“Nothing in particular. Just thought I was due for a visit.” I shove my hands in my pockets and bite back the reminder that it’s been weeks since we last saw each other, and that encounter was only because we happened to be at the grocery store at the same time. “Is Dad around?”
She waves toward the window that looks out on the woods at the back of their property. “He’s hunting down dinner.”
She means that literally. Most of the Folk Haven pack—and as far as I can tell, the relatively new Lake Galen pack—live very humanlike existences. We keep our human forms for the majority of the time—go to work every day, go home in the evenings, sleep in beds, and buy what we need from stores. Interspersed through that, we’ll shift for a run a few times throughout the month or meet up with pack members to wrestle out any built-up, instinctive aggression.
But then there are wolves like my parents.
The ones who turn wolf every day and prefer contact with their own kind to humans. They consider their two-legged forms secondary in many ways and tend to keep away from town unless they need to purchase something they can’t hunt or build themselves. They live simpler lives, wilder ones.
And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this life they’ve chosen. Only that I never felt like I belonged in it.
Growing up with wild wolf parents left me feeling lonely. They expected me to take care of myself, starting at a young age—even before I turned thirteen and shifted for the first time. For a while, I thought I wanted a sibling because at least then I would have someone to spend my days with when Mom and Dad left me behind. But when I asked my mother if she planned to have any more babies, her response was painfully revealing.
“We did our duty to the pack with you. We are done.”
Since that moment, I knew what I was to them. An obligation. They thought the pack expected couples to have offspring in order to continue the creation of werewolves. I was a box checked.
Still, as much as they’ve disregarded me, I find myself continuing to return to this house. Maybe they passed down that same sense of duty, only it’s one I feel toward my parents.
“How are you two doing?”
I pull out the chair across from my mom and settle into the simple seat. She made the piece; she and my dad have created most of the sturdy furniture in their home.
“We’re doing how we’re always doing.” She places a puzzle piece in its proper spot, then picks up another.
She doesn’t ask how I am. I can’t recall a time when she has.
There’s the sound of creaking wood, and then the back door swings open, revealing my dad.
He’s naked and covered in blood.
“Griffith?” When he spots me, his brow curves in confusion. He makes no move to cover himself or wipe the gore from his face. “Why are you here?”
Nothello. Notgood to see you. No welcome at all.
My chest hurts from all the suppressed emotions I have caged inside me. The longing I have to simply be wanted by these two people.
In this moment, I realize how similar my situation is to Clem’s. Both of us with parents who couldn’t care about our existences. The only difference is, hers physically left her while mine are right here, not caring.
With a heavy sigh, I rub my chest to stave off the phantom hurt.
“I guess I’m here to tell you that I’m in love,” I say. “And if she wants me back, I’m going to ask her to be my mate.”
Finally—finally—Mom looks up. Only to say, “Which wolf?”
Of course. It all comes back to wolves. Not like we’re in a town full of different mythics and humans.
“She’s a mermaid.”
My dad grimaces, and that simple facial expression is the final fucking branch on my back. I shove up from my seat and face the two of them.
“I get that I’m so low on your list of priorities that you normally forget that I fucking exist, so fine. I’m done.” I’m breathing hard, my inner wolf snarling at the people who have never felt likemypack. “You don’t want me? I’ll make my own family. With mermaids. And monsters. And whatever other fucking kind of mythics because all I care about is if they care about me.”
As I storm out of the house, there are no calls for me to stop. To wait. To give them a chance to apologize.
They’re quiet, and they let me go.
A repeat of my childhood that still tears up my insides. I climb into my truck, slam the door shut, and pull in deep breaths as I try to calm myself.
