The Dirt on Her Grave

Elysia

The dirt on my mother's grave is still dark and wet.

I stand beside it with my hands folded in front of me, listening to the pack elder talk about what a gentle soul Lyra Belrose was. He says she was the heart of the healing house. He says the pack will never forget her kindness.

Three rows behind me, a woman sniffs into a handkerchief. Last winter, she told my mother to use the back door because the front step was for "proper wolves."

I keep my face still. Mum always said a quiet face gives people less to grab.

"Her hands saved half of us," a man says loudly, to no one in particular. "A true treasure."

Her hands also stitched up his leg for free. He never said thank you for that, either.

My eyes stay dry. I used up everything I had in the three days she spent dying in that narrow bed, with her fingers growing colder in mine. Now there is nothing left. My chest feels like an empty bucket, and I am surprised at how loud the emptiness is.

A warm hand slides into mine.

"I'm here," Mira whispers. Her nose is bright red and her curls are a mess. She has been crying for both of us since sunrise.

"You'll get your face all blotchy."

"It's already blotchy. Let me have this."

The corner of my mouth twitches. It is not a smile, but it is the closest thing I have managed all day.

When the elder finishes, people file past in a slow, polite line. They nod at me. They murmur sorry-for-your-loss. Some of them can't get past quickly enough. By the time the last pair of boots has crunched away, the cemetery is nearly empty.

Almost.

Killian Lockwood stands at the edge of the path with his hands in his pockets. His father is the Alpha, and he walks like he knows it. Dark hair, sharp amber eyes, a jaw that most girls in this pack have spent time looking at. I have spent more than most.

He looks at me.

My heart climbs into my throat. I wait for him to cross the grass. I wait for a few words, any words. *I'm sorry. She was a good woman. Are you all right?*

He looks at me for a few seconds. Then he turns and walks away.

"Wow," Mira says flatly. "Not even a nod. What a prince."

"He doesn't owe me anything."

"That's the problem. He doesn't owe you anything, so you don't get anything." She squeezes my hand. "I hate that I'm right about that."

I stare at his back until the trees swallow it. People only look at me when they need something. A bed changed, a floor scrubbed, a wound cleaned. Mum was the same to them. Useful, and then forgotten.

Now she is just forgotten.

"Come to the Harvest Moon Feast tonight," Mira says.

I turn my head slowly. "You're joking."

"Not even a little."

"Mira, she's been in the ground for two hours."

"And you've been alone in that cottage for three days." Her voice cracks. "I can't watch you do it again, El. Please. Eat something. Sit by me. If it's awful, we leave. I'll even fake a stomach ache and fall over dramatically."

"You would fall over dramatically."

"I'd get an award."

I look at the mound of dirt. I think of the cottage, quiet and cold, with Mum's herbs still hanging from the rafters.

"One hour," I say.

Mira throws her arms around me so hard I almost lose my balance.

…

The feast is held in the main clearing, under a huge orange moon. Torches line the tables and the whole place smells like roasted meat and spiced cider. My stomach twists with hunger and nerves at the same time.

I wear my plainest dress. It's the only black one I own.

Heads turn when we step into the light. Conversations drop, then pick up again in lower voices. I keep my eyes on the table Mira is steering me toward and tell myself it's fine. One hour. Eat a roll. Leave.

I'm halfway through a roll when a shadow falls across my plate.

"Elysia Belrose," Senna says sweetly. "I didn't think you'd show your face."

Senna is tall and glossy and wrapped in a green dress cut to show off every inch of her. Four girls stand behind her like ducklings. I can't smell any of them the way other wolves can. I only know Senna is wearing far too much perfume, because my eyes sting.

"It's a pack feast," I say. "I'm in the pack."

"Right. Of course." She tilts her head. "It's just, wow. Your mum's barely cold."

Mira stands up so fast her chair scrapes the ground. "Senna, go away."

"I'm only saying what everyone's thinking."

"Then everyone is a coward," I say.

Heads turn at the nearby tables. Senna's smile slips half an inch and slides right back.

"Oh, she speaks." One of the ducklings giggles. "I thought she'd lost her voice along with her scent."

"I thought you'd lost your manners," I say. "Turns out you were just born without them."

Somebody chokes on their cider. A small, hot spark of satisfaction flares in my chest.

Then the laughter starts, and it doesn't land on Senna. It rolls toward me from tables I didn't know were listening. The spark dies.

Senna steps closer and drags her eyes down my body. They stop on my hips, then on the dress pulling snug across my stomach.

"Honestly, I'm surprised it still fits," she says. "Though I suppose there's more of you to hold in. Black is supposed to be slimming, isn't it? Shame it isn't a miracle."

The ducklings howl with laughter.

"No scent. No rank. Nothing pretty to make up for it." She sighs like she's sorry for me. "No wolf has ever wanted you, have they? Not once. Not even out of pity. Who would, when they could have someone like me?"

"Leave her alone," Mira snaps.

"Her mother was an omega healer who couldn't even keep a man around." Senna's voice stays light. "And now she's dead, and what did she leave behind? A cottage full of weeds."

From somewhere in the crowd, a man calls out, "And a daughter nobody wants!"

Another voice adds, "Or a daughter anyone could stand to look at!"

The laughter peaks.

My face burns. My hands shake against the table. I need something clever and sharp, anything, but my throat has closed up tight. My stomach rolls. I feel every eye on my arms, my waist, my face.

I will not cry in front of them. I will not give them that.

I push back my chair.

"Elysia," Mira says. "El, wait."

I don't wait. I walk, and then I'm half-running, past the torches, past the last table. The voices fall away behind me until all I can hear is my own breathing and the crunch of leaves.

…

The forest is dark and cold and smells like wet bark. I run until a stitch pulls hard at my side, and then I stop and lean against a tree with my forehead pressed to the rough wood.

I breathe in. I breathe out.

*Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.*

My eyes sting anyway. One tear gets out. Then another. I wipe them away angrily with the heel of my hand.

"Why are you crying?"

I spin around so fast I almost trip.

A man stands a few feet away, beside an old stone boundary marker half covered in moss. He is very tall, with broad shoulders that block out half the moonlight. His coat is dark and fits him perfectly. It's too fine for any pack warrior I've ever seen. His hands are in his pockets. His hair is black, silver at the temples, and his eyes are a cold, steady grey.

My heart slams against my ribs. I didn't hear him come. I didn't smell him. Then again, I rarely smell anyone.

"That's none of your business," I snap.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't growl or tell me to watch my mouth, which is what every other wolf in a coat like that would do. He just tilts his head and looks at me.

"You came out here to be alone," he says. "And you're angry that someone found you."

"I'm angry that someone is talking to me."

"You look like you've decided you don't need anyone." His voice is low and even. "You're doing it very loudly."

My mouth falls open. I close it again.

I hate how right he is. I hate that a stranger in the dark just took one look at me and read me like a note pinned to a door.

"Do you always say whatever you're thinking?" I ask.

"Only when it's true."

"How lucky for you."

The corner of his mouth moves. It isn't quite a smile. It's more like he's deciding whether I've earned one.

He steps closer. Then he stops, and his head tips slightly. His nostrils flare. He looks at me the way people look at a locked door they were certain had a handle.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" I demand.

"You have no scent."

I stiffen. I've heard that sentence all my life, and always in the same tone. This isn't that tone. He says it slowly, like he's checking his own words. Like he's never come across it before.

"I know," I say tightly. "Everyone knows. You can add it to the list."

"I don't mean it as an insult."

"Then what do you mean it as?"

He doesn't answer. He takes another step, close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to keep looking at him. My pulse is thumping in my ears. I should walk away. Every sensible bone in my body says to walk away.

Then, beneath my sternum, something warms.

It starts as a small glow, like a coal being breathed on. It spreads slowly. It's not painful. It's not even frightening, and that is the strangest part. Then something deep inside me, far below where I've ever been able to reach, stirs and turns over.

It answers.

The man goes completely still. His hand has come out of his pocket and hovers in the air between us, close enough that I can feel the heat of it. His eyes drop to my chest, then drag slowly back up to my face.

"What did you just do?" he asks, his voice rough and very quiet.

I haven't done anything. I haven't moved. I don't understand what is happening.

But the warmth under my ribs is still burning, and it wants to go to him.