Page 58 of Curvy Alpha Bride
“I’m sure you will,” I answer, watching them go to join the hunting party.
Men organize themselves into groups, deciding who will patrol, where, and when.
“I feel useless,” I mutter.
“Then you aren’t going to like the next part,” Serra warns.
“Why?”
“Because it’s past noon. I need you to get into a bunker, now.”
“Oh, don’t you dare—”
“I don’t dare a damn thing,” she shoots back. “You’re the alpha, one of the witch’s prime targets. We have to keep you away from her.”
As I follow Serra down the hall to the stairs that lead to the bunker, I feel completely defeated. My big speech from earlier today seems immature in hindsight, an arrogant rant that took no account of the facts.
***
I prepare myself for a horrific night of petrified waiting, and by midnight, I realize I didn’t prepare well enough. We huddle in the light of the gas lamps, trying to distract ourselves with music or games, but as the stars reach zenith, the atmosphere changes abruptly, and all noise in the bunker stops.
The air reeks with the scent of old blood, and at the very edge of my hearing, there is a scraping sound, like nails beingdragged across the steel door. I know I’m not completely safe in the bunker, and I should be in the cabin. As the witch’s voice leaks through the seams of the door above us, I imagine the horror that will befall the town if she manages to take me.
Eventually, the signs of the witch fade, and Serra warns us she could be waiting above. The night passes like an endless, cold, dark hell, where every minute is an eternity in itself.
When the scouts knock on the outer doors to let us know dawn has come, some people cry with relief, and I don’t blame them. I stagger out into the light like a man who’s been trapped underground for a hundred nights instead of just one.
I go out to the cabin immediately with a few others, and we talk through the front door. The witch’s presence was so strong overnight, the women were afraid to come out, and I don’t blame them.
Men and older women speak to their family members on the inside, and Finnah speaks with me, but Mabel refuses to.
“It’s too soon, son,” Finnah says. “And last night was hard on us. She’s bearing up well, though, and she will speak to you eventually. I promise.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper, wishing I could explain.
I’ve slept with Mabel under false pretenses—twice. I don’t deserve anything from her, but it would help me fight this war if I knew she was with me.
We don’t linger at the cabin, promising to return the next day. Back in town, there are dozens of hard jobs to do to ensure our survival down in the bunker, from tending farms and processing food to rendering fuel for the gas lamps.
The reality of living here really hits me, and now I understand how every item being handmade andenvironmentally sustainable is not simply a quaint little custom but pure survival. I throw myself into the work, wanting to learn every single nuance involved in keeping my pack alive.
For the next week, I work every single job there is, even the absolute worst of them. Not just to prove to the others I’m committed to our survival, but to test myself, to learn and grow. I finally begin to understand that this is winning the war—just holding out one more day. Then another. And to keep doing that, for as long as we can.
And maybe, weaken the witch. To possibly reach a point where we can live something like a normal life again.
Even though I return to the cabin every day with other family members to visit the women, Mabel does not speak to me. As I resign myself to a life of hard work and suffering, I also try to accept the fact that she may never see me or speak to me—ever again.
Chapter 21 - Mabel
For the first few days, our only focus is survival. There is only a little food left over from the gift baskets and in Xavier’s pantry. We ration it out so it will last as long as possible.
“What are we going to do when the food runs out?” I ask Finnah as we sit by the fire, finishing cakes from the last gift basket.
“We’ll be able to go out for short periods of time,” she answers. “Did you see the little covered shed towards the pump house out the back? That’s a garden, and it won’t take much to get it going again. We’ll be able to get wood for the fire, too.”
“It’s still not going to be enough,” I say, looking at the other girls as they chat, knitting or working on needlepoint.
I feel so responsible for them. I couldn’t stand it if someone else got hurt.
