Chapter One
~ Rooster ~
I set the last container of fried chicken on the picnic table and stepped back to survey my offering. The food had become a daily ritual—my silent communication with the homeless kid who'd been lurking around our property for months.
Montana winters could be brutal, and this one was already making its intentions known with a bitter chill that seeped through my leather jacket. The kid would need the calories, especially if they were planning to stick around.
Three water bottles joined the spread, along with the plastic fork that I knew would be ignored. I'd tried different utensils—spoons, even chopsticks once as an experiment—but the kid always ate with their hands. Like an animal. Like my nickname for them: feral kitten.
"Dinner's ready," I said to the empty yard, my breath forming small clouds in the cold air. "Extra fried chicken tonight. Recipe's new. Let me know if you like it."
I snorted at myself. As if the kid would ever leave feedback. In the two months since I'd first noticed signs of someone scavenging from our dumpsters, we'd never exchanged a single word. Just food left on the table and empty containers stacked neatly afterward.
A strange dance between strangers.
The back door of the clubhouse creaked as I pulled it open and stepped inside, the warmth of the kitchen enveloping me immediately. My domain. Where I ruled with a wooden spoon and a bad attitude, as Butch liked to say. The guys gave me shit about being the club cook, but they shut their mouths quick enough when their plates were empty.
I moved to the window, positioning myself where I could see the table without being obvious. The waiting was always the hardest part. Sometimes the kid wouldn't appear until well after dark, when they thought everyone was asleep or occupied elsewhere. Other times, like today, desperation or hunger drove them to take risks.
A shadow detached itself from the side of Gearhead's workshop. My feral kitten, right on schedule. The kid moved like water—fluid, silent, always alert. They approached the table in a half-crouch, golden eyes scanning for threats before small hands darted out to grab the container of chicken.
I watched as they devoured the food, tearing into the meat with desperate efficiency. No fork, as expected. Just fingers and teeth and hunger.
The kid couldn't be more than twenty, though it was hard to tell with the layers of clothing and constant hood shadowing their face. Small-framed, definitely undernourished. And something else that had been bothering me lately—no scent.
Every shifter had a distinctive scent, unique as a fingerprint. Even humans had their smells, though less pronounced to our enhanced senses. But this kid? Nothing. Like trying to smell a ghost.
I'd begun to wonder if they might be an omega shifter. Rare as hen's teeth, but it would explain the lack of scent. Omegas were treasured in shifter society for their unique abilities, though they couldn't shift themselves.
If my feral kitten was an omega, that raised more questions than answers. What were they doing alone? Where was their pack? And why were they hiding?
The temperature had dropped another five degrees since I'd stepped outside, the wind picking up strength as it moaned around the corners of the clubhouse. Winter in Montana didn't mess around. My mind flashed forward to snow piling in drifts, temperatures plummeting below zero, the kind of cold that could kill a homeless kid overnight.
Decision made, I turned to the pantry and started filling a paper bag. More chicken. Protein bars. Apples. A loaf of bread. Peanut butter. Foods that would keep and didn't need preparation. On impulse, I added a small jar of honey—everyone needed something sweet now and then.
I hesitated, then grabbed one of my own hoodies from the hook by the back door. It would be big on the kid, but that was the point. Extra layers meant extra warmth.
The bag was heavier than I'd intended, but I didn't remove anything. With a deep breath, I pushed the door open again, trying to move slowly, telegraphing my movements.
Too late. The kid froze at the sound, a piece of chicken halfway to their mouth. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
I got my first real look at those eyes. Golden. Not brown or hazel, but actually golden, with an almost luminous quality that reflected the security light overhead. Lynx eyes. I'd bet my Harley on it.
The hood of their dark blue sweatshirt framed a thin face smudged with dirt. Young. Male, I was pretty sure, though it was hard to tell under all those layers. His entire body had gone rigid, poised between fight and flight, calculating odds and exits.
I held up the paper bag like a peace offering, then slowly—very slowly—set it down on the edge of the porch.
"Take this with you," I said, keeping my voice low and even. "If you run out, come back for more."
I stepped back into the kitchen, closing the door behind me but immediately moving to the window. I half-expected the kid to be gone, spooked by the encounter, but he remained frozen for several seconds longer. Then, like a switch had been flipped, he sprang into action, shoving the remaining chicken into his mouth and gathering the containers.
To my surprise, he stacked them neatly on the table—his usual cleanup routine despite the interruption—before approaching the porch with the same liquid caution. He snatched the bag, clutching it to his chest like precious cargo, and then he was gone, melting into the shadows between buildings so quickly I almost doubted he'd been there at all.
Only the empty space where the bag had been and the neatly stacked containers proved I hadn't imagined the whole thing.
I sighed, my breath fogging the window glass. "You're welcome, kid," I muttered, though there was no one to hear.
Tomorrow I'd make extra stew. Something hot that would stick to his ribs. And maybe next time, he wouldn't run.
