Chapter 1
The Rebel's Routine
Roan
My phone buzzesfor the fourth time in an hour, rattling against the wooden nightstand like something that wants killing. I don’t need to look to know it’s my father. Alpha Chris Mistwood never gives up easily, which is probably an admirable trait in a pack leader but is bloody irritating in a parent.
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, willing the phone to stop. Outside my cabin, I can hear the sounds of pack life beginning: children laughing on their way to the makeshift school, adults discussing patrol schedules, the general bustle of a community that has its shit together. Everything I’m supposed to be part of but can’t stomach.
The phone stops buzzing. I count to ten, then twenty. Just as I start to relax, it goes again.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, grabbing the phone and squinting at the screen. Five missed calls, all from Dad, and a text that reads:Alpha meeting. 9 AM. Don’t make me come find you.
I check the clock. Half past ten. Fuck it.
I can picture him now. Pack house conference room, his Beta and Gamma around the table, discussing territory boundaries, hunting schedules, all the vital business of keeping forty-three werewolves safe and fed. They’ll have left an empty chair for me, the heir apparent who can’t be bothered to show up to his own future.
The guilt lasts about three seconds before I remind myself that I never asked for that future.
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, taking my time because I’m already late anyway. The hot water feels good on muscles still sore from yesterday’s work helping Tom rebuild his back fence. Manual labour isn’t glamorous, but it’s honest. No politics, no posturing. Just sweat and wood and the satisfaction of fixing something that’s broken.
My cabin sits on the edge of the pack lands, far enough from the main compound that I can pretend I live alone but close enough that I can’t completelyescape the obligations of being Chris Mistwood’s only son. A compromise that suits no one, least of all me.
By the time I’ve dressed and made coffee, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s Rebecca, my father’s Beta and the closest thing I’ve ever had to a big sister.
“You missed the meeting,” she says without preamble when I answer.
“Did I? Funny how that keeps happening.”
“Roan.” Her voice carries that particular mix of exasperation and affection that only Rebecca can manage. “You know, most rebels actually have a cause. You just have a mattress and a grudge against your alarm clock.”
“That is my cause.”
“He’s trying, you know. We all are.”
I step out onto my tiny front garden, coffee mug in hand, and look toward the main compound. Smoke rises from several chimneys, and I can see figures moving between the buildings. My people. My pack. My responsibility, according to everyone but me.
“I know you are,” I say, because it’s true. “That’s the problem.”
Rebecca sighs. “Look, just... make an appearance today, all right? Help with something. Show your face. Let people see you care.”
“I do care.”
“I know you do. But caring from a distance isn’t the same as leading.”
“Good thing I’m not interested in leading then.”
“Roan...”
“I’ve got to go, Rebecca. Tom’s waiting for me to help with his roof.”
I hang up before she can argue further and drain my coffee. Tom’s roof is a genuine commitment: the autumn storms tore off half the tiles, and at sixty-eight, he isn’t about to climb up there himself. But it’s also a convenient excuse to avoid whatever lecture my father has prepared about duty and responsibility and the burden of leadership.
The walk to Tom’s cottage takes me through the heart of the compound, past the pack house and the communal kitchen and the workshop where Emma is teaching the teenagers to work with leather. I nod to the people I pass, stop to examine young Jamie’s scraped knee, and listen patiently while Mrs Hartwell complains about the foxes getting into her vegetable garden.
This is the part of pack life I can handle: the individual connections, the small kindnesses, the way people look after each other without formal hierarchy or official duties. It’s when someone tries to make me stand up in front of everyone and make decisions aboutterritory disputes or alliance negotiations that I feel the walls closing in.
“There he is,” Tom calls out as I approach his cottage. “Thought you might have gotten caught up in official business.”
