"Iris, get to the kitchen and start the evening meal. The moon's already high, and the den is hungry." Agata's voice cut through the great room like a dull blade, more habit than authority behind it.
I didn't spare her a glance. Instead, I turned to Tessa with a smile so polished it could have graced the front of the spirit network. "Tessa, you and Lena ran together as pups in the old territory. I imagine you used to take your meals here all the time back then?"
"Of course!" Tessa's voice lilted with practiced sweetness, that honeysuckle scent of hers laid on thick enough to mask whatever sat beneath it. "Back in those days, Lena and I shared nearly every meal. Her mother's cooking, the full-moon feasts, all of it."
"So after all those moons away, you must really miss Agata's cooking." I let my gaze drift to the pack matriarch, my tone warm as honey poured over a blade's edge. "Agata, shouldn't you start the meal for your guest? She's traveled such a long way to be welcomed back."
I crossed the room, settled into the worn leather of the long couch, and reached for the crystal screen's control. The screen hummed to life, filling the silence I'd left behind me. I could feel the air in the den shift, the quiet recalibration of everyone's expectations, the way lower wolves sense a current change before they understand it.
It didn't take long. Lena appeared beside me within minutes, jaw tight, irritation simmering behind dark eyes, that stale-leather-and-souring-wine scent curling off her in waves. "How could you make my mother cook? You know her health isn't what it used to be." Her voice dropped low, meant to sound commanding but landing somewhere closer to petulant. "Get up and handle the meal."
I widened my eyes, letting just the right amount of concern bleed through. "Agata, you're unwell? Is it serious? Why didn't anyone tell me? We should send for the pack healer at once."
Agata's face twisted. "Who's unwell? There's nothing wrong with me! Don't you dare speak ill-fortune over this den with that kind of talk."
"Then why don't you want to cook for Tessa?" I tilted my head, amusement threading through every syllable. "You don't feel like it?"
The old she-wolf's expression curdled like milk left out in the Sicilian sun. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, the bitter-herb-and-chalk scent of her sharpening. "Who said I wouldn't cook?"
She pushed herself up from her chair and marched toward the kitchen with the stiff pride of a she-wolf who still believed the Greyhollow name alone could fill a room. For the next two hours, the sounds of clattering pots and sizzling fat drifted through the den-estate. The smell of garlic and braised meat filled the corridors, rich enough to stir even a dampened wolf, and for a moment the place almost felt like a home that functioned on something other than resentment.
When the long table was finally set, Rowan took Tessa by the arm and guided her into my chair at the head of the family side. The pup didn't even look at me as she did it. "Sis, Tessa is our guest. You don't mind giving up your spot, right?"
Agata materialized beside me, pressing a bowl into my hands the way one might toss scraps to a packless stray. "If sitting at the edge of the table is uncomfortable for you, why don't you take your plate to the kitchen and eat there? And while you're at it, clean up a bit."
I stared at the bowl in my hands. So now I wasn't even permitted at the table. The table I paid for. In the den my bloodline's strength kept standing. Eating meat bought with tribute drawn from hunting grounds the Ravenfall name controlled.
I set the bowl down on the counter with a quiet, deliberate click. Somewhere beneath my ribs my wolf went very still, watching, the way she does before a kill.
"No need. You all enjoy yourselves." My voice was flat, stripped of everything but finality. "A friend asked me to run with them tonight. I'll eat with them."
Lena's brow furrowed, that familiar crease of irritation forming between her eyes. "We leave for the coastal den tomorrow, and you're still going out? Have you even packed your things yet?"
"Don't you have hands?" I met her gaze without flinching, and for half a breath I let her feel the weight of mine. "Pack your own things, Lena."
The silence that followed was exquisite. She stood there, mouth half-open, as though the concept of fending for herself had short-circuited something fundamental in that weak Alpha brain of hers. I didn't wait for a recovery. I picked up my coat and walked out the front door, the cold night air carrying my scent of black cedar and cold iron out ahead of me into the dark.
