Page 170 of The Ashpaw: Part One

Fern

Horns played jubilantly in the distance. Drumming vibrated through the walls.

The fire cracked, and a purple dragon threw in another log.

Her fingers danced above her, her own voice distant as she sang and watched the colors bleed like ribbons trailing in the air alongside the pixies.

“We really need to ask Serich what herbs he uses,” she giggled to her wolf.

Her wolf was rolling around in a patch of dirt, her tongue hanging out of her mouth.

Then another wave of cramping hit, and Fern curled into herself, teeth gritted as she rode out the pain.

From what she could remember of the past few days, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

It would have been fine if her alpha were here, but he was gone.

Again.

Choosing her.

Again.

And Fern was alone.

… Again.

She really hated being alone.

And her alpha was always leaving her alone.

She sniffed, waiting for the pain to pass.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Fern asked her wolf.

Her wolf was fast asleep, and Fern hummed to herself, pulling up a blanket.

“That sounds like a great idea.”

Chapter 42

Darion

The dining hall roared with life. Wolfkin, dressed in their finest tunics, leathers, and gowns, laughed with their whole bodies, their heads thrown back with wild abandon as ale spilled from sloshing cups. They were celebrating the union of two clans and the end to the warring between them.

The tables groaned beneath platters of roasted fish, venison swimming in berry sauce, black bread smothered with butter, and wheels of sharp-smelling cheese, while torches burned hot against the stone walls, their smoke curling up into the rafters so high the light could not reach them.

Darion sat at the head table, enduring endless cups pressed into his hands and congratulations barked in his direction.

And yet all he could think about was the omega waiting for his return, resting in her makeshift nest.

She should have had a proper one, the one he’d watched her build and scent marked for her. But the she-wolf next to him had destroyed it, then convinced him she’d been right to do so.

Kyntha’s fingers trembled around her goblet, silver bells chiming softly whenever she moved. Earlier, the sound had been lyrical, a call to follow his blushing mate wherever she would lead him.

Now it grated on his ears, and drove him further away.

A dark shape moved across the back of the room, and he squinted to see it more clearly, now recognizing the red hair and missing hand.