpling leaves resonated with every footfall. Letting out a low, warning growl, I retracted my claws, allowing my nails to retreat into the beds of my fingers. This is not a low-level patrol, I internally groaned. I did not sign up for this.

My griping vanished as a familiar figure walked out of the dense thicket.

"You're good, Nolan," the Warrior announced, his body clad in the same uniform that dressed my own. "I got it from here."

I sighed in relief. I didn't hesitate, saying a swift, 'thanks, bye' and booking it back home. The journey back was a ten-mile hike, but it was practically a walk in the park in my wolf-form.

My apartment was located in one of the pack buildings in town. I had chosen its location four years ago specifically for the coffee shop situated half a block away. Caffeine was an incredible suppressant for our inner-wolves, so I took the liberty of having at least two cups of coffee a day. Without it, I had the nagging urge to snarl at every person I passed and chase my tail like the overgrown dog that I was.

Working the patrols, even for only the whole fifty-two minutes, was enough to double my much-needed coffee intake, so I trotted into the small shop before stopping home.

Upon entering, the eyes of every customer and worker landed on my massive form. They immediately noticed the uniform still wrapped around my monstrous body and side-stepped to let me pass them. It was a positive to being a Warrior wolf. Your pack duties were endless and grueling, but you were treated like royalty by Umbran citizens. The attention without the actual service was nice, despite feeling like the biggest imposter to ever live.

Midstep, I shifted back to my human-form, the mop of dark brown hair on my head being the only remaining vestige of my wolf. The patrol-suit conformed immediately to my body making the transition from animal to human nearly seamless. There was no awkward stop to cover any of my bits or judgemental stares from onlookers. I was watched in awe as I sauntered up to the counter and ordered a large black coffee with three shots of espresso.

I ripped the agonizing ensemble from my body as soon as I shut my apartment door. It was a five-minute process. The fabric was unforgiving and held onto my limbs like a Chinese finger trap. Halfway through, I had to take a break before I resorted to shredding it off with my own claws. I could not afford to buy another patrol-suit when rent was due in a week.

I had just plopped myself down on my cheap, faux leather couch when the rap of knuckles against the metal door bounced off the walls. Taking another swig of the hot liquid, I sat forward, angling my body toward the shaking door.

"Yeah?" I called out, watching the door rattle under the persistent knocking.

"Let me in."

I sighed and placed my drink down on the coffee table. I eyed it for a moment, already knowing my uninvited guest would see it and ask, you didn't get me one? Crossing the room, I wrenched open the door to reveal Sabina Cahntrell, the daughter of a Senior Warrior and resident of my complex.

"Do you have butter?" Her unorthodox greeting was not expected but not unusual, either. My brows furrowed as she pushed past me, heading straight for my refrigerator.

"Why do you need butter?" I asked, turning to see her rip open the fridge's door. She crouched down to look through the shelves.

"I'm trying to make mac'n cheese," she responded, snatching the small tub of butter.

"Oh." Sabina strolled over to the island in the kitchen and took a seat on one of the stools. I knew what she wanted before she had to ask. "I got called for patrol today," I noted, making meaningless conversation.

"Oh, yeah? How'd that go?" Her brown eyes twinkled with amusement, watching me as I snatched two glasses from the cabinet and a bottle of wine that sat on top of the fridge. I placed the glasses down on the faux marble countertop, making soft tinks upon contact.

"How it always goes. I just walked around until an actual Warrior came." Popping open the cheap wine, the floral aroma wafted up my nose, telling me already that I wasn't going to like it very much.

"I wish I was that lucky," Sabina whined as I poured the wine. The blossomy scent invaded my nostrils and made me wince. Why did I buy this? "Last patrol I did, I was there for four hours. I had to piss so bad."

"You told me. When the Delta arrived, you ran home and almost peed yourself in the process." Sabina snatched her glass amid my recollection, swallowing down nearly half the glass in one gulp. Damn, at least it won't be going to waste. Her nose scrunched up, and her lips smacked together in distaste. Spoke too soon.

"Yeah. What's with the flowery shit, Claude?" She grunted, snatching the bottle to refill her glass. Okay, maybe not.

"I don't know. I think I just grabbed something." Our usual wine taste was more on the sweet, fruity side to combat our whiskey problem. Sabina, however, had proved time and time again that she would drink whatever was handed to her as long as she could get a buzz from it.

"Hmm," she grumbled, taking another massive gulp of the borderline perfume. Again, her nose scrunched as if she were forcing down battery acid. "I'm surprised they're even letting us do patrols right now."

"Why?" I took my first drink of the wine and nearly spat it out. Mimicking Sabina, I smacked my lips together, hoping the taste would magically get better. She watched me, humor swimming in her eyes.

"Tastes like shit, huh?" Responding with a 'yeah,' I took another drink. The bigger the gulp, the faster it'll be gone. "But, yeah. I didn't think they would risk sending anyone but Warriors, or at least the Junior Warriors, out for patrols after Conte pissed on our borders."

Our borders had been metaphorically pissed on weeks ago. Our Alpha had been trying to appease our fears that our freedoms, liberties, homes, and families would soon cease to exist the way they once had. However, Alpha Conte had a sickening reputation for taking what he wanted, and the sudden interest in our fast-growing pack was telling. We were his next desire.

"Alpha Becht doesn't seem too worried, so I'm not going to freak out over it. Plus, Conte would be coming way too close to Magna if he actually did anything," I explained, but the look in Sabina's eyes betrayed her willingness to accept my response.

"Yeah, I guess, but Vici and Magna are on relatively okay terms right now."

"And, who told you that? Your dad?" I prodded, making Sabina's eyes darken at the mention of her father.

"I overheard him telling my mother, so, technically, yes, he did."

I sipped at my wine. Sabina wasn't the fondest of her helicopter-parent father. Trained from a young age to be just as lethal as he was, Sabina's love of pack life was slowly drained from her. By the time she was eighteen, she had no desire to enter Warrior training, disappointing her father to the point of almost disowning her. The two didn't speak for months. Jonathan Cahntrell, however, had close ties to our High Pack as a Senior Warrior, so his information was viable. It also made for excellent gossip between his daughter and I.

The news that Vici Pack and Magna Pack were on okay terms was no surprise. Any hardships they had were put to an end decades ago, so the bickering was just residual anger and hate. Their disputes were minor compared to the tension that was stirred between Vici and Laude. The three packs controlled the Wolfdom in the western world, and the moments where all three got along were rare. A constant power struggle.

Laude Pack, or Mother Pack as it is often called, was the 'initial' home of wolves. Originally lead by Kent Emigh, the grandfather of current Alpha Maxon Emigh, was the archetypal Alpha. He lead for several centuries until Alpha Daniel Nodak of Magna Pack rose to power. He never usurped the power of Kent Emigh; he just created his own. The two packs rivaled one another for centuries until a third pack blossomed, but, this time, not from the shadows.

James Conte, inspiring the largest revolt in Werewolf history, separated from Laude, his former home, and formed his own pack from those who followed him. Over three centuries, Vici Pack plundered and conquered whatever land they wanted, whenever they wanted, under James Conte's rule. Rapidly growing in strength and numbers, Vici surpassed the power of Magna by the time that James passed the Alpha title down to his eldest son, Ares. The young 120-year-old Alpha had then managed to outdo the strength and numbers of Laude within an impressive half-century of seizing the throne, knocking fear into nearly every werewolf and supernatural creature everywhere. The House of Umbra, although nervous, was impressed.

James Conte was a monster, but Ares Conte was a natural disaster, powerful and impossible to cease.

"I still don't see it happening," I affirmed, feeling the hefty weight of the lie sink onto my conscience. Eyeing me suspiciously, Sabina took another drink.

"Well, I just hope that my mate makes an appearance when they do come over. Maybe, he'll be one of Vici's mongrels," she joked with a little snarl, her humorless laugh rattling the space between my ears. I quirked an eyebrow, forcing down another swig.

"What? You want to marry him, now?"

Sabina shook her head and held her glass out to mine. Understanding, I tinked my glass to her's as she said, "A quick fuck, and, then, I'll send him on his way." We both laughed at that.

"Good, thought I lost you." I knew I hadn't.

Sabina gaped in fabricated offense. "And believe in that close-minded, old-age were-thinking? Fuck, no. Not in this lifetime." Her response was bitter, a result of another sore subject between she and her father who happened to marry his true mate. He was one of the very few who still believed in the outdated practice.

An obnoxious ring oscillated through the apartment. Sabina perked up, pulling out her cellphone from her back pocket, and analyzed the screen. She muttered a quick, 'damn,' and downed the rest of the wine in her glass.

"Sorry, Claude. My noodles are done," she apologized, jumping down from the stool. She raised the butter in the air, giving it a little shake. "I'll bring this back later." With that, she exited my apartment, slamming the door with such force that the floor trembled.

Despite the ten years of friendship, I still couldn't stop the relief from flooding my system when she left. Sabina's energy was overwhelming at times, and she reminded me of High Pack children in more ways than one. She was the sister I never had, but sometimes I needed to mentally prepare myself for our interactions. Today was one of those days. The topic of choice didn't help much, either.

Muttering to myself, I finished my glass and tossed them both in the sink to wash later. My cup of lukewarm coffee was sounding extra good now that I had a little bit of alcohol and anxiety pumping through my veins.

I did my best the last few weeks to avoid the thought of the impending fate of my pack, my home. The Vici Pack notoriously never lost a target. They were persistent in their efforts, and their Alpha was an absolute powerhouse of tenacity. Unlike average wolves, Ares was an Alpha who had centuries upon centuries of life left to take what he wanted. Waiting was never a problem for him. He would linger—watching, observing, studying—for years until he found the perfect moment to attack and take whatever it was that he craved.

The question wasn't if that was going to happen to us, it was when.

I could only beg to the Moon that I was dead and gone by then. Sixty years wouldn't be an excruciatingly long time for a nearly immortal Alpha to wait. Ares, however, was prone to taking what he wanted as soon as the opportunity presented itself, so I found my hope draining just as quickly as the wine in Sabina's glass.

My phone rang before I even had the opportunity to enjoy another sip of my coffee. Growling lowly, I ripped the device out of my back pocket. It was only a text.

Mom:
Are you still coming to dinner tonight?

I could have sent the palm of my hand straight through my forehead. My mother had been hounding me for weeks to make the drive back home and eat dinner with her and my father 'like a family, again'. I had pushed it off several times. Can't, work. Sorry, sick. I would, but— This time I was fresh out of excuses.

What are we having? I sent, watching as my mother read it immediately, and the bubble appeared, signifying her frantic typing.

Mom:
Your father wants Roso's.

I bit my lip lightly, recalling all the delicious memories of the Italian restaurant from my childhood. I was on a tight budget, and the rise in my coffee intake was making it increasingly difficult to eat anything that wasn't ninety-nine-cent packets of noodles and hotdogs. Allowing my food cravings to dictate my decision, I responded.

Yeah but Dad is paying for me

Her response, like the first, was quick.

Mom:
Of course. Doesn't he always?
See you at 5. love you

A part of me was hoping that she would deny my request. It would give me a reason not to go. Sorry, mom. Rent is due next week. I'm a poor gal. My luck did not pan out like that, though, and knowing my mother, she knew I would be waiting for the opportunity to make a response like that.

Love you too, I wrote back, tucking the phone back into my pocket and marching into my bathroom to take a shower.

____________________________

Hello, thanks for joining the journey. Every vote, comment, and read is appreciated. You all are so loved.

August 13, 2020