White Mountain Cliffs Boots Novels & Stories

A light most hung in the air, thick enough to ruin my hair and mood because my boots had hit the ground. "Is this wet dirt?" I asked as I stared down at my suede ankle boots and they sunk into the earth. Claire was already out of the van, helping others with bags. She dressed as she belonged to the_ REI catalogue_ with fitted cargo pants, a ponytail, and that annoyingly unbothered glow. "Carefully," she said cheerfully. Glancing at my shoes. "That terrain eats heel." She said. I bit my tongue so hard, it almost bled.

Her clothes were tattered and torn, and bits and pieces of flesh peaked out from the holes causing a blush to creep up onto the wolf’s face. She wasn’t tall, but she wasn’t extremely short either. If he had to guess, he would have to say this woman would be about five foot five or so. A vast contrast to his six-foot stature. Her short calf-high boots, ankle boots he thought they were called, were a little worse for wear but at least they kept her feet warm and dry. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of her clothing as they soaked up the moisture from the snow beneath her.

It was tight-fitting for the upper body and slightly loose for the bottom half. Xyla looked flattering in that outfit. The laces around her dress happened to be exposed outside the coat, making Xyla appear remarkably gentle. After putting on a white wool laced hat, Xyla selected a pair of white boots. The boots had thick heels of only two to three centimeters in height, making them comfortable and safe. From her reflection in the mirror, she looked like a white peony on the mountains. A flower meant to be admired from afar as if even a simple touch could taint her beauty.

A sharp, ringing pain instantly flared up in my ears that made me dizzy. “This is all your fault!” a voice shrieked from above me. My body ached, every muscle protesting as I forced myself to look up. Yasmine was standing over me with her perfect face ruined, covered in soot, and her eyes were wild and tear-stained. “Look at what you caused!” She yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the ruins of our pack. I shook my head, “I—what? I didn't do anything! We were in a crash, Yasmine, a wolf—”

Carson Sliding back onto her barstool, Montana thanks us for ordering another round, noting glasses of water are now on our table. “What’s in the bags?” Peyton asks, eyes glued to the large bags at Eli’s feet. He dips his hands into one, handing red cowboy boots to Peyton. From the other bag, he passes brown boots with jade embellishments to Montana. “Why did you buy us boots?” Montana asks, her head tilted to one side, eyes like lasers on Eli.

But Thursday night, when I opened my locker to grab my cleaning supplies, I froze. Sitting on the bottom shelf were a pair of work boots. Black leather, steel-toed, with thick rubber soles designed for long hours on concrete floors. They looked expensive—the kind of boots that cost more than I made in a week. I picked one up, turning it over in my hands. Size seven. My exact size. "Son of a bitch," I muttered, looking around the empty locker room like Kade might be hiding behind the benches. These weren't just any work boots. They were the exact brand I'd been eyeing at the uniform store downtown for months. The ones I'd tried on twice but could never afford.

His eyes zero in on my shoes and immediately widen in horror. “I will admit that I hate salads and appreciate you supporting and encouraging me to eat real food if you explain what the fuck is on your feet!” he exclaims, “To quote a certain Wakandan; WHAT ARE THOSE?!” he cries, gesturing dramatically to my shoes. I glance down at the shoes on my feet, “Don’t you go dissing my sandals,” I say defensively. I love these shoes. They’re open-toed sandals with a large white cushioned platform base, neon yellow detailing, extra padding under the heel and two translucent neon yellow buckles that strap over the top. I think they’re great.

Is that what I’m seeing? I press my fingers to my temple, willing it all to stop. Mum holds up a pair of boots. “These are cute, right?” “Yeah. Super cute,” I nod and she gives me a knowing look. “Harper, you haven’t even looked at them.” I glance at the boots. They’re black leather with chunky heels and silver buckles. Definitely my style, or at least they used to be. But all I can focus on is the way the threads are tugging at my mind, each one demanding attention, each one louder and more insistent than the last.

cotton had been good. But the boots were Shamira's idea. If she was going to be forced to endure this weirdness, why not get one good pair of footwear out of it? She was a western girl at (her non-beating) heart, so she'd always wanted a nice pair of cowboy boots. She had ordered a pair of hand-made, hand-tooled Leggenda Collection Lucchese black-leather boots for the low, low price of $1500. Shane's pockets ran deep, and the boots would be shipped directly to his address.

The other grey wolf stood at her side, somehow looking just as peeved as she did. She was draped in a cloak that could only be described as magnificent; it was thick, lined with fur all the way down and topped with a pelt. I’d not been warm in so long – or even just not cold – in so long that the sight of such a cosy cloak almost made me turn feral. I didn’t just want it; I needed it. And Ares needed it even more than I did. A shiver ran through me. “Well?” She tapped her foot. Even her boots were fur-lined, with wide, flat soles for stomping across the snow. They were poorly made, with holes in the leather, but I would have given my left arm for a pair of them.