Page 101 of Never Submit

A small space where a kitchen garden used to be is the perfect clearing to help Ren through her change. Which should be easier with the approach of the full moon.

“No one will see us here,” I assure her, stopping her on one of the nearly invisible flagstone pavers marking a path through the overgrown, slumbering garden.

Ren’s hands go straight to her hips. “You think I’m embarrassed by it?”

“I think there’s always a slight hesitation when it comes to embracing something you’re not used to. Something that has never been a part of your world before,” I hurry to say,to correct myself before she fixes those glowing eyes on me in a bad way. I don’t want to ruin this before it starts. This tender, budding moment where it’s only the two of us in a raging sea of stress.

“The first thing you need to remember is to relax,” I tell her. “Keep your body calm and your mind away from anything that scares you.”

“That’s going to help me stop fighting the change?” she clarifies.

“I’m not sure. That’s what my mother told me when I was going through my adolescence. It doesn’t really make the transition easier, but it gives your mind something different to focus on rather than the stress of what your body is experiencing. Now widen your legs.”

I wait for her to move into position. Balanced evenly on both feet.

“Hands off the hips. Leave your arms loose at your sides and swing them around a little bit.”

I go through the motions myself, keeping my feet planted while I work my arms from side to side in a flowing motion, keeping my breath timed with the movement.

Ren mimics me. “I feel silly.”

“Silly is better than scared, isn’t it?” I tease. “Not to mention your clothes. Dresses will help you when you shift. Easier to move, easier to tear off. You might want to consider wearing them.”

She arches a brow. “Seriously?”

I mimic her right back and say, “Clothing can be constricting when you need to shift quickly. Especially in emergencies. It’s why I don’t wear underwear. And why Dax is always naked.”

Ren snorts, shaking her head to clear whatever picturein her mind has her blushing. “So. Your mom taught you, huh?”

“She did indeed. Since my father was being the all-busy-alpha as well.” I throw her own words back at her but not with any kind of malice. It delights me, being able to share a little bit of my family’s history with her.

“How did she describe it? Your mom?”

“You mean our shift? She described it as embracing a different part of me, something that’s always been there, and having it show on the outside. It’s not something you fight because it’s in you. The wolf is not separate. The wolfisyou.”

Ren stumbles over her words. “Then why does it only seem accessible when I’m really emotional? It’s like my hormones are going nuts and the more I try to control myself, the deeper I get into this pit, this well, and then it’s not me anymore. It’s this other thing taking over.”

“It feels that way because you’re not a natural-born wolf. But that doesn’t make you any less of one,” I explain gently.

This, I realize as we both go through the motions of swinging our arms, is something special. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, or pinpoint why the thought has made itself known, growing louder.

But it’s just me and Ren bonding outside the lodge. The two of us with an uncertain future ahead.

I slow my movements until we both go still but the energy is flowing. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. Look at that pit inside of you. The one you say you feel. Your wolf is there but she’s not separate. She’s you. She is always going to be there. She feels the pull of the moon.”

Ren’s eyes flutter shut and she nods. “It’s there. The moon… It’s like when you get a craving for something and you know it won’t be curbed until you have it.”

“Exactly. And there’s no reason not to give in.”

“But I’m scared.”

Her body is resisting the change. If she would only lower those walls, it would be easier.

Her hands curl, her arms bent at the elbows and her head tilting to the side. Small patches of white fur erupt over her wrists and the sides of her neck, her jaw cracking out of place. Pain screws her face into an awful, heartbreaking expression.

“Stop fighting.”

“Ithurts, Mathis.”

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