Page 95 of Scarred Savages
“You better not be ditching us for some cute fox shifter,” Axel says.
“Busted,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I have a whole harem of woodland creatures waiting.”
Hudson chuckles, a deep rumble that vibrates through the room.
The air lightens a bit, and they go back to their food.
Oli leans over and whispers, “Watch out for the squirrels. I hear they have a mean bite.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.
The rest of the breakfast is a blur of voices and clattering dishes. They plan the day, discussing security, the tenants, and the fields.
Hudson studies me for a moment, then nods. “Just don’t go too far. The northern section beyond the creek is off-limits. Understand?”
“Got it. No creek crossing.” I dump the rest of my coffee in the sink, suddenly eager to escape the house and its complicated dynamics.
“I could join you instead,” Axel offers, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Show you some interesting landmarks.”
“I’ll pass,” I say dryly. “I think I’ve seen enough of your landmarks for one day.”
Oli chokes on his juice, and even Hudson can’t hide his amusement.
Axel grins, unrepentant. “Your loss, Wildcat.”
I roll my eyes and head for the door, feeling his gaze on my back the entire way.
“Luna,” Hudson calls after me. “Be back by lunch.”
I nod without turning around, desperate for fresh air. The forest beckons, promising escape from the twisted knot of emotions choking me.
At least trees don’t judge.
Or put axe handles where they shouldn’t be.
* * *
The forest welcomes me as I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with air. My fingers trail over rough bark and pine trees as I walk.
This is what I needed.
Here, I don’t have to be the scarred female who hasn’t shifted yet, the embarrassed one who fucked an axe handle, or the outsider desperate to belong.
I can be Luna, whoever the hell that is.
The farther I walk into the forest, the lighter my shoulders feel. Birds call overhead, a simple conversation of territoryand mating that makes infinitely more sense than shifter relationships.
A squirrel chatters angrily as I pass, reminding me I’m the intruder in this world.
“Sorry,” I mutter, though I’m not sure why I’m apologizing to rodents now. Maybe seeing the tenants has me seeing the forest differently.
No matter how small, every living thing needs love and respect—except mosquitoes.
I draw the line at mosquitoes.
I find a fallen log bathed in a patch of sunlight and sit, letting my legs stretch out.
What am I doing here, really?
