Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a good hike, no question about it, and had to be done on two legs, not four paws because the only way he knew how to get there was following the three words app that he’d downloaded specifically for the occasion. The Marrok’s home was a closely guarded secret. He’d heard rumors that he erased the memories of all the wolves who left, so that they could never find it again.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when he found himself in a small clearing, instead of a town as he’d expected. And there was an escort waiting for him.

His escort was lounging against a tree, one knee bent and her foot resting against the trunk. She was a tall one, with long legs, a lithe figure and good boobs, a little bigger than her proportions, certainly more than a handful a piece. Her hair was tied back, and it was long and golden. She wore sunglasses but he would guess from the color of her skin her eyes were probably blue or grey.

She wore the uniform of most young women of the time – skin-tight stretchy pants and a cropped vest that showed off the toned and smooth stomach of someone who exercised regularly.

It had been a long time since Marcus had been with a woman. And it just so happened that he’d always liked his women tall.

As he approached, she kicked herself off the tree, moving towards him with the loose-limbed confidence of a woman who had probably been a werewolf a long time. She smiled and it was all teeth. A feisty one, Marcus decided, smiling back. “Marcus Codrington-Fernandez,” he introduced himself. He gave a little bow because women always liked that.

She tilted her head to the side. “Well met and welcome to the territory of the Marrok. I’m to take you in.” She turned without waiting for a response and headed off.

He enjoyed staring at her ass as he followed. “Don’t I get a name in return?”

“We’ll see.” And then, without warning, she started to run.

*

Werewolves, dominant werewolves, were competitive. In the first instance, Marcus re-evaluated his thought that she had a few years on her – no female werewolf worth her salt would take on a male werewolf even in something as non-combative as a race. 

As he pounded after her, he made plans to teach her a lesson when he caught up, for surely the Marrok had been remiss in his duties there. He didn’t want her to make the same mistake again, with a more aggressive wolf.

After a while though, Marcus admitted that he was no closer to catching up with her. Each time he put on a burst of speed, so did she, and what was more she run with the instincts of one who had lived in the area a long time. She jumped fallen trees, ditches, animal burrows without looking, never faltering. He on the other hand had to concentrate hard – he wouldn’t have realized they had arrived at their destination, had it not been for the sudden change to gravel under his feet.

The woman skidded to a halt before a pair of massive double-fronted oak doors. She was barely breathing fast. Indeed, she tossed a laughing look at him, bent over as he was. “I win,” she announced, pushing open the door. “Take your shoes off.”

He did so, breathing in deeply to recover. She toed off her expensive sneakers, adding them to a pile in the porch entrance, a pile reminiscent of every pack house he’d ever been in – different sizes, different styles. Sneakers and galoshes and Birkenstocks. There were coats and jackets hung up on hooks – similarly mixed sizes – and then a shelf with stacks of neatly folded sweats and towels.

The sight of it was comforting, in a way. Familiar. This was a well-run pack home.

“Come on, then.”

It had been a long, long time since Marcus had been spoken to in this way. He repressed the urge to snap at her. This was the Marrok’s house and complaining about one of his pack was no way to start a relationship. He had assumed, because she was female, that she was less dominant than he – but he was beginning to question that now, based on her behavior alone.

That could be youth as well, however.

He followed her shapely little ass down a long hallway, painted white with high arched ceilings and art in unframed canvases on the walls. He thought he spotted a Manet and almost mistepped as he spun around to look at it more closely. Yes. Definitely a Manet.

They paused by a door, two from the end, and she knocked smartly. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and gave him a coy look. 

Her eyes – as he had guessed – were blue. Bright blue, the color of a lake at high noon. She really was a very attractive package.

“Enter,” came a voice.

His escort pushed open the door. “Marcus Codrington-Fernandez,” she announced.

The Marrok nodded – at her – and then smiled at Marcus and stood. “Welcome to my territory, Marcus.”

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.” He inclined his head, more formally than the more playful gesture he had made to the woman earlier.

“I’ll leave you to the Marrok’s tender mercies,” she murmured, leaning across the desk and picking up an empty mug and a small plate. “Lunch will be ready in an hour. Tag and Juste will probably join you both.”

“And you?”

“I have a very important date, you remember,” she said with pursed lips.

The Marrok’s eyes lingered on her mouth. “Ah, of course. Have a good time.”

She left with a swish of her high ponytail and Marcus felt no compunction to not watch her leave because the Marrok was doing the same. They exchanged the kind of look men did when they both caught one another appreciating the same woman and then the Marrok gestured to a chair. “Please. Take a seat.”

*

The technical term was ‘probation’. Marcus, the Marrok explained, had two options. He could join the Aspen Creek pack, a group of misfits that he’d heard tales about all the way across the world, or he could wait for the appropriate Alpha role to be made available.

“You’re too dominant for me to place just anywhere,” Bran said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll need to find the right fit for you. And you would need to agree that it’s the right fit.” He flashed a charming, boyish smile. “Of course.”

Marcus had anticipated this. Everyone knew if you moved to the States you jumped to the Marrok’s tune. He’d briefly considered going lone wolf but he had to admit after a few decades of roaming Europe, leaving Britain to Madden, then avoiding Chastel on the continent, he was rather looking forward to the company of a pack again.

“I would be content with a Second position.”

“For how long, however? Perhaps, we could form you a new pack…” The Marrok drifted off, his eyes on the fire. After a moment, he came back to himself. “Come. Let’s eat something. I’ll introduce you to two of my people.”

It was a pleasant meal. In hierarchy, Marcus slotted easily between the Marrok and the berserker, Colin Taggart, and once that was sorted out with minimal fuss, they tucked into roast chicken and mashed potatoes, laid out on the table in the open plan living area by, presumably, the woman who had met him. At a guess, she seemed to serve as some kind of housekeeper to the Marrok.

“I didn’t catch her name, the woman who prepared this,” he said, whilst Bran was out of the room, answering a seemingly urgent phone call.

“You mean she didn’t give it to you.” Colin – Tag – grunted as if this was typical behavior. “Leah.”

Pretty name. As well as a looker, she was a good cook. He’d seen no ring, so he assumed she wasn’t married. Not that he was thinking of such things. Just… well. It had been a long time.

Bran returned. “I apologize.” He picked up his fork. “Tag, I was hoping after lunch you could take Marcus up to his new home.”

“Aye, Sage’s old house, is it?”

The Frenchman – Juste – winced.

“Sage?” Marcus queried.

“Thank you, Tag,” the Marrok murmured in mild condemnation. He speared a green bean. “Let me tell you a story about my most recent glorious failure and the spot of trouble we have with witches in America.”

*

There weren’t many women in the Marrok’s pack, which was common to all the packs he’d run across in Europe. In reasonably short order, he met the pretty Omega, who was married to the Marrok’s genuinely terrifying son, and a cheeky little woman called Peggy, who was also married – but to a woman, which was a new one for him. At least amongst werewolves. Then there was a teenage girl, Kara, who had been Changed and survived that Change astonishingly early. She greeted him with a vaguely friendly grunt and then replaced her headphones on her head, in true teenage style.

He didn’t see Leah again until the full moon and even then she went off by herself, chasing up prey for the youngest Changes to tackle and seemed to spend her time, along with the Moor, playing nursemaid.

Asil and he shook hands, afterwards. “Hussan,” he murmured, for that was the name he had known him by once. “Thought you were dead.”

A white-toothed smile. “I tried, for a while.”

He’d lost his mate, Marcus remembered. That was the last time he’d seen him, a few years after perhaps. Marcus had been a young wolf back then – on his first explorations through Europe – and had been warned out of Hussan’s territory by his son. Old wolves could be broken by the death of a mate. Rumor had it the Marrok had almost fallen victim to the same malady – though Marcus couldn’t really remember the details.

“Glad it didn’t take.”

The Omega – who had dressed, after changing back – handed them both cups of cocoa, which seemed to be an American household staple. “You know each other.”

“Everyone over a certain age in Europe does,” Marcus replied with a half-smile. He noticed she was very studiously looking above shoulder height so he guessed she was quite young. He picked up a pair of sweat pants from the table and pulled them on. It had been a long time since he’d been bothered by his own nudity – but he remembered, vaguely, the sense of being troubled by others’. And her power made him want to please her. If a pair of pants would do that, then that was no trouble.

The Moor, it seemed, had no such compunction. He turned up the wattage of his smile. It was almost flirtatious. “And how goes your first foray into motherhood?”

“Ah, are congratulations in order?” Marcus had scented the sour smell of milk but hadn’t pieced it together. Babies were not that common in werewolf couples and, personally, he had little interest in them. But he could be polite. 

“Yes. We just adopted.” The Omega’s sweet face veritably glowed with happiness. “A little girl – Olivia.” She turned, looking over her shoulder to where her mate – the looming presence that was the Marrok’s infamous right-hand wolf-killer – was hunkered down before the sound system with his father. “We think we’re getting the hang of it.”

Odd to think of Charles Cornick as a father. Marcus watched Bran stand, clapping his hand on Charles’s shoulder and making a comment that made them both laugh. So far, the Aspen Creek pack had surprised Marcus with its easy-going nature. That had not been his impression. For certain, he had expected a fight tonight and yet the atmosphere was almost celebratory – the music, the food, the talking.

“Where’s, ah, Leah?” Marcus asked, attempting to sound casual.

“Her turn to take the Changes back,” Anna replied, with a sparkling glance to Asil. “She likes to tire them out. Says they’re less troublesome that way.”

“They don’t get to participate in this,” he said, nodding to the group in the Marrok’s living area. Someone – a man he had yet to be introduced to – handed him a beer in an unlabeled bottle.

“Not for another couple of months. They’re quite… feisty on full moon,” she explained, pursing her lips. She looked at the beer in his hand. “I’d be careful with that. It’s Tag’s latest brew. It’s… potent.”

He took a sip and the noise he made could not be contained, “Yah!” Marcus blinked and swished the brown liquid around in the clear bottle. “What the heck is in this?”

“We have no idea,” Anna said, lowering her voice. “He’s trying to create something that’ll give us a bit of a buzz for a more sustained period of time. He’s roped Juste into it, because he has a science background. Bran doesn’t entirely approve.”

“Nor should he if the objective is just to get werewolves drunk,” Asil murmured, casting the bottle a dismissive look. “As if this pack needed any additional incentive to act like fools.”

Cautiously, Marcus took another sip and swilled the liquid around his mouth. “It’s… not so bad if you know what you’re expecting. Kind of fruity. Maybe molasses?” He didn’t hate it, though it was nowhere near the pale American beer he had been expecting.

He finished the bottle and was handed another by Tag himself, as he took him through the brewing process. Then a third by George, who smelled strongly of dog – not wolf – and explained why by proudly showing him a series of photos of his prize winning dogs. “Marrok asked me to breed them, few years ago now,” he said, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what it had led to. “You like dogs?”

“I had one once,” Marcus replied, recalling, with the vagueness of long-lost memories, the sensation of a beloved canine friend. It was surprisingly bitter-sweet, as most memories of loved ones long gone were.

“You should come by.” A recognizably avaricious gleam manifested in George’s brown eyes. “I have a new litter.”

Marcus found himself laughing. “You’ll not convince me into a puppy, my friend. Certainly not at those prices.”

“Pack gets a twenty-five percent discount.”

He laughed again and took another sip of his drink.

Leah returned as it was getting close to dawn, slipping in through some side door, seemingly, and wearing an oversized sweatshirt that Tag immediately claimed was his. “That may be the case, but it was the only thing left. Someone,” and she gave a sweeping look to the remaining wolves, “hasn’t returned their borrowed set from last full moon.”

“Oooh, that would be me,” Peggy said, eyes wide. “Sorry, Leah. I’ll bring it by tomorrow. Today.”

Her expression softened and Leah waved a hand as if it was of no matter. Then she looked at Marcus. He caught a glimmer of teeth as her smile shifted. She walked around to drop down onto the couch near him, curling her bare legs up underneath her. She tapped a long nail against the bottle in his hand. “How many did they slip you?”

The sweatshirt was overlarge, definitely, but she was mostly leg. It skirted up her long thigh. She was very… smooth looking. He struggled to pull his eyes away. “This is only my third.”

“Fourth,” someone said.

“Fifth actually.”

Marcus looked at the bottle in his hand. “Really?” He thought about it. He felt very relaxed. “Am I drunk?”

There were general chuckles around.

Leah leaned over and carefully extracted the bottle from his fingers. Her long hair brushed his chest. It tickled. “I think I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.”

“Probably a good idea.” He was very aware, suddenly, of the smell of her. Rich. Vanilla and jasmine. She must wash her hair with something expensive to smell like that. Maybe use some kind of lotion.

Marcus closed his eyes, trying to get a hold of himself. Becoming overtly aroused in company was the very definition of poor manners. “Definitely drunk.”

Resolutely, he pushed himself up. “Thank you all for a wonderful evening. I’ll make my way home.”

“Let me give you a lift,” Tag volunteered, also heaving his mammoth body from the adjacent couch, “as an apology for making a guinea pig out of you.”

Marcus wasn’t going to decline this offer. It was a half hour stroll back to his temporary abode and he was tired, now. He waved to the remaining company and Tag made him listen to country music on the drive back.

“If I might offer you some advice?” the man asked politely, as they drew up outside the house.

“Sure.”

“Leah is— a good woman.” Tag said this with a strange emphasis – something akin to a new realization, but Marcus didn’t look at it too closely, too embarrassed to be caught out. Damned alcohol. “But she has gone through a great deal in the last few months. Sage was her closest friend. That kind of betrayal cuts deep. And— the situation with the Marrok is… tricky.”

“The situation?”

“They’ve not always liked each other. At least, not as far as we could tell.” Tag snorted, shaking his head, the pile of dreads on top of his head quivering. “Though, who the heck knows if that was true or not anymore.”

Marcus took this to be Tag’s explanation of a political situation within the pack. He’d come across a fair few. He wouldn’t have put Leah’s dominance any higher than Juste’s, in this pack, but she was clearly the most senior female, in age if not in dominance. She had responsibilities – with the new Changes and with the running of the Marrok’s household. Sometimes that did need a woman’s touch. And he understood Anna, who would have been a natural choice with that, was much involved in the Marrok’s business, with her mate. Clashes with the Alpha weren't uncommon in a pack but it would obviously be more difficult if said Alpha was also the Marrok.

“Thank you for the warning,” Marcus said, for it was surely that. “I appreciate it.” He wanted to say more – how he had no intention of striking up any kind of relationship with a woman so soon after arriving on this continent, no matter how appealing he found her. Not when he didn’t know how long he would be in Aspen Creek. He wanted to be more settled before he considered such things. But he didn’t say any of that. It would be an unnecessary addition to an already faintly awkward conversation.

“You’re welcome. I’m sure she would appreciate your… friendship.”

“Certainly.” Friendship with a woman. A novel concept. Modern.

He thanked Tag for the lift home and climbed, none too steadily from the truck. Jesus. He would think twice before drinking anything this pack handed him ever again.

*

The Marrok’s pack was, for the most part, filled with people without regular employment and yet occupied their time either with Marrok-related tasks or part-time jobs. He saw Peggy sometimes worked at the gas station and Juste, he learned, worked as a consultant for a lab in Great Falls three days a week.    

The week after full moon, he received a call from the Marrok early in the morning, before he was really awake. “Feel like making yourself useful?” came the amicable voice.

Marcus had Alphas in the past who, upon uttering such words to him, would have riled him up completely but Bran had a special skill of making his requests sound like pleasurable activities. And so, he walked up to the main house and presented himself not, as it turned out, to Bran, but to Leah, who was waiting in the living area, waterproof on and a mutinous expression on her face. There was a rucksack at her feet and car keys in her hand. “I see,” she said, looking him up and down.

“See what?” he asked.

She didn’t deign to respond to this. “You’ll need a better jacket.” Leah gestured to his light-weight waterproof. “We’re heading up. It’ll be colder.”

“I run pretty warm.”

Leah shook her head. “No. There’s snow still about. You’ll get wet and freeze.”

With an acid look down the hallway towards the Marrok’s office – and his closed door – she opened a door off the living area and revealed a huge walk-in closet of all-weather clothing from shoe-shoes to ski gear to— “Is that dive suit?” he asked wonderingly.

“Grab whatever fits. You want it waterproof and warm.” Without any sense of his personal space, she grabbed his sweater and lifted it. “Good. Layers.”

Only Tag’s words of warning put a stop to Marcus’s instinctive response – which was to push her against the wall of coats and jackets and tell her to mind herself. And depending on how she responded to that – a tell-tale dilation of her eyes, flare of her nostrils, perhaps - then maybe kiss her. He’d very much like to kiss her. 

Calmly, Marcus selected a coat that smelled strongly of someone he’d not yet met. He presented himself for her approval. “What are we doing? The Marrok wasn’t clear.”

“You’re on guard duty,” she said through her neat white teeth. “I’m dropping off food parcels to a couple of our more remote wolves.”

“Dangerous, remote wolves?” Marcus suggested, all but hearing her teeth grind with irritation.

“Apparently they are now.” She muttered this almost inaudibly and he gathered that the instruction to take a ‘guard’ was a new one. One which Leah considered to be unnecessary and insult to her apparently quite prickly pride.

He smiled at the back of her head as she all-but stomped from the house, slamming the door closed behind him impatiently. She clambered into the driver’s seat of very beaten up looking truck. Seemingly, there was a drive before the hike.

The truck was old enough that he could feel every rut in the increasingly smaller tracks that she took them up but it soon became clear why an older vehicle was more appropriate for this journey than something with better suspension. They soon turned off-road and despite Leah’s expertise the shell of the car was pinged with branches and regularly scraped against rock. She barely flinched.

Eventually, she pulled the truck into a space that was a little more level and yanked the handbrake on. “Get your bearings,” she suggested.

Marcus did so, climbing out of the car and taking a look around. “We walking far?”

“About four hours.” She popped the trunk. Inside there were a couple of coolers. She slung her backpack on, then took both coolers out by their handles.

“Let me,” he suggested.

“I can manage.”

“I’m well aware. Think of it as nothing more than my fear of my mother rolling in her grave.”

Despite her bad mood, Leah’s lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “Stickler for manners, was she?”

“That she was.” Marcus took the coolers and, noting they were the kind that had straps that converted to be carried on his back, slung one on. The other he carried in his left hand.

They were not the most comfortable article to carry around on a hike and as Marcus scaled the mountain, following Leah’s shapely behind, he pondered the awkwardness of her journey had she done this alone.

“Is this a regular thing, then?”

“Once a quarter.”

He could hear something clinking in the coolers. Jars, he thought. Perhaps cans. “Preserved goods?” he asked.

“Yes. Fruit. Vegetables. Things you can’t hunt out here.” They walked for another ten minutes and she continued as if there hadn’t been a significant pause. “Socks. Underpants. Biodegradable toilet paper. Candy.”

“Candy?”

“Hubble has a sweet tooth.” She was smiling as she said it. He could hear that, though he could not see her face. Her mood had improved.

“Hubble?”

“Hubert, really. We’ve always called him Hubble.” Leah’s voice dipped with softness.

“You’re fond of him.”

“He… he was once very dear to me.” Leah stopped, then, and changed the subject by pointing out parts of the landscape. A distinct line of trees that were a useful marker. She named a couple of the mountains. “That area there? Between the two peaks? Down to that big dark tree? Avoid it, if you’re on your own.”

He noted it. “More remote wolves?”

“The truly dangerous ones. Not that,” her blue eyes flicked down him appraisingly, making the wolf inside sit up and hum, “I don’t think you could manage. But we try not to bother them. Only Bran, and Charles, go there.”

“Not the Moor?”

“Well, that would bother them.” Her smile was broad and back to her flirtatious standard. He smiled back in return. He really would like to kiss her. Nip her neck. See if she would nip back. “You knew him before?” she asked. “The Moor.”

“A little. His son more.”

Leah nodded. “Before his mate was killed?”

“After.” He’d known of her, of course. Sarai.

Leah was pensive, clearly on the verge of asking something before she thought better of it. They carried on.

Were it not for the coolers, bumping against him and generally being beaten about by every raised rock formation or jutting lump of earth, it would have been a pleasant hike. The air was crisp – she was right, it was much colder – and the views were stunning. He wished for a camera but photography had never been his skill.

“I’m told you’re a writer.”

“Used to be.”

“Used to?”

“Haven’t put ink to paper in nearly fifty years.”

“Writer’s block?”

“Something like that.” Being a lone wolf had its ups and downs. The reality of Twentieth-and-Twenty-First Century European werewolf politics had been hell on his ability to stay in a fixed location and therefore keep his concentration going for any longer than a couple of weeks. He’d vaguely been wondering if he would be able to find the thread of the many stories that rattled around in his brain, now that he was here in Montana and relatively free. It was certainly an inspirational landscape.

“What kind of things did you write?”

“Murder mysteries, mostly. I’ve written a romance or two,” he said, when the first didn’t seem to raise her interest.

As he suspected, Leah did find that worthy of comment. She turned, her hands on the straps of her backpack and continued walking, backwards. “Romance,” she repeated, her face alight with humor.

“Historical.”

She laughed and stopped, half bending over. “Truly? I’d read that.”

“They were reasonably successful. I still sell copies. Amazon, mostly. I’ll send you a link.” He grinned. “They might be tamer than more contemporary fiction, I warn you.”

Shaking her head, Leah continued but instead of striding ahead of him as she had been, she slowed her pace. She kept slipping him sideways looks. “You’re not what I thought you’d be like.”

“Oh?” He was curious. As far as Marcus was concerned, he’d led a fairly uncolorful life. For a werewolf. Kept his head down after he'd left Madden.

“Oh you know—” She waved a hand about. “Bran said you were a lone wolf. The only lone wolves I know have been, as the name suggests, loners.”

“Well, I’ve been part of packs, too. When it suited me.”

“And it doesn’t, for the most part?”

“I presume you know of the political situation in Europe.”

“Chastel, you mean.”

“I was never part of his armory, no. But I was born in Britain, Changed by Madden just before the turn of the 18^th Century. I was part of his frontal assault, sweeping through the British Isles and killing any Alphas that didn’t take the knee.”

It was easier to talk about such things now. He’d been young. He’d made his peace with the decisions he’d made before he knew what kind of man, what kind of werewolf, he wanted to be. Not a slathering, mindless beast at the bidding of whomever was more dominant in the moment.  

“I never met him. I heard things, of course.”

“Yes.” Marcus grunted. The werewolf world was small and their celebrities, such as they were, were much talked of – even a loner would hear whispers of them, belatedly. Madden had died in America, a couple of years ago. Confusing rumors had had reached him, halfway across the world. That Charles Cornick had somehow been involved. That it had been the Marrok’s final revenge. 

It occurred to him he could get the truth, now. Presumably as part of the Marrok’s pack, Leah knew the details. “How did he die?”

She frowned. “Charles, of course. But that was a lawful kill. Madden had conspired with a fae to kill the Marrok.”

Marcus gave this a moment’s thought to the death of the man who had Changed him – with his consent, as it happened. Arthur had the capability to be… well, not kind. But there had been moments when he was likeable. On the whole, however— “Couldn’t have happened to a better person.”

This got him another sideways look. “So I’ve heard.”

*

The first ‘wildling’ as Leah referred to them, these wild wolves who lived outside but within the Marrok’s territory, was a near-mute fellow who accepted the cooler provided Marcus placed it very carefully in his preferred tree and watched them with cool grey eyes from forty yards away.

“This Hubble?” Marcus murmured. He didn’t look friendly in any sense. Or endearing as the name would suggest. There was indeed an air of menace about him – rough-hewn clothes, bare feet and barrel-chested, holding a throwing axe.

“No.” Leah sighed. “Louis,” she continued, in passable French, “you promised me you would give me back your empty jars.”

Louis grunted and walked off, back into the trees from whence he’d come.

“Let’s give him a few minutes,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Sometimes he’s amenable.”

They gave it thirty. Leah kindly shared a couple of protein bars with him, as well as sip of water from her canteen. When it became clear that Louis was not returning, Leah shook her head. “Fine. I don’t know what he does with them but it must be something because he returns one out of every ten I leave.”

They set off and this time Leah kept turning to check behind. “Just… to be on the safe side.”

He knew they weren't being followed. “Dangerous?”

“Truly, these two… aren’t as dangerous,” she said, carefully. He caught a note of sadness in her tone. She felt sorry for them. “They’re just—”

“I got you. A little strange. Best kept from company.”

“Yes. Just so. But we’ve had problems recently, so perhaps that’s why…” She trailed off and once again changed the direction of her thoughts. “Do you have wolves like this in Europe?”

“No. Most Alphas kill them, as soon as they start behaving strangely. Or they kill themselves,” he reflected. Some wolves knew when the madness had taken them beyond the realms of survival. “I’ve never heard of such a place as this.” And she was one of the caretakers. An interesting role.

It was another two hours to the next wildling, the infamous Hubble. Leah picked up her feet as they approached, clearly eager to see him. For a moment, Marcus didn’t see the house, so carefully camouflaged was it, and then he almost laughed. “Like something out of Tolkien,” he murmured.

“He’d like that.” She paused between two rocks, the beginning of the path to the house. She called, “Hello the house!”

There was a pause, Leah’s eyes on the ivy-covered door, anticipating a response. When none came, she bent down, sifting through the leaves and dirt until she found a rock of an appropriate size. She threw this, hitting the door. “Hubble! Your grocery order is here!”

Nothing happened.

“Maybe he’s stepped out.”

“No.” She nodded to the left. “If he’s out, he always turns that stone. So we know.” She put her hands on her hips. “Could be asleep, I suppose.”

“I take it,” he nodded to the rocks, “stepping over this threshold is a breach of some kind.”

“Oh, there are usually… booby traps.”

Marcus let out an unexpected laugh. “Booby traps? Fabulous.” His eyes searched the clearing before the house, covered in – now he thought of it – the wrong kind of leaves. This area was mostly pine. He crouched down, tried to see if he could see any trip wires. “What are we talking about? Pits of vipers? Quicksand?”

Leah didn’t answer this, nor did she laugh – as he had intended. Instead, she turned her face away to catch a breeze and a strange flicker of something crossed her face. Worry, he decided.

When she opened her eyes, her pupils were dilated. “Bran’s coming. Something’s wrong.” And, utterly ignoring what she’d just told him, or how she came to know this, she ran for the door, feet flashing quickly over the ground.

Her movement set off a chain reaction. On the left, the leaves crumbled away, revealing – indeed – a large, rectangular pit, crossed with chains. Deep enough to be annoying, particularly given the deep sludge at the base. On the right, wooden spikes shot up from the ground.

Hubble was clearly an engineer of some kind, Marcus decided, impressed and following carefully in Leah’s footsteps. The vipers weren’t out of the question.

She was putting her shoulder to the door, hard. Once, twice and then a third time before it broke, a thick wooden thing lined with steel. It groaned as she shoved it to the side.

“Hubble?” she called, peering into the darkness. He heard her inhale sharply. “Oh no.”

He smelled blood, then. Marcus put the cooler down. He reached for her shoulder. “Leah, let me—”

She was already moving. “It’s fresh. There may be still time,” she whispered, disappearing into the house with a rustle of her winter coat.  

Marcus had no choice but to follow, bringing his wolf to the fore as he crept through the low-ceiling-ed and dark space. It was warm, and dry, surprisingly given he thought most of the house was built into the ground. There were rugs on the floor – old, Turkish runners – and he followed a twisty corridor, followed the scent of blood, into a circular room, a kitchen space with natural light brought down through the domed glass skylight in the ceiling.

There were three doors off this space and only one open. With a strong sense of doom, Marcus approached and stood in the doorway, watching Leah weep silently, her face twisted in agony, over a once beloved friend. He could see immediately that there was too much blood to save him. His were eyes open and unseeing.

“Ah, Leah. I’m sorry,” he murmured, knowing she couldn’t hear him through her grief.

After a moment, Marcus unbuttoned his coat, draped it over one of the hand-made chairs at the table. There was a hearth, the fire low, and he tossed a log onto it to build it up. There was a heavy iron kettle hanging – he checked and saw it was still half full of water. He moved it over the fire.

Grief was not an unfamiliar emotion to Marcus. He’d watched all his family die, after all. Then friends and comrades. But it had been a long time since he’d had to deal with someone else’s and he was feeling out of place, wishing that someone from her pack was here. The woman, Peggy. Better yet the Omega.

He did not know Leah well but he thought she would not like to be seen crying. Female werewolves could be… prickly about perceived female weakness. She’d already demonstrated she was a proud woman. He busied himself, finding the tea things. A hot drink was always welcome at a time like this.

She emerged a few minutes later, eyes bloodshot but spine straight. He poured boiling water on a cloth and held it out to her. She blinked at him, uncomprehendingly.

“For your hands,” he explained. When Leah made no move to take it, he approached her slowly, instead, for she had the look of a flight risk about her. He lifted one hand and began to wipe the blood away, paying careful attention to between the fingers and under her pastel-pink painted nails. He repeated this with her other hand. There was probably no saving her pants. She’d knelt in the blood for too long. The sweater, too, the baby blue streaked with red turning quickly brown.

When he looked up from his task, he saw fresh tears were running down her face, silently. He handed her the cloth. “Blow your nose,” he instructed.

Leah did so, then wiped at her face with the least bloody piece of the cloth. “Thank you.”

“I’ve made tea. The milk is UHT, I’m afraid.” Marcus didn’t know why he’d said that. He’d been surprised there was any kind of milk at all. Hubble had a very organized kitchen. Judging from his neat little pantry, he suspected he knew what the wildlings were doing with the jars they didn’t return.

Leah sat, her back to the room with her dead friend, her tea held between her loose fingers. In silence, he watched her build herself back up, her face becoming impenetrable. She sat forward and turned up the stained cuffs of her sweater. “I didn’t do the drop off – last time. I was… busy. So Tag did it. Hubble didn’t know Tag, so he wouldn’t have spoken to him and Tag wouldn’t have pushed it.”

“You weren’t to know he was thinking of ending things, Leah.” Marcus took a sip of his tea.

“He must have done it… only an hour, maybe two ago? If I’d—” Her face darkened. “If Bran hadn’t made me wait.”

“Don’t do that.” He moved to rest his hand over hers. “Don’t do that. It’s no use to you. It will not bring him back.”

Her eyes met his and for a moment, they were furious, so angry he held his breath, expecting her to lash out. But they cooled. She let out a long exhale through pursed lips. “You’re right. I know better.” Leah’s hand turned and suddenly she was grasping his fingers, tightly. “It would have been unbearable to find him on my own. Not another—” She stopped and swallowed, picked up her tea with her free hand, not letting go of him.

“How long have you known him?”

“Hmm, nearly as long as I’ve been a werewolf, actually. He was here when I arrived in Aspen Creek.” She tilted her head. “No, that’s not right. A few years after.”

“And how long ago might that be? You don’t look a day over fifty.”

For a moment, he thought the joke might have been inappropriately too soon but after a brief moment she smiled. “That’s funny. You’re funny.” She looked down at the table, smile still in place. She closed her eyes. “I am two-hundred years old, as it happens.”

He was surprised. “You were changed in America? I didn’t think there were that many werewolves here that long ago.”

“There weren’t,” said the Marrok from the doorway.

Leah didn’t jolt but she did open her eyes to meet her Alpha’s for a long moment. “He’s dead.”

“I know.” He saw Bran’s eyes dip to their hands, still clasped on the table, and Leah noted it too for she pulled away.

Oddly, though it had been a harmless gesture of comfort, Marcus felt as if he had overstepped. He cupped his tea, to distract himself from the sensation of rare physical contact. It really had been too long if he was missing holding hands with a woman. 

“I’m sorry,” Bran said, walking to the table. He'd obviously left in a hurry - he'd forgone the warm coat and was just wearing jeans and a hooded sweater. His fingers lightly brushed Leah’s shoulder. “I know you held him in great affection.”

Leah said nothing to that.

The Marrok stood in the open doorway of the bedroom where Hubble had ended his life and lowered his head. “Damn,” came an almost inaudible murmur.

*

The funeral was held the next day, with a select group of people whom Marcus suspected were some of the oldest, remaining sane members of the pack. He supposed he made the invitation list because he had been present, more or less, when the old wolf had died.

Leah remained dry eyed and distant throughout the ceremony. She stood to Bran’s right, with the Omega wolf next to her, the Marrok’s son on her right. She listed, occasionally, towards Anna, who would steady her with a hand on the small of her back.

Afterwards, when the body was taken to be cremated, there was a wake of sorts in the manor house. Marcus rejected the bottle of Tag’s brew for a glass of wine and listened to Charles and his father tell stories of Hubble’s early years in the pack. Leah excused herself early from the proceedings and Bran had shook his head at Anna when she moved to follow her. “Leave her be, Anna.”

“But—”

The Marrok rested his hand on Anna’s arm. “Leave her be. She takes no comfort from talking so soon after they’ve gone.”

Despite this no doubt sensible advice, Marcus found himself ignoring it. He trailed through the house, following the scent of her perfume, to a door that was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, peering around and found she had curled herself into a green chair, with a knitted blanket drawn over her lap. “Knock-knock,” he said, when she didn’t immediately look at him.

Leah looked up from staring into the fire, startled, and shifted self-consciously, drawing the rucked-up skirt of her black dress down past her knees. A pair of high heels were kicked off under the table, red soles facing him. “Marcus. May I help you?”

“Well. No.” He stepped into the small room and looked around. It was basically wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling books. “Is this a library?”

“The pack one, yes. Popular reading. Bran has all the… dusty, more worthy tomes in his office,” she said, sounding tired.

“Brilliant,” Marcus breathed, momentarily distracted from his purpose. He pulled a Georgette Heyer from the shelf, then realized there was the entire collection. He managed to hold back his gasp of delight. “Oh, I loved these.”

“Ah. A contemporary of yours, perhaps?”

“Heyer? Yes, a matter of fact. We corresponded, once or twice. Mostly bitching about Cartland.” He turned over to read the back of These Old Shades, lost in memories.

“That’s my favorite,” Leah announced.

“Yes. A Mark II, as she would say.”

Her face was a question.

“Heyer had two types of male leads. Mark Is were in the style of Mr. Rochester.” She nodded her comprehension. “Tended to be overbearing bounders. Mark IIs were the debonair and sophisticated types.” He pushed the book back on the shelf. He had a Kindle, himself, which saved on travelling with a library but he did miss the feel of paper between his fingers. “Probably says a lot about your type in men. Much older, man of the world. Scheming.”

Her mouth dropped open. Then she laughed in a shocked way, those astonishing eyes wide and rounded. “My goodness, Marcus, you do say the most outrageous things.”

“Do I?” He liked that he had broken her sadness. Pleased with himself, he plucked down Sylvester. “I liked this one.”

She held her hand out, a silent command, expecting to be obeyed. “I don’t remember it. But I might not have read them all.” Leah took the book and read the back. None the wiser, apparently, she opened it to the first page, her eyes moving fast. “No. I haven’t read it. It’s good?”

He half smiled. “For its genre. It’s charming. Sold well.”

Leah tucked it down the side of her chair. “I’ll read it later, then.”

“May I sit?” He waved to the chair opposite her.

“Yes, of course.” She took a deep breath. “Is the wake still going strong?”

Marcus stretched out his legs. The seat was comfortable. A good reading chair. Wide enough to slump at any angle or, as Leah had demonstrated, curl up. Cozy. He imagined that was why the room was so small. The rest of the house had an open-plan feel but this was clearly for those who wanted to be sequestered away, alone. He wondered if Leah preferred that. “It is. He seemed to be much loved.” It was the right thing to say. Leah smiled wanly. “But you don’t enjoy them? Wakes?”

She pulled a face. “No. I’ve never got the hang of them.” She uncurled and stretched, her bare toes nearly brushing his legs. There was a glass of wine on the table beside her, which she grabbed. “I noticed you managed to slip Tag’s potion.”

“Learnt my lesson.”

“I have to admit, I haven’t tried any of the variations for fear of the results.”

“Surprised the Marrok hasn’t put an end to it if he disapproves so much.”

“Oh – he wouldn’t do that. Too overtly dictatorial. He’d rather we all learnt from our mistakes.” She swallowed a mouthful of wine, finishing her glass, and then leaned over the armrest to pull up a bottle. She waved it at him. “If you get a glass…”

He’d left his glass in the other room. He pushed himself upright. “I’ll be right back.”

The wake was still going strong, though had now migrated to the piano, where Anna was playing something upbeat, talking as she did so to Tag and George. Marcus spotted his glass and he grabbed it, as well as a bowl of chips. He caught the Marrok’s eye as he turned, gave him a smile and a salute with his glass. He was extraneous to the party, anyway. No reason for him to stick around.

Happily, Marcus returned to Leah.

*

A week later, Leah was at his front door. She looked at his boxers, frowning. “It’s nearly midday.”

“I’ve been pre-occupied.” Marcus had woken just after dawn with a thread of an idea. A solid thread, the kind he used to get. He’d nearly broken a bone stumbling over his sneakers to get to his laptop and written two-thousand words before he’d realized he was starving. He’d cooked eggs, laptop next to him on the counter, and eaten them directly from the pan, tapping away with one hand.

“I see.”

He waved her in and diverted to his bedroom to put some clothes on. She hovered in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

“Yes. Yes, that would be pleasant.” Leah’s eyes moved around the room and, his mind half full of a plot that was still gestating, the various directions and conversations and characters he was building filling up every inch of space, he recalled that this house had once belonged to a friend of hers. The woman turned traitor.

“Is it weird being here?” he asked, as he boiled water.

“I don’t know. We stripped everything of hers out.” She ran a finger over the mantle above the unused fireplace and then checked it, rubbing her fingers together. “She didn’t actually live here very long. It’s not like I spent time here.” Leah exhaled. “But, yes. It’s weird.”

“You had no idea?”

“None. She was a bitch, but then most of us are.” She gifted him with a self-depreciating smile.

Marcus wasn’t fooled. He thought Leah had a good game face. “Hard to be taken in that way. She was your friend.”

She tilted her head to the side. “In a manner of speaking.”

“You weren’t friends?”

Leah didn’t answer, accepted her coffee with a nod of thanks, and blew on it, ambling towards the doors out onto the terrace. “She was young, when she came here. Her pack had been beating her. Starving her. She had the very… faintest resemblance to—” She sipped her coffee, loudly. Marcus had noticed that she often stopped herself mid-sentence, likely when she was about to say something too revealing. It was a trait he was intending to give one of his characters. A lot of old wolves did it.

She continued, “The thing is, we take in wolves all the time here. Broken wolves, wolves who require time and space. There’s always something miraculous about those who arrive, a shadow of themselves, and become something bright and vivacious. Sage was like that. Went from a mousy beaten creature to someone who could hold her own. She was damned nosy – she was a spy, after all – but she was funny. She took no… no shit, even from those more dominant than her. I liked that. I admired that.”

“Seems like you take no shit, either.”

Leah cast him a look over her shoulder. “Ah, yes, but she was charming about it. I am not.”

“You’re plenty charming.” Alarm bells rang in Marcus’s ears as he stepped dangerously into territory he had planned to avoid.

Her face changed, almost becoming shy. She looked away again. “This isn’t what I came here for. Tomorrow, we’re taking the new Changes on a longer run. Bran’s got to leave town for a week or so,” she sighed heavily, “and we need more bodies. Anna will come but I need more dominant men.”

“I’d love to.” He would. He knew better than to sit and write non-stop. Breaks were good for the spirit. Kept the juices going, stopped things from going stale. “Anything I should look out for? It’s been… a long time since I’ve run with any quantity of new Changes.” And this pack had six. Six. It was almost unheard of.

“Tomorrow? Oh, the usual." She lifted and dropped a shoulder, casually. She was an old hand at this, clearly. "Anyone who drifts off-piste. Bears. Any idiotic behavior. And that’s just Asil.”

“Asil’s coming?”

“Yes. He’s part responsible for training. He’s— good at it,” she admitted, begrudgingly.

Marcus thought she was adorable when she pouted. Ah, damn.

“What’s with you and him, anyway?”

“He’s an asshole who puts women on pedestals.” She took a big gulp of her coffee. “And I never got one. So.” Leah shrugged and plonked her mug down in his sink. “Thank you for the coffee. See you at the house at six? I’ll feed you.”

“Looking forward to it.”

*

It was unremitting chaos from beginning ‘til end. He spent seven hours biting at flanks, chastising such relentlessly asinine behavior he began to think it would probably be far more sensible if they just let these wolves die rather than inflict them on the population at large.

By the time he’d fished the second werewolf of the night out of a freezing cold creek, Marcus was done, he was done, absolutely done, done, done.

Finally, Leah barked three times, drawing all their attention, and then – a silver and gold blade in the night – she headed westwards. Back to Aspen Creek.

He hoped.

It took two hours to corral everyone back and then he sat witness to Asil’s terrifying teaching technique as all six wolves Changed and stood shivering in the back yard, sprayed with a hose by Tag, whilst Asil railed at them for their stupidity.

Leah handed him a mug of hot chocolate and they sat, wrapped in blankets on the back porch, trying not to smile.

“You should crash in the guest room tonight. I’ll make you a big breakfast in the morning.” She patted his leg, a winning smile on her face. “As a thank you. When Nigel dove into that creek I genuinely hesitated, thinking I would prefer it if he drowned.”

Marcus barked out a laugh and then guiltily looked in Nigel’s direction. He’d no doubt heard her comment. “Do you live in the house, too, then?” he asked.

Leah gave him a puzzled looked. “Yes?”  

It wasn’t unusual – a big pack house like this often housed more members of the pack than just the Alpha. He supposed it fit with her role as Bran’s housekeeper. He wondered if anyone else did or if it was just the Marrok and Leah, rattling around by themselves.

On his left, Leah shifted. “Marcus, you do know that— you do know that Bran and I are— that we’re— that I am his mate. His wife. You know that, right?” she asked then.

Marcus felt the bottom drop from his stomach. First, not understanding what she was saying. How it could be be possible. And then he saw, too, understanding on her face, reflecting back his shock.

“You didn’t know that,” she whispered sorrowfully. “How— oh.” Her eyes drifted closed as she scoffed. “Of course. Why would you know that? He would hardly—”

“I’m… so sorry.” Marcus felt the length of her thigh against his, through the blankets, burning suddenly. Someone else’s mate. Someone else’s wife. “Oh my God.” He shifted down the bench and then stood. “I need to— get back.”

“Marcus,” she said, standing too.

He bowed, quickly. “Thank you, for the drink. And the… educational evening. I bid you goodnight.” And then, not remotely ashamed of himself – not for this – he made a run for it.

It was no time at all before he was back in the house he had been beginning to think of as home. His face was burning, not with exertion but from the growing humiliation of a misunderstanding that tugged at his heart.

He opened his freezer door and stuck his face against the ice, as if it would alleviate the excruciating sensation.

He’d thought her Bran’s housekeeper. When she had simply been acting as a hostess. What a pig he was, to assume otherwise.

And Tag—!

Oh God, Tag had been warning him. He had been warning him that the Marrok’s mate was not in the best place right then to make good decisions. That she might not be acting in her best interests. He had seen something – obviously – and had thought to intervene.

The Marrok’s mate. Bran’s mate. His wife.

“In my defense,” he said out loud to the packet of frozen chicken, as he remembered the strange distance between them at the funeral, a distance he put down to them not being close, “they are the weirdest mated couple ever.”

There. That was fair. He slammed the freezer door closed and rubbed at his cheeks. The cold had helped.

Repeatedly, Marcus reassured himself that he had not acted inappropriately. He had made no moves on her. This woman who was the mate of the most powerful werewolf in the world. He hadn’t kissed her – despite wanting to. He hadn’t grabbed hold of her bare thigh just to feel the strength of the muscle beneath, contrasting with the smoothness of her skin. He hadn’t parted the blanket, sliding his hand inside to stroke the warmth of her belly.

He’d done none of those things. And yet he knew if Leah had, for the slightest moment, indicated she would be receptive, he would have moved forward faster than the speed of light.

“Jesus Christ.” He opened his fridge and took out a bottle of beer, hit the cap off on the edge of the counter, and drank it down in a few seconds. He could do with Tag’s brew now. Something to take the edge off. He cracked open another and walked over to the dark windows, pressing his forehead to the glass.

Bran couldn’t penalize him for his dreams, could he? He’d certainly had one or two fairly racy dreams about Leah, ones that had lingered through his morning shower and given him a certain pep to the start of his day. Thank fuck he wasn’t part of Bran’s pack in any official sense. The man was rumored to have psychic powers. Surely he’d be able to pick up that Marcus had fairly regularly been masturbating to the thoughts of his wife.

“Jesus Christ,” he said again, pulling back to take a big swig of beer.

Nothing had happened. He had to keep telling himself that. He hadn’t betrayed Bran in any way. He could… chalk it up to a simple flirtation. A misunderstanding. He couldn’t be executed for a misunderstanding, could he? Bran was more reasonable than that.

He groaned. Alpha males were not known for their reasonableness when it came to their mates, though. He had avoided the mated state himself but even the few relationships he’d had were not without the demands of the wolf wishing to stamp his ownership.

In the reflection of the glass, he saw the edge of his laptop, sitting on the table where it had been charging. He’d worked all day, happily in his own world.

Finishing his beer, Marcus determined that’s what he would do until the ache in his heart abated.

*

He managed four days. Or rather, Leah did. If indeed she had been avoiding him as assiduously as he had been avoiding her.

Possibly not, Marcus reflected, his heart squeezing. Possibly she’d just thought they were having a harmless flirtation.

Nevertheless, four days later he opened the door to find her standing there with a Tuppaware of cookies. She proffered these to him and said, very quickly, “I’m sorry.”

Mystified, he took the container. “Why are you sorry?”

“Well.” She scratched her cheek, eyes slanting downwards. “I wasn’t, perhaps, on my best behavior with you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And why is that?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

For a moment, Leah looked as she always did – on the verge of revealing something, only to pull it back. Then something flipped and her face cleared, almost mutinously. “All right,” she said, moving her keys from one hand to the other. “But I think we’ll need some of Tag’s brew.”

Marcus held up a finger. “I can help with that.” He opened the closet next to the front door, where most people kept jackets and boots and the vacuum cleaner. He kept a crate of Tag’s finest.

“Oh,” she said.

Probably Leah hadn’t expected the solution to be presented to her so swiftly. Perhaps she’d thought driving to Tag’s and back would give her a little time to think about what she had wanted to say. She stared at the crate of beer in his closet with consternation.

But she was a woman of her word and she nodded. “All right. Let’s do this.”

It was warm out, at least for werewolves, so they took a bottle each and sat on the steps down into the ramshackle little yard that Marcus had vague thoughts of getting to, one of these days. Maybe when his next chapter was done.

“She didn’t much care for gardening then,” he began, lacking any place to start.

“No. She was more about— interiors.” Leah took a slug of her drink, pulled a face, but took another. “Most people know who I am. If they’ve not met me. I assumed you did. I’m sorry for that. It was… hubris, I suppose.”

“You are mated to the Marrok. It’s not unreasonable to assume.”

“Here, maybe not. But you’ve lived in Europe most of your life. Why would I think you’d know? That anyone would?” She snorted. “Hubris.”  

“I saw Juste this week. I asked him, if he’d known of you before he came here. He said he had. It’s not hubris, Leah. Just… my own ill-attention. There were enough signs.” He’d had time to think on it, of course, to punish himself late at night. “You’re obviously an excellent helpmate.”

“Yes. I am that.” Leah smirked. “I worked hard to be that.” She took another drink and put the bottle down on the step by her boots. “Worryingly tasty, that.”

“Isn’t it?” Marcus had rationed himself. One bottle, on a Friday night. Two if he was eating a good meal rather than the snacks he peppered himself with throughout the day. “Tag could make a fortune if he could market it.”

“He won’t. He’ll get bored and move on. Juste might,” she said, however, in considering tones. “He’s more commercially minded. If Bran would let him.”

“Unlikely, you think?”

“Oh, very.”

They drifted into a silence that was only awkward, Marcus decided, because of his own racing thoughts, his own personal discomfort with her unfortunately much-wanted presence. She was dressed once more in stretchy running pants, running sneakers, and a long sleeved top. Over this she wore a lightweight waterproof. He thought she was one of the most attractive women he’d ever met.

“I’m trying to think of somewhere to begin,” she told him. “I’ve not told— anyone— I’m not going to tell you everything. That’s my business, and his.”

“Of course.”

“But, suffice to say, we didn’t meet in the best of circumstances. He Changed me, when I was dying. We were mated very shortly after that. It wasn’t long after his first mate died. He loved her more than life, I think you could say that.” Her voice wavered and she picked up the bottle again and drank almost half of it in three large gulps. “Phew. That stuff works fast, doesn’t it?”

He waited. Some of what she had told him wasn't quite the truth.

“I was told, by him, by others, that the reason for our mating was—strategic, on his part. The mating bond can help, with the wolf.” She glanced at him, checking that he was aware of this fact. He was. Madden had been better, after Sunny. “And Bran needed that. So.”

Prickles of alarm that had nothing to do with her made themselves known. “Did you know this, before you mated?”

“No.”

Something fairly large was missing in this story. He wanted to ask but she had jutted her chin out, her jaw clenching, and he wondered if this fell into the bracket of it being her business and Bran’s. Private. He needed to respect that. 

“Go on,” he encouraged, trying to look casual. Just two friends, enjoying a beer on a sunny day.

“I wasn’t… a good mate. In the beginning. I didn’t really know what I was doing and he didn’t want to help me. He just wanted me there. I think. Also, he had a little boy. Charles. I had… no idea he existed until I met him. And then I loathed him.” She laughed and it wasn’t amused. “I’d had… children. Just before. They died. Young.” She swallowed loudly. “I’d like to say that was the whole reason but I… was, perhaps still am, jealous of the attention Bran gives Charles. I am not a good person, Marcus,” she said, giving him a bold, challenging look.

Marcus returned that look. “Perhaps, another time, I could regale you with stories of my early years post-Change.”

She marveled at him. “You’re really not what I expected at all.”

He tilted his bottle towards her and they clinked. “So. What we have so far is that the Marrok Changed a young woman, mated her without explaining why, and expected you to just get on with it.”

“More or less.” Leah exhaled heavily. “I want you to know that Bran had a lot of reasons for the choices he made. He tried to do his best.”

“Fair of you. Still sounds like he was mostly a dick,” Marcus said, taking a glug of his beer.

She made a noise that was half giggle, half snort. “Well, he is that. I love him. Very much. He’s a hard man to love but I do. And until recently I had always believed that I was a mistake he tolerated. A replacement, a poor one, for Charles’s mother.”

“Jesus.”

“Anna thinks I should find some therapist to talk to about this.”

“So she knows, as well?”

“Parts of it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Charles too. I’d rather they didn’t. But some things from my past… came back. And had to be dealt with.”

“I feel like there’s a novel in this.”

“A horror story, maybe,” she muttered. “Anyway. Bran now believes he loves me. But we’re bad at it. Loving each other. As we apparently do now.”

Marcus felt like they’d just abruptly pressed fast-forward on the story and he was struggling to catch up. They’d gone from horror to romance in the blink of an eye. “Well, I suppose— if you believed he wasn’t interested for a long time, that would be hard…?”

Having never managed a relationship longer than a few years, he tried to imagine the circumstances of navigating one that was nearing two centuries and all the inevitable history that came with that. He was also struggling to imagine being mated to a woman – this woman – and seeing her as anything other than admirable. The mating was a bond between their wolf spirits and he’d always been given the impression that it was pretty infallible. Akin to a soulmate. He couldn’t imagine essentially rejecting that.

It was certainly putting Bran in a light he had never considered before. Every interaction he’d ever had with the Marrok had been one of wisdom and fairness. He’d heard plenty of stories about him, of course. But nothing – the stories, his experiences, nor the tale Leah was telling him – was really gelling.

“Exactly.” There was a sense of triumph in her voice. “He struggles, with that. He thinks that just telling me is, was, enough. That— an ‘I love you’ fixes everything. I didn’t even believe him at first.” She stopped and chewed on her bottom lip. “But I do believe him. I just don’t know what to do with that. And he just wants things to go back to normal.”

Appalled, Marcus took a moment to finish his beer. “Sounds like Bran should read some romance novels. Put some actions to his words.”

She laughed and leaned against him, crossing that decorous line that had been placed between them. “He should. I should give him one of the Heyer novels, perhaps?” Leah gasped suddenly and shoved him. “That joke you made. About my type of men.”

“I mean, it was accurate.” Old. Worldly. Scheming. Was there a better description of the Marrok? He was almost pleased with himself.

“Painfully.” She finished her own beer and nodded to his empty one. “Another?”

“Why not.” He’d throw out his rule. For her.

*

In a way, the insight into their mating helped Marcus’s vague sense of heartache. He hadn’t fallen for her, not completely. Perhaps his own wolf had recognized she wasn’t available. Perhaps he hadn’t had enough time. Perhaps, it was just sex.

Perhaps, it was hearing her say that she loved her mate. Despite everything.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, as Doris Day had sung.

Bran returned, sometime the following week, and for the most part Marcus kept himself occupied with his book, consumed with research and plot-making, detailed character histories and the minutiae of ensuring credibility. Outside of that, he did his duty and went up to the manor house for a couple of the pack socials – a Spring barbeque, a movie night – and he observed the dynamics of the Alpha couple with newfound interest.

If ‘normality’, for them, meant they both kept their distance and observed a cool courtesy at all times, then for sure they had that nailed. In some senses, it was quite old-fashioned. He’d known of couples who behaved like that in public. A question of manners, of a belief that affection made them appear weak. He could imagine that being the case for Leah but Bran himself was overtly affectionate to others in the pack. He called Anna ‘my dear’ and kissed her forehead. He clapped his son on the back and would hug the girl, Kara. He would touch everyone, it seemed, except his mate. In turn, Leah walked around as if she was in a bubble of her own, a bubble few entered. Kara was a favorite. Anna, too, but possibly because of Anna’s own insistence.  

Once again, Marcus reflected that it was not entirely his fault that he hadn’t realized they were a mated couple. They gave absolutely no sign that this was the case.

He felt sorry for them.

“I don’t want to ask this question,” he began, cornering Leah one evening in the kitchen, “but what are you doing about the situation?”

She closed the oven door. “About what situation?”

“You know what situation.” Marcus wasn’t going to spell it out. He ultimately couldn’t believe he was even engaging on the topic. Like a madman. A glutton for punishment.

She’d just stuck her head in a hot oven so the blush could have been explained away by that alone. “Nothing. None of your business.”

He ignored this. “Absolutely nothing? You don’t— talk?”

Leah shook her head, a wry look about her. “No. And it’s none of your business.”

Marcus was baffled. “You weren’t kidding. You’re really bad at this.”

She became defensive. “You try not talking for two hundred years and see how good you are at it.” Crossly, Leah pulled open the restaurant-size refrigerator and began to aggressively take out sides. “And it’s none of your business, Marcus!”

He couldn’t explain it. It felt like his business. He accepted the large shredded bowl of salad she handed him. Then a series of smaller bowls, which he balanced up one arm. “I care about you,” Marcus said, unwillingly. Awkwardly, given the man he had been two weeks ago had apparently thought all he cared about was getting her into bed. But here they were. “And your… happiness.”

She looked horrified. And then – worse – her eyes filled with tears. Hurriedly, she turned her back on him, fists at her sides, staring into her open pantry. 

“Jesus, don’t cry,” he hissed, looking towards the closed door. Everyone was outside – he hoped. He wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what to do if someone came in. Push her into the pantry and close the door, probably.

“I’m not.” She was. “God, why did you ever come here?”

“I thought it would be peaceful.”

Leah spluttered, wetly. He put down the bowl of salad, the little bowls of salsa and dips, and pulled off too much kitchen towel, handed it to her over her shoulder. Then, for apparently ignoring a weeping woman was now beyond his capabilities, he rested his hands on her shoulders. There now. No one could complain about that, he reasoned, as he began to apply pressure with his fingers.

“When I was younger.” She paused to blow her nose. “I used to dream about him feeling the same way. I can’t believe what a mess we’ve made of it.”

“Someone should talk to him.”

“Are you volunteering?” Leah braved turning around and, yes, his next action was foolish to the extreme. He drew her to him, this wet-eyed, proud creature, wrapping his arms about her shoulders. A hug. No one could complain about a hug, could they?

“I think that would be suicidal,” Marcus sighed, resting his chin against her head. She still smelled fantastic. And not in the slightest bit of the Marrok, more to the point. “But you need a mediator. Someone both of you trust. Anna?”

“No. She’s on his side.”

Marcus’s wolf grumbled about this. “I cannot imagine how anyone could be.”

She sniffed into his shoulder and he felt her move so she could shove the kitchen towel into her face. “Probably get a book out of this.”

He patted her back. He had thought of it, more than once. "You’re probably right.”

Leah drew back and blew her nose again, then dabbed at the mascara under her eyes. “Do I look frightful?”

“You know you don’t.” Marcus cupped her face in his hands and smiled, filled with affection. Platonic affection, he assured himself. She smiled back, one hand going to his wrist and squeezing.

Obviously, that was when Bran walked in.

Obviously, prior to discovering she was his mate, Marcus would have reacted better. Knowing they hadn’t been doing anything actually untoward. Hugging a pack-mate when they were upset was absolutely within the bounds of reasonable behavior. Now, as the Marrok’s hazel eyes glided from Leah, to Marcus’s hands on her face, to the position of her hand on his wrist, he reacted as only the guilty would. He pulled his hand back as if they were burned. He heard Leah take in a sharp breath.

The shadow of his wolf crossing his eyes, Bran put the empty bottle of wine down on the counter nearest him, a little too hard. “I think we should deal with this now, shouldn’t we?”

*

Marcus hadn’t initially been sure what to expect. Claws at dawn, perhaps.

Instead, Bran walked them to his office. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk and then began building his fire up, his back to them. Marcus tried to catch Leah’s eye, to communicate what now, but she was staring fixedly out of the window. He did not like the look on her face. Angry. Stubborn.

This was going to go poorly, he thought.

Taking a deep breath, Marcus attempted to calm himself down. He knew what was going on here was not about him. It was about the two people he was – quite literally – stuck between. The woman on his right, wounded by their shared history, and the man on his left who was… not as infallible as Marcus had been led to believe.

He had to remember that.

Bran finished playing around with his fire and stood. He took a moment to admire it and then he paced to his chair, dropping down into the creased leather. He moved something on his desk to a different position.

“I have been waiting for one of you to have the decency to speak to me,” Bran began in a quiet, deadly voice, his eyes not lifting from his blotter. “Rather than continuing on behind my back.”

All the air in the room suddenly disappeared. Marcus struggled to get breath, to manifest even a single word. He truly might die here.

Leah was, however, not speechless. “What?” she demanded, apparently not remotely phased by the fury in her mate’s voice. “Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”

Bran looked up, no shadow of his wolf in his eyes now. But a full blown supermoon. “Implying, no, I am directly accusing. Was I not clear enough?”

“How dare you!”

Bran stood slowly and an icy chill began to make its way through the room. Unnatural. Coming from the wolf himself. Contrasting directly with the fire and brimstone woman on his right. Jesus Christ, when they argued, they probably brought down buildings.

“Sir,” Marcus eased out, like he was forcing tennis balls from his mouth. He was tempted to put his hand on Leah in the hopes that he would stop the inevitable confrontation but that would be highly inflammatory. “I can assure you there is nothing going on behind your back or otherwise. Your mate is devoted to you.”

“Increasingly less so by the moment,” Leah put in, with no sense of self preservation. She was panting hard – puffs of white mist appearing before her. It was below freezing in the Marrok’s office now. The fire was fighting a losing battle.

Bran didn’t believe them. His sneer was ugly, a look Marcus would hope never to see again. “Then what is it, then? The whispers and the collusion. Every time I turn around, there you are, sequestered away.”

Not about me, Marcus reminded himself as Leah spluttered, eyes glittering with rage. “Sequestered? Colluding? Are you insane?”

“No, he’s paranoid, Leah,” Marcus snapped. “As we all are. Calm down, for God’s sake.”

The glittering look was spun to him. Offended and hurt all in one. “How dare you!”

“You two are— stop it,” Marcus said as she opened her mouth to rage at him. He waved a finger at her. “Stop it.” Then, boldly, insanely, he did the same to the Marrok and probably came closer to having his head torn off than he had ever done so with Madden. “You, too. I am… sorry, that appearances have not been as they ought. For most of the time I have been living here, I had no idea Leah was your mate. Not that Leah lied by omission,” he said hurriedly.

It was Bran’s turn to splutter. “How?” He sank down into his seat again. Progress.

“How do you think?” Leah asked nastily. “Do you treat me any different from the rest of the pack?”

“Yes, dammit, yes,” Bran shouted, fist hitting the desk, making both of them jump. “You are foremost.”

“Maybe in your head,” she sniped.

“In my head, in my heart, everywhere.”

Thankfully, Leah didn’t have anything to say to that highly romantic statement. She just stared at him with burning eyes. And he stared back.

Marcus wondered if he should excuse himself. Wondered if, by sheer force of will, he could summon the Omega. Then pack his bags. Just… hit the road. He was about half of the way through his novel – desperately trying not to edit as he went, which always ruined the flow. He could find a motel somewhere remote and finish it. He’d been hoping that Bran might know a few publishers. He was somehow out of the loop when it came to the publishing world these days.  

Instead, he decided to tear the bandage off. “I am very fond of Leah, sir. I hope we have become friends. As her friend,” he continued, finding a point above Bran’s head to stare at, “her happiness has become important to me. And since her happiness entirely rests on you, it seems only right to say that… well, you’re an asshole.”

Leah let out a small, alarmed noise. A mouse caught beneath the cat’s paw.

Marcus was not done. Blithely, he signed his death warrant still further. “An absolute, colossal asshole. She seems to think there are reasons for this. Good ones. I don’t know if this is willful blindness of her part or truth. Perhaps she has some form of Stockholm Syndrome,” he mused. “Either way, despite all this, she loves you. She is a dutiful and hard-working member of your pack because that seems to have been the only permissible way for her to show you her love. If you love her as you claim to, you should be supporting your words with actions. You should be spending time with her, instead of… outsourcing to others in the pack. You should have taken her up to the wildlings. You should have cared for her when she found his body. You should—”

“Thank you, Marcus, that’s quite enough.” Bran closed his eyes, covering the full beam of his headlights. “Please go.”

All the hot air left Marcus’s body with relief. “Absolutely, thank you for your time,” he said, leaping up quickly. He patted Leah’s shoulder as he passed. “Good luck.”

*

He scooted through the house quickly, not pausing when Anna asked what was going on, and then jogged back to his home. Or not-home, as it happened. He packed up his belongings, reliving the horrifying moment he had called the Marrok an asshole – a colossal one – and considered booking a flight to South America. No. Still on the same continent. Asia. It would have to be Asia. From there, he could head to Australia. Hot as hell in the summer months but they had air conditioning. He could manage.

Someone knocked on his door as he was working out the best flights and he froze.

“It’s Tag,” came a knowing voice. “I come in peace.”

Marcus pulled open the door, half expecting to see a host of angry faces. Instead it was just the giant that was Tag. “Did the Marrok send you?”

Tag grinned broadly. “Aye. Set off a few fireworks, you did.” His eyes drifted to the suitcase by the door. “Going somewhere?”

“I was expecting to be expelled from the country.”

“Ah, he wouldn’t do that. He asked me to tell you there’s no harm done.”

Marcus rubbed at his hair, finding he’d pulled it up into tufts whilst he’d been anxiously searching online. “Sure about that?”

“Mmm. Quite sure. He’ll be by when he’s done… ah. When he’s done. Beer?”

If the Marrok was coming, then a beer would probably be necessary. “Oh, go on then.”

Three beers down, they were playing a game of draughts on the back porch, Tag regaling him with stories of sasquatch which – until this moment – Marcus had thought were entirely fictional. Like the Loch Ness Monster.

“Also real,” Tag corrected.

“It is not.”

“One-hundred per real. Fae,” he added, in explanation.

“I had no idea.” Explained a lot, he supposed. It was an enduring myth, much as werewolves and vampires. He was about to ask about the Abominable Snowman when the Marrok made his quiet way through Marcus’s still untamed back yard.

Bran raised his hand and smiled. “I come in peace.”

One look at him and Marcus realized what exactly the Marrok had been doing for the last two-and-a-half hours. He walked with the loose-limbed and glowing confidence of a man who had been laid. Even his smile was relaxed. He looked like an entirely different person. A smug one.

“Huh,” Marcus said, something clicking into place. Mated couples smelled like each other. Even the most hygienic amongst them couldn’t remove that. It was deeply ingrained, like a brand, and he had noted that Leah simply smelled gloriously like herself.   

Tag huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, remind me to tell you about the last time they refused to—”

“That’s enough, Tag,” the Marrok said dampeningly, putting an end to that indiscretion. He climbed the porch steps. “Thank you for keeping Marcus company.”

“That’s my cue to be off.” Tag gave Marcus a significant look. “See you tomorrow?”

Marcus rather thought that was up to Bran. He gave Tag a shooing gesture and the man ambled away, leaping from the porch down into the yard and disappearing through the trees.

Bran took his seat and surveyed the board. “Looks like a fairly equal match.” The Marrok picked up the remains of Tag’s beer and sniffed it. “I keep waiting for someone to crash a car or upend a tree on this stuff.”

“So you can ban it?”

“Eh.” Bran tipped the bottle to his lips. He swilled it around his mouth, thoughtfully. “Haven’t decided. It doesn’t seem to get people as drunk as I was expecting.”

“It’s mostly just relaxing.” He peered into his own bottle. “I think any effects do metabolize quite quickly. I guess it could become a crutch, for some.”

“Mmm.” He finished off Tag’s bottle. “Perhaps I’ll just limit the size and frequency of the batches.”

Marcus began to put the pieces of the board game away. It wasn’t even his. He’d found it in one of the cupboards. Tag assured him they hadn’t belonged to Sage. Apparently she preferred other kinds of games. Also – Tag was reasonably certain Sage had been sleeping with Asil, who had later gone on to execute her, which was a story he could have done without knowing. This pack seemed to be made up of improbable relationships. The Marrok’s killer and the little Omega. The Moor and the traitor. Bran and Leah.

“Thank you. For…” Bran pursed his lips. “Supporting Leah.”

“No problem.” He dropped the bag of checkers pieces into the box and folded the board. “Don’t mention it.”

“I think I have to. I apologize for accusing you of having an affair with my mate.” The wolf flickered and Bran looked away. “It wasn’t rational. I have not been rational about her for some time.”

“I hope you’ve told her that.”

“I have.” Bran smiled. It was winsome and therefore ridiculously out of place. Marcus was beginning to wonder if half the danger of the Marrok was his deceptive appearance.

Annoyed - he could smell Leah on Bran now as he no doubt purposefully hadn't bothered showering - Marcus allowed himself to put forward a risky question, “Out of interest, what would you have done? If we had been?”

Bran stared off into the trees, down the valley. He clasped his hands together, loosely. “I’m not… exactly certain.”

Madden had once had Marcus cut off his Second’s head with a sword. And that was just over his favorite of the week, whom he’d killed personally. He thought of how Bran had behaved. Inviting them into his office. Taking a seat, after carefully lighting his fire. Asking for decency.

He knew. Suddenly. “You would have let her go.” And a whisper of a fantasy unfolded in his Marcus’s mind. He crushed it. Ruthlessly.

“That was my intention. I thought she might have changed her mind.” Bran gave Marcus a somewhat sheepish, side-ways look. “Whether I’d have followed through with it is another matter. Thankfully, we did not have to test out that theory.”

“No,” Marcus agreed. Guilt niggled at him. “In the interest of honesty—”

The Marrok held up a hand quickly. “I would suggest you don’t be honest. In this instance.” At whatever he saw on Marcus’s face, he laughed, softly. “If you still feel the desire to confess, you may do so – in ten years.”

“Ten years?”

“I think I might have got over it by then.” Long fingers touched his chest, briefly, and then moved away. “Maybe. In any case, I have been thinking. What to do with you.”

Here it was. The expected expulsion. His already quite battered heart sunk. “I should leave.”

“Yes, you should. Not— because of this. Though that is a consideration.” Bran paused, clearly changing his mind about what he wanted to say. “I don’t think you would enjoy it, Marcus. I intend to put actions to my words, on your advice. You are a good man. You do not deserve… that.”

It was Marcus’s turn to look away as Bran coasted perilously close to what would have been Marcus’s confession of a few moments before. No. Though he felt like he had done the right thing by her, the thought of seeing the fruits of his labor in action was an unsettling prospect.

“But in part you have shown over the last weeks a certain skillset that I had not anticipated. You’re a peacemaker. A rare quality in a dominant wolf. I expect something you learnt from deflating Madden in your early years. Certainly that man needed it.” It was almost said with affection. “I had thought placing you elsewhere would cause me problems. My Alphas are, for the most part, quite settled now. You are an unknown quantity and I didn’t want to upset the apple cart. But I think I could place you, as you suggested, and you would be content to be Second for some time. Provided I find you… a problem pack.”

Marcus’s eyebrows rose. “A problem pack.”

“Yes. A challenge.” Bran stood and clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “I have the perfect solution. How do you feel about Kansas?”

*

Leah and only Leah saw him off. He’d said his goodbyes to the few he cared to and the Marrok had apparently an urgent call to make so had shook his hand and told him to call when he arrived.

He watched as Leah unpacked his suitcase and squeezed in a Tupperware container of cookies and a fruit loaf. “Brownies, for the flight.” She handed him a paper-wrapped bag. And then a banana and a juice carton. “Word to the wise, Malcolm Torridge is a man of few words and most of them swears.”

Torridge was the Alpha. Marcus has spent the last couple of days learning everything about his new pack. “I can deal with that.”

“His Second I cannot stand – Niall. Honestly, the most obsequious man on the planet. If you haven’t removed him in three weeks, I may never respect you again.” She put her hands on her hips and met his eyes, dead serious.

“I feel like I’m getting a pep talk from my mother.” The juice carton had really tipped that over the line for him.

Leah gave this some consideration and then shrugged. “Fine. But really. Three weeks. There’s a full moon in there. A traditional time to challenge a person.”

“I shall take that under advisement.”

She reached out, her hand pausing before it made contact with his chest. Then she committed, laid her hand on him. “You’ll call.”

“I will.” He smiled and took her hand, lifted it to give her the briefest of kisses, barely touching skin. It was her left hand. Three days ago, she’d begun sporting an enormous rock and matching, glittering wedding band. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you.”

“I know.” She fluttered her eyelashes. She toyed with the drawstring cord of his hooded sweater coyly. “You know, there’s a girl in—”

“No,” Marcus said firmly, untangling her fingers and opening the rental car door and tossing his suitcase in, followed by his back-pack.

“She’s tolerable, is all I’m saying.”

“Absolutely not. I am going to steer well away from women for the foreseeable, I can assure you.”

Despite her lame attempts at matchmaking, this obviously pleased her not inconsiderable vanity. “You know that almost guarantees the opposite, don’t you? I’ve heard.”

“Stop talking.” He hugged her, roughly, and then let go. Upstairs, Bran was watching them from the window. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it. “I shall call when I get there.”

“Every day.”

“Once a week.”

She pouted. “Every other day?”

“Christ. I shall text every other day. And call once a week.”

Her face transformed. “Text messaging. Of course. I had forgotten.”

Marcus felt he might have made a misstep, somehow. That he would be on the receiving end of hourly text messages. He hugged her again, helpless, and held on for a little longer this time, breathing in the smell of her, mingled now with the ineffable scent of the Marrok. He’d avoided the main house these last few days. Tag had said they were unbearable to be around. Apparently they still fought but this time it usually ended horizontally. Wherever they happened to end up. He shuddered to think of it.

“I know it’s for the best, but I’ll miss you,” she whispered in his ear.

“You too.” He kissed her temple, quickly, and released her. Upstairs, Bran’s forehead was pressed against the glass. His eyes were firmly squeezed closed. “Give your husband my regards. And—” Marcus smiled up at the window, knowing Bran could hear everything. “You can always call me if you change your mind.”

In the space of a nano-second, Marcus had thrown himself into the car, locked the doors and started the engine. The Marrok was through the front door, only to be halted from possibly tossing the car by his mate throwing herself at him, climbing him like a tree. He could see she was saying things to him, her hands petting his hair like he was an irate dog.

“Ha,” Marcus said, reversing down the drive.