Page 87 of Ravaged Wolf
I hope so. They have a lot of reasons to resent me. I don’t know how I’ll handle it if they hate me. I guess the first stepis to take them as they come and welcome them to our home. I’m as ready as I can be.
I liberated some lavender, chamomile, and sage from the apothecary and made bouquets to hang from twine strung across our new cabin windows, and I borrowed a motley assortment of chairs from the den with Rosie’s blessing so there are places for everyone to sit.
Trevor’s wolf caught a few rabbits for stew, and Drona’s girls and I made another box cake, this time strawberry. My mother would be aghast that I’d offer guests soup for dinner, but she’d never invite a low-ranked family into her home, either.
Maybe it’s time for me to stop thinking about what my mother would do or think. It doesn’t apply anymore.
“They were so excited on the phone,” Trevor adds.
I summon up a smile. I wish the bus would get here already. I need to check something off my worry list.
I’m sure there’s no imminent disaster hovering on the horizon. This is just how my body feels when I’m stressed. I know this. I’m so much better in so many ways, but my nervous system still can’t differentiate between an all-out attack and the prospect of a somewhat fraught social situation.
Luckily, we don’t have much longer to wait. The bus arrives in a cloud of dust. The scavengers pound down the steps first, running into their loved one’s arms. The air fills with squeals of joy and the howls of excited wolves.
The new Moon Lake emissaries file out next with a lot more decorum. They wander forward, clearly looking for direction. Good luck to them. Neither Seth Rosser nor Lowry Powell are here, and they’re the only two in the pack who still have Moon Lake-style bossy tendencies.
It’s clear which are HVAC technicians and which aremath teachers. Alec must know the pipefitter somehow because he greets the male by name as he disembarks. They shake hands and head off together before the others figure that they should get their gear from the storage compartment.
And then, bringing up the rear, Trevor’s family climbs out. His brothers bound down first and converge on Trevor as a pack, jostling each other as they pull him into rough hugs, slapping his back, thrusting him toward each other like a game of hot potato. I skip a few feet backward to get out of their way, and for a second, Trevor’s eyes track me, but then he’s enveloped by another brother.
They tousle his hair and playfully bump him with their shoulders, all the while talking over each other.
“Look at you! They must be feeding you good, eh?”
“Come here. What’s with this hair? They don’t have scissors at Old Den?”
“Seriously though, you look good, man. Missed you.”
A male clears his throat. The brothers settle and turn toward the bus. Trevor’s dad descends the steps, leading a female I’ve never met. Her blue-gray eyes are glistening.
“My pup,” she says, her voice cracking. The instant her feet touch the ground she opens her arms and staggers toward him.
Trevor strides to her and bends to wrap her in his arms, lifting her gently off her feet before setting her carefully back down. “Hey, Mom.”
My eyes prickle.
Tears stream down her face. She can’t decide what to do—squeeze him tight, fuss with his hair, hold him at an arm’s length so she can drink him in—so she does it all and then starts again.
“You’re so tall,” she says, the words hitching. “Were you always this tall?”
She doesn’t let him answer, squeezing him tight again,rocking side-to-side like she must’ve done when he was a pup. Her raw sobs crack my heart in two.
It would’ve been even harder on her than the others. Back in the day, Moon Lake and Salt Mountain would sometimes run together during a full moon, but the runs petered out during Connal Shaw’s reign as alpha. Salt Mountain pups still go to Moon Lake Academy, but our wolves are only invited onto Salt Mountain territory for fights, and only the males who are fighting are allowed. That’s how his brothers were able to visit Trevor, but his parents weren’t.
“Arlais,” Trevor’s dad says softly, drawing her away to tuck her against his side. “Hello, son.”
Since he’s comforting his mate, Trevor’s dad can only manage to shake Trevor’s hand, but he holds on tight, gripping hard, pulling his son close. He murmurs something in Trevor’s ear that I can’t hear. Whatever his dad says rips another jagged cry from Trevor’s mother. Trevor grabs his mother’s hand, and the three of them huddle together, foreheads together, for several long somber moments in silence, as if it’s enough to be close, to catch their breath together, to touch.
His brothers circle the trio like sentinels. I stand a few feet away, trying not to stare and invade their private moment. The others from Moon Lake filter away, making their way around the barricade, figuring out logistics. Eventually, we’re alone—Trevor’s family, me, and the bus driver playing on her phone and casting glares at us since I guess she can’t leave until all the luggage has been retrieved.
I feel like a sore thumb. Should I get their stuff? I want to be helpful, but I don’t want them to think I’m rushing them.
Would they even notice? I don’t think any of the Floyds have even noticed me. And why should they? They’re here for Trevor. They haven’t seen him in years. This is their moment.
Trevor’s love—and his grief—rolls through my chest in waves as I hesitate, trying to decide where to look and what to do with my hands. I’m happy for him. I really, really am. I’m a good person. I’ve grown. I’ve done hard things. I’m a healer now.
Still, a bitter, corrosive voice deep in my brain whispers—
