Shay came by on a Tuesday afternoon.
I was in the kitchen making Wells's after-school snack when I heard the side door open. I didn't need to look. I knew the sound of her footsteps by now. Light. Deliberate. Like she was always performing even when no one was watching.
She walked through the kitchen without greeting me. Her perfume arrived first—that heavy floral scent that clung to everything. I kept my eyes on the apple slices I was arranging on a plate.
"Chandler's in a Beta meeting," I said quietly. "He'll be back around five."
"I know." She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of sparkling water. One of the expensive ones Chandler kept stocked for her. She twisted the cap off and took a sip, leaning against the counter. "I'm not in a rush."
I nodded. I drizzled honey over the apple slices and reached for the peanut butter.
Shay wandered toward the other counter. She picked up the framed photo sitting there—me and Wells from last summer, both of us smiling, his arms wrapped around my neck. She studied it for a long moment. Then she set it face-down on the counter.
I stilled. My hand tightened around the butter knife.
She didn't say anything. She just took another sip of water and looked out the window.
I set the knife down carefully. I walked over and righted the frame. The glass was cool under my fingers.
Shay glanced at me. "Oh, sorry. I was just tidying."
I met her eyes. She smiled faintly. It didn't reach anywhere near her face.
"Do you always cook this much?" she asked lightly. "The pack house smells like… I don't know. Cooking. All the time."
I held her gaze for another beat. Then I turned back to the stove without answering.
She stayed for another twenty minutes. She sat at the kitchen table scrolling through her phone, her nails tapping against the screen. She didn't speak again. Neither did I.
When she finally left, I stood at the sink and washed the dish towel I'd been holding. I scrubbed it harder than I needed to. The water ran cold over my hands.
My wolf stirred faintly. Not weak this time. Something else. Something low and coiled.
I hung the towel to dry and went to meet Wells at the bus stop.
That evening, I tucked Wells into bed.
He was quiet while I smoothed the blankets and adjusted his pillow. He usually talked at bedtime—about school, about his friends, about the new game he wanted to try. But tonight he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
"You okay, sweetheart?" I asked softly.
He didn't answer right away. Then he turned his head to look at me.
"Mom," he said slowly. "I don't like it when she comes over."
I paused. My hand stilled on the edge of the blanket. "Who?"
"Shay." He said her name carefully, like he was testing whether it was safe. "The house smells different when she's here. It smells sharp and wrong. Like when a storm is coming but it doesn't rain."
I looked at him. His eyes were wide and serious. He wasn't being dramatic. He was just telling me what he felt.
I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. My chest ached. "I understand," I said quietly.
"Does Dad know?" he asked.
I didn't know how to answer that. So I just kissed his forehead and told him to get some sleep.
He closed his eyes. But I could tell he wasn't sleeping. Not yet.
I stood in the doorway for a long time, watching him. My wolf stirred again. That low, coiled feeling. Not weak. Not silent.
A growl. Faint but unmistakable.
I closed the door softly and went downstairs.
Two weeks before the winter pack gathering, Chandler made an announcement at dinner.
Wells was picking at his chicken. I was halfway through my salad. Chandler sat at the head of the table, cutting his steak with precise, deliberate movements.
"I'm canceling the year-end Alpha bonus," he said. His tone was flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he was commenting on the weather. "Pack budget constraints. We need to tighten things up."
I set my fork down slowly. I looked at him.
He didn't look back. He just kept cutting his steak.
"Understood," I said quietly.
He nodded once. Then he changed the subject. Something about the Gamma's training schedule. Something about a supply shipment that was delayed.
I picked up my fork again. I took another bite of salad. I chewed slowly.
Wells's birthday was next month. I'd been quietly hoping to use part of that bonus to throw him a small party. Nothing extravagant. Just a few friends. Cake. Balloons. The kind of birthday a six-year-old should have.
I swallowed. The lettuce tasted like nothing.
That night, after Wells was asleep and Chandler had disappeared into his office, I sat at the kitchen table with my notebook.
I opened it to the page where I tracked expenses. I stared at the columns. The numbers. The careful, meticulous record of everything I'd tried to manage on nothing.
I didn't write anything.
I just sat there. The house was quiet. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of the floorboards upstairs.
My wolf stirred again. That growl. Low and steady.
I closed the notebook. I put it back in the drawer.
Then I sat in the dark and waited for morning.
