Page 3 of What's Rogue Got To Do With It

I looked down at my phone to see my father’s name lit up. Great. That was the last thing I needed.

It was my day off and my plan had been to spend the morning drinking coffee on my back porch, ignoring the world around me. Of course, being the son of the den Alpha meant that I, of all people, couldn’t ignore his call. If I did, he’d make an example out of me… a very public example.

It was one of the bazillion reasons my father and I didn’t get along. He believed that the son of the Alpha had to be the perfect role model. In his mind, if I did something wrong, that showed that he was somehow less than.

“Hello.”

“It rang three times.” Great. He was in a bad mood, too.

“I’m sorry about that. It was in my pocket, and I didn’t realize at first.” It wasn’t a lie, but I should’ve known better than to mention it.

“Just apologize. Don’t make excuses.” If I’d been in his presence, he’d have had me on my knees as he reprimanded me.

“Yes, Alpha. I apologize.”

There had been a time when I’d have pushed back. That time was over. Keeping the peace was always better, especially since my dad died. I no longer had anyone to be a buffer.

“I need you to get the van keys and head up to the warehouse store.” And suddenly he had his business voice back on.

“Isn’t that Ryan’s job?” I instantly regretted the words. Never poke an Alpha. “I… I mean, yes, Alpha.”

“I don’t know why you’re so defiant.” The affection in his tone caught me off guard. Wasn’t he still mad at me? “Sometimes I really do know better.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I need Ryan today. Come get the list and keys and go pick up everything.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes and Father, I am sorry.”

I didn’t inherently hate shopping, but going to the warehouse store for our monthly supplies was a pain in the ass. I wasn’t picking out a loaf of bread and some instant noodles to stock my own kitchen. I was buying food for the entire den, which meant flatbed trolley after flatbed trolley of food, which I then had to load into the van to bring back—to unload then unload it all back here. Not to mention being in a metal building surrounded by humans.

I didn’t have anything against humans. They were fine. But humans… They felt uncomfortable around me. They didn’talways realize it, or know why, but when I would walk down an aisle, they’d back up or swirl around me, giving me a wide berth. Children would cling to their moms. Once I’d had a couple of humans report me as, quote, “being creepy”—all because I bought six gallons of milk.

How buying milk was creepy, I had no idea.

And it wasn’t always that bad. Some days I could push my fox down far enough where the reactions were less in your face. But today wasn’t going to be one of those days. My fox had been a butt for about a week, demanding we hunt multiple times a day.

I wasn’t sure if it was because I was getting to the age where I should be settling down and I refused to take a mate, or if it was just him going through a phase, but whatever it was, I was ready for it to be over.

The warehouse store was an hour and a half from the den lands, and I pulled in just as they opened to the public. I filled the first flatbed trolley with paper goods, cleaning supplies, and fruit snacks.

For some reason, the kits all loved fruit snacks and while they didn’t need a lot of human snacky stuff, preferring to focus on the den’s homemade jerky, fruit snacks were the exception. They weren’t on the list, but my trip, my rules.

I stuck to the list as I filled the second, and the third with food before navigating them to the check out where my first one awaited.

“Record time.” I closed the back of the van doors. It was barely after lunch, and everything was inside, and I was on my way back home.

The traffic was light and I pulled down the dirt road toward our den with plenty of day left to enjoy. The weather was gorgeous. The sun was bright, the wind was blowing softly. But even so, I still didn’t see anyone outside. Not a kit playing or a parent walking, not a fox sitting on their porch reading. No one.

That should’ve been my first hint that something had gone wrong.

I pulled behind the kitchen, banged on the back door, and it didn’t open up. I banged again. Nothing. Giving up, I went through the front and propped it open while I unloaded the groceries and put them away solo.

Still not a fox in sight.

And then I heard it—the bell. The bell that told us that a challenge had been called.

“Fuck.”

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