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She’d evidently done this before because she seemed familiar with his space.
“I never said I was going anywhere with you,” Mr. Devero snapped.
“Good. I never gave you a choice.” Myla held out his jacket, waiting for him to slip his arms into the sleeves.
He held her stare for a moment before relenting.
I was shocked at her abruptness. Seeing our sweet Myla so authoritative and confident was insanely attractive.
Myla led Mr. Devero outside, and we walked through the cluster of houses the other elders lived in before heading toward the community garden. She spoke to him about planting and fixing his house, reminded him to eat healthy food, and challenged him to a game of chess. Though most of Mr. Devero’s replies were grumbles or nods, he was much more relaxed than when we arrived.
When we took him back to his house, Myla promised to bring him snacks for their game tomorrow, and I let him know the boys would be by in three days to replace his door.
“You enjoy working with the elderly,” I said after we bid him farewell.
Myla looked up at me through her lashes. “What gave it away?”
“Not everyone would be that patient with Mr. Devero,” I said.
She was kind without letting him walk all over her. It was a quality that showed experience.
She blushed as we wandered down the path toward our home. “People like Mr. Devero need more love. They need to know they’re not alone.”
“And what if they want to be left alone?” I inquired, thinking of how Mr. Devero shut himself in his den.
“They don’t. No one wants to be alone. Some people just feel like it’s safer that way. It’s a defense mechanism.” She wove her fingers together before continuing, “It was the same in my old pack. Most elderly shifters were forgotten about when their jobs and families were stripped away. It’s a hard phase of life to adjust to, and many slip through the cracks. You’d be surprised how much a simple interaction can mean to someone.”
“Did you do this with your old pack? Take care of the elders?” I was curious now. She rarely spoke of her old life.
“Unofficially.” She smiled. “I would check on them and feed them whenever I had the chance.”
“My sister Elle would have liked you,” I said before I could think better of it.
The words hung between us, suspended by our mutual shock.
“You have a sister?” she asked gently.
“Had.” I looked ahead, unable to meet her eyes. “She possessed the same gentle spirit as you. She was always trying to find a way to help others who were overlooked.”
We walked up the front steps of our den, but instead of going inside, I took a seat on the porch. Myla joined me, and I felt the shift in the air. The day’s tranquility gave way to a heavy sorrow that always seemed to follow the mention of Elle’s name.
“What happened to her?” Myla whispered.
I waited for my muscles to tense—for grief to thicken my tongue and stoke my anger—but I only felt the need to connect. Maybe when Myla heard Elle’s story, she would understand. Perhaps she would open up and tell us about her past.
“She was taken by an unsanctioned pack during a perimeter breach. The New Vale pack attacked Hidden Creek after a brutal internal war, so our defenses were weak. They split our attention, and by the time we finished defending the pack, a dozen of our females were gone.”
“Were they Omegas?” Myla asked.
“No. By then, all the Omegas in the pack had been executed.”
She grew pale, and recognition flashed through her eyes.
We’d always suspected what happened to her, but when Elle returned, she never confirmed our theories. “Do you know what happens to stolen females in unsanctioned packs?”
“I heard whispers,” Myla replied. “All the females did. It was another way to keep us in line, hearing what they did to . . . difficult females.”
My pulse pounded in my ears, and my hands clenched into fists. I had to know, no matter what it was.
