Page 61 of Ravaged Wolf
“Here. I’ll help.” Flora rescues me as I begin my slow trek back outside.
“Thanks.” I hand her a bowl and a plate.
Flora spends most of her time helping with the elders, and since she’s related to Granddad, we trade off watching him a lot. She’s very easy to be around. Her mate will scowl at you if he thinks you’re walking or standing too close to her, and he’s always curt when she’s not around, but I kind of get it now. My skin hasn’t felt right since I left Izzy to get food, and I’m not excited about her being out of my sight and around males again.
Maybe she’s not totally committed to the healer thing. She’s smart. I could teach her how to fix stuff. Or I could learn how to heal. That’s kind of fixing stuff, if you think about it.
Izzy is still sleeping when we get back, but Granddad is up. He’s sat up and thrown his legs over the side of his cot, but he hasn’t worked up the energy to take it to the next step yet. He’s groggily peering at the lump that is Izzy. She’s tucked her foot back under the blanket. She must’ve gotten cold.
“There you are,” Granddad booms when he catches sight of us. “There’s a female in your bed.”
“That’s Izzy,” I say quietly, hoping he’ll follow suit.
“She’s got pretty fur,” he booms even louder, and then he very obviously notices our company and the bowl of sausage and eggs she’s bringing. “Not as pretty as yours, Flora, but nice, all the same.”
“Thanks, Granddad. Want to go back to the den with me after you eat?”
“Sure, sure, I can do that. I’ve got time today.”
Izzy is stirring now. Her blanket moves, and I catch a whiff of blood.
I don’t panic.
My blood pressure shoots through the roof, and my fangs spike, but I keep my mouth shut and set down the tin plate that I’ve partially crumpled in my hand. She’s not hurt. It’s not that kind of blood.
She’s drawing herself up, curling herself so her legs are tucked under her butt. Her face has drained white. Flora’s eyes flick from Izzy to me. She’s scented what’s up, too.
Please, let Granddad not notice. His senses aren’t what they used to be. And if he does notice, please, by all that’s holy, don’t let him announce it like he’s got a bullhorn. Izzy’s eyes dart around the bare shelter, silently panicking.
My mom was always matter-of-fact about her time of the month, but the females at the Academy and those I knew at Salt Mountain treated it as top secret, passing each other supplies like spies, and would never think of talking about it in front of a male.
I don’t have supplies. The closest latrine is back in the den. So are Izzy’s things.
If I asked Flora for help, she would without hesitation, but I’ll be damned if the first time I have to take care of my mate, I foist it off on someone else. Besides, it’d take Florajust as long to run back to the den as it’ll take me, and she’s got to get Granddad settled for the day.
I climb onto the platform, careful not to spill Izzy’s coffee, and kneel in front of her, carefully setting her plate on the plank floor. “Are you okay to eat this while I run back to the den for your things and some water to bathe?” I ask her softly.
Her cheeks blaze pink, and she nods, staring at the plate. She can’t look at me. I press my forehead to hers. My wolf rumbles reassuringly.
Her lashes flutter, and she glances up. Our eyes lock. “Thanks,” she says.
“I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay.”
I don’t want to leave. I have to force myself to take each step. Flora and Granddad are with her. They’ll stay until I get back. She’s not going to disappear. She’s not hurt; she’s embarrassed. This isn’t an emergency.
My body doesn’t believe it. I sprint back to the den, my wolf spurring me to go faster. I ask Rosie to gather Izzy’s things, and thankfully, she doesn’t question me about it. I fill a bucket, and then it occurs to me—what if Izzy doesn’t have supplies?
She should, right? But what if she doesn’t. I can’t go through her stuff. I blink, look around, and realize I’m standing in the middle of the den, water sloshing over the side of the bucket, huffing like I’ve run a marathon. I must look moon mad.
I force myself to stop and draw in a long, deep breath. I am capable of caring for my mate. She came to me. I am never going to give her cause to regret it.
I need a mated female. The ones who spend their days around the den tend to congregate in a work area they’ve set up overlooking the play enclosure they created for thesmallest pups. I’ve fixed their old Singer a few times. It’s a beautiful machine, but its drive belt is on its last leg, and a replacement is going to be a bitch to source.
I take a second to collect myself before I go over. I’m still not one hundred percent used to interacting with females. At Salt Mountain, I stayed away from them, and since I was ranked at the bottom of the pack, they took no notice of me. Old Den females don’t let you keep to yourself. They’re too curious.
I’m still thinking of just how to ask for what I need when I arrive. Instantly, at least a dozen heads rise from their darning and beading and whittling to stare at me, and a half dozen pups trample to their makeshift fence to peer at me over the top. I stop in my tracks. Water sloshes. I drop the bucket before I spill on their territory.
