What ineffable twaddle

We blow through an intersection in the middle of nowhere, and I try to catch the name of whatever county road we must be on, but it's too dark, and we're driving too fast. The Newport Alpha doesn't seem to care about stop signs or speed limits.

Why would he? We could crash into a tree going 100 miles per hour, and he'd be okay. Not me, though. Inhuman powers of strength and healing are reserved for those with a Wolf.

I bite my lip and wonder again if he knows about me. If he does, I guess that means he wouldn't care if we took a turn too fast and I fell off the back of this bike and died. If he doesn't....

I shake my head. There's no way Alpha Jameson and my sister could've kept this secret. If they did, and he doesn't take it well when he finds out....

My stomach twists when I think about what might happen to me. No. Alpha Jameson needs this to go well. No matter how much he hates me—no matter how much sick pleasure he'd get if I were torn to shreds in a bad business deal. The Newport Alpha wanted a mate from our pack. Not even Beta Devon would be stupid enough to try to cheat such a powerful Alpha with some Wolfless loser.

He could have asked for any of the unmated women in our pack. Sabrina and Chelsea would have thrown one of their legendary tantrums if Alpha Jameson tried to give one of them away, but I saw Payton preening in every reflective surface she passed this morning. She wanted to look good for the Newport Alpha, and she did look good. She was taller and prettier than me—blonder, with better clothes and makeup. They all were.

Why didn't he want any of them. What does he want with me?

I'm so lost in thought, I didn't even notice that we'd turned down a long driveway until we stop.

He cuts the engine, but I still feel like I'm vibrating. I'm not used to riding on motorcycles. I'm really not even used to leaving the house. My arms feel like jello, still wrapped awkwardly around his waist.

The Newport Alpha suddenly gets up—so fast that I don't even have time to let go. His body drags mine sideways, and I brace myself to land on the gravel driveway.

But I don't. He catches me by my arm and pulls me onto my feet.

"Thanks," I say, at the same time he says, "Sorry."

It's the first thing he's said to me since we met hours ago. I know I look surprised when our eyes meet. Those brown eyes...

We stare at each other for so long, it starts to hurt. I'm not used to anyone acknowledging me unless it's followed by an insult or a slap. I can't take the eye contact, so I look down at my old Sperry shoes—rejects that Sabrina threw away.

He lets go of my arm and says "sorry" again.

"It's okay...." I say. My voice is so quiet. I hate it, but I don't know how to be any louder. I'm barely ever allowed to talk.

The Newport Alpha doesn't seem to care. He says, "I know this probably isn't what you were expecting, but I thought you might be more comfortable with a little privacy tonight."

I look up and realize he's talking about the house, a little cabin surrounded by trees. He's right, it's not what I expected. When my sister told me that Alpha Jameson was giving me away to the most ruthless Wolf in the tri-state area, I didn't really picture woodland cottages. It's not even as big as the garage where Beta Devon keeps those stupid, expensive cars he loves so much.

I don't know what to say, so I whisper, "It's fine."

The Newport Alpha grins. I don't know why he'd care so much what I think of his house, but I'm glad I made him happy. Things will be easier for me if he's in a good mood.

He says, "Yeah? Are you sure? I just thought it might be kinda overwhelming for you to meet the entire pack tonight, you know?"

"Yeah," I say, because I have no idea what else to say. Nobody's ever considered my feelings like that before, let alone gone out of the way to accommodate them.

"Well, uh, want to go in? It's kinda cold out here, huh?"

He's looking me up and down, and I feel exposed in my plain blue jeans and hand-me-down Hollister v-neck sweater.

"Sure," I say.

I follow him up the front porch steps. He opens the door, and I wait for him to go first, but then I realize he's waiting for me to go first. So I do.

This time, it is what I'm expecting. The cabin is decorated like a little hunting lodge. I've never been in one, but I've seen them in movies and TV shows. The walls are wood panel, and they're covered in antlers and trophy fish.

"Bedroom's over there." He points to a door on my left, then to one on the right. "Bathroom's there."

I'm eyeing a rack with three rifles hanging beside the door, and he must notice, because he says, "They're not loaded."

When I don't say anything, he keeps talking. "I bought this place a few years ago, and I haven't really gotten to redecorating. Those came with the place. Besides, who needs a gun to kill a deer?"

He grins, and I notice for the first time how sharp some of his teeth are. It's nothing like ours in my pack.

"Hey, I'm just kidding," he says. I guess he can tell I'm a little freaked out. "I'm a fishing guy, anyway."

"Oh," I say. "Ha."

I don't know why I even tried to laugh. It sounds more pathetic than I even usually do. He's frowning at me, and I panic a little. What am I thinking??? This is my new Alpha. Laughing at his stupid jokes will be the least of my duties to him. Pack members who don't play along never last long. I need to get it together.

"Well," he says. "Why don't we call it a night?"

He looks me up and down again. "Is that all you have?"

He means the clothes I'm wearing. I can feel myself turning bright red. Everything happened so fast today, I didn't have time to pack even my few belongings.

"Yeah," I say. "It's...okay. I....always sleep in jeans."

He cocks his head and looks at me like he'll call my bluff. I bite my lip. There's something in his face. He looks somehow....sad. I have no idea what to do with that. But then he smiles.

"Okay then, " He kicks off his timberland boots and pads across the room in his socks. I watch him lie down on the old, 1980s velour couch. "Good night."

I don't move. What am I supposed to be doing right now? I wait for some command. It feels like an eternity passes before he sits up and says, "Sorry, do you need something?"

I shake my head. He stares at me for a moment and says, "Huh. Well...sweet dreams?"

I still have no idea what he wants from me. I have no idea what to say, and then he says, "Sorry. I have no idea what you want from me right now..."

It catches me so off guard, I actually laugh. A real laugh. Then he laughs. His laugh is loud and confident, and it makes his broad chest rise and fall under his tight, black t-shirt.

He laughs longer than I do, and then I say, "I don't know where I'm supposed to go...tonight?"

"Oh!" He says, smiling. "The bedroom's all yours! There are fresh sheets. It's a little cold, but it'll warm up in here soon. I just switched from wood to solar, and it's been a whole thing, you know?"

I don't know. I just say, "Okay, thanks," and then I wander awkwardly to the bedroom.

But I stop in the doorway. I don't know why, but I suddenly feel a little bold. I want to say something other than oh and yeah, but I have no idea what.

He's looking at me like he knows I'm trying to get the courage to talk.

So I just ask, "What's your name?"

"Oh!" He laughs again. "I can't believe I never said. It's Yale. Yale Northland. It's kind of a weird name, though, isn't it?"

I don't know what to say. Am I supposed to agree with him? Would that be rude?

He says, "So my friends just call me by my initials, Y.N."

"Okay, Y.N.," I say. Then I have nothing else to say, so I say, "Goodnight," and I shut the door behind me.

The bedroom looks just like the living room, with wood panel walls and random woodsy knickknacks. The bed is huge. It takes up most of the room, and it's covered in old, homemade quilts. I've never seen anything like them. They're so....cozy. I pull them back, and the sheets are red flannel with patterns of little black pine trees and bears printed on them.

I take off my jeans, because I actually don't want to sleep in them, and I climb into the gigantic bed. Thew Newport Alpha is nothing like what anyone said he'd be.

He seems so normal. I can't help feeling like there's something I'm missing. Like, tomorrow, I'll wake up and he'll be the cruel, ruthless Wolf my sister told me about.

But I can't afford to let my guard down. Not when I have no idea what awaits me today. Alpha Yale was kind to me last night, but I know it was all propriety. No matter his reputation—no matter how badly we all know Alpha Jameson needs this to work—Alpha Yale couldn't be a complete brute right away. No matter how worthless I may be to my pack, no matter how much they hate to claim me, I'm still one of them. If Alpha Jameson let an outsider treat me as badly as he does, it would make him look weak, like he can't protect his own. As an Alpha, Yale would understand that and play polite as part of the deal, if only 'til everyone forgets about me.

If I'm going to survive this—whatever this is—I have my own role to play: The perfect Alpha's mate, but that's already out the window. She wouldn't be Wolfless.

I shake the thoughts out of my head. Over-thinking in the dark all morning won't win Alpha Yale over. I switch on the novelty lamp at my beside; it's shaped like a wolf howling at the moon, which is full and round to cover the light bulb inside. A little on-the-nose... But Alpha Yale did say he plans to redecorate the place. The wood floor is cold on my bare feet. No points to solar power, I think.

Back home, we had heated floors. At least, the main house did, where everyone else lived. My room—the unfinished basement—was all moldy cement. How could I have any opinions about Alpha Yale's HVAC setup, coming from someplace like that?

There's a second door in my room, on the other wall just beside the door to the main house. I open it cautiously, expecting a closet, but I'm pleased to realize it goes directly to the bathroom. The lights are already on inside—so bright I blink and see spots for a second. I immediately notice a folded bundle of fabric, with a small note on top:

M.C.,

I pause. How did he know I prefer to go by my initials, the same as he does? There's no way Alpha Jameson or my sister would have been considerate enough to mention it. They never remembered themselves—or they pretended not to, anyway.

I hope you slept well. I'm out getting us breakfast. This is for you, in case you don't actually like living in those jeans. Back soon - Y.N.

I turn over the note for some reason, and I realize it's been scrawled on the back of an old envelope, already torn open. The return address sounds like a satellite dish company. Absurdly, I imagine Alpha Yale tucked into one of those homemade quilts, surrounded by novelty lamps, watching black-and-white movies, or whatever channels you get by dish out here in the sticks. I catch myself smiling before I remember I'm just making things up. Most Ruthless Alpha this side of the Mississippi, I remind myself. He's probably not catching oldies re-runs.

Under the note is a pair of grey sweatpants—no brand, I notice, the old tag long since worn totally blank. They're clean, but they still smell like him—borax laundry soap, clove cigarettes, and ... Apricot shampoo, I think. 2-in-1. The kind with conditioner included. I shake my head again. Why do I know that, and why does it even matter?

I pull the pants on and look at my reflection in the mirror. My brown, curly hair is a hopeless tangle. I can taste my morning breath. I open a few cabinets, looking for toothpaste or a comb, careful to close them as quietly as possible, in case Alpha Yale wouldn't want me going through his things. The whole bathroom's completely empty, anyway. Unless there's a second bathroom—doubtful, from how little this place seemed last night—then he clearly never stays here. Even the toilet paper roll is almost used up.

Giving up, I use the elastic on my wrist to shape my hair into the semblance of a bun. My brown eyes are underscored by bags, deep and somewhat purple. I notice a stain on yesterday's sweater, so I take it off to reveal my thin, blue camisole with lace trim. It's cold enough in the bathroom that my arms immediately go to gooseflesh, but I warm up a little when I put on the sweatpants. They're too long—Alpha Yale is at least a foot taller than me—so I roll them three times at the waist, which looks a little frumpy, but so do I.

I take one more look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are wide. Suddenly, panic blooms in my chest. I don't want to go out there. I don't want to face Alpha Yale and this new life. But I can't go back, either. Not to Alpha Jameson. Not to my sister. There's no one there who would have me, protect me if this all went to hell. I won't go back. I'd sooner drown in the Ohio River than cross it again.

Swallowing my dread, I open the other door to the main house.

"She's awake!"

I blink against the sun pouring into the room from three skylights, which I hadn't noticed last night. There's a man I don't know, sitting on the old couch in front of the TV, tucked into one of those patchwork quilts, exactly as I'd stupidly imagined Alpha Yale.

"Finally joining us, in the land of the living?" His grin is goofy and genuine, and I notice he has sharp teeth like Alpha Yale's.

"Booo!" Another voice says with a laugh, as if the man on the couch has made some sort of corny joke, but I don't get it.

"M.C., Good morning," says yet a third person. The whole cabin is a single room, with the living room's old, shaggy carpet ending abruptly at the kitchen's linoleum floor. There's a second man, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of what I assume is coffee, because I can smell the beans, pleasant and freshly ground. His smile was just as genuine, but smaller, shy. I couldn't see his teeth. He was regarding me from behind thick, red curls, cut into bangs that hung over his eyes. I would find the style irritating, but he must not mind. "Just in time for breakfast!" Says the man who was boo-ing. He's standing at the stove, and even from behind, he looks almost ... startling, wearing a colorful, satin bath robe and a bleached buzzcut halved in two sides by a neon-pink skunk stripe. He adds another pancake to a pile so enormous, I worry they're expecting even more company.

This is my new pack, and one of them must be Beta, if Alpha Yale left them here, with me, without formal introductions.

"Come sit," says the first man. He's in a thick, wool sweater, the same sky blue as the silk wave cap on his head. He's still smiling, and I catch myself thinking he looks very handsome, in a cozy way. They all do, in their sweaters and robes at breakfast, like it's the morning after a slumber party.

I'm suddenly struck by some strange familiarity, as if I've seen all of them before. I try to picture their faces among visiting packs we've sometimes hosted in Cincinnati. I haven't been welcome at any guest events in years, but perhaps when we were children—when my parents were still alive and Alpha Jameson and I were still ... I can't bear to think about that—about the better days. I need to focus on today.

I didn't expect to meet my new pack this way—without Alpha Yale here. It seems somehow improper, like we're breaking some sort of rule. There were so many ... formalities back home. Everything even somewhat noteworthy was strangled by ceremony and pomp. Any day now, I half expect Alpha Devon to demand a full Pack initiation ritual for his next stupid car.

Compared to that, this is so casual, so relaxed that I feel my hackles up. The man on the couch seems to notice, because he looks a little startled, and he says, "Or don't! It's okay!"

Oh my god, I'm being rude. I'm being rude to the men who are almost definitely Alpha Yale's closest confidantes.

I wonder suddenly if this is some sort of test, to see how I fall into my place at my Alpha's side, even when he's not here—to see if I have the quality of a leader. The idea of me leading anyone—anything—is so stupid that I laugh—quietly, bitterly, to myself.

But the man on the couch catches it and misinterprets it. He smiles gently, clearly hoping I've come around. I take a deep breath and force my shoulders to relax. There are no practice rounds; this is my new life, in this very moment, and every first impression I make it critical. Perhaps to my very survival.

"Good morning, everyone," I say, and I'm surprised that it doesn't come out as meekly as I feared it would.

Now the man on the couch grins again. "Good morning! Sorry to crowd in on you like this, but we all got worried when y'all didn't show up last night. Y.N. said he'd be back with you at the house."

"We drove all up and down 471 this morning, looking for his stupid motorcycle," says the man with the coffee. "Assumed you crashed and exploded, 'til we finally remembered this place. I'm Brayden, by the way."

"Ah! Kristofer, with a K and and F," says the man at the stove.

"Caleb," says the man on the couch.

"Brayden, Caleb, Kristofer," I repeat shyly, committing the names to memory. Titles would be the least of my political responsibilities here.

"With a 'K' and an 'F'!" Kristofer reminds me immediately.

"Thanks, I've got it," I say. I decide to join Caleb on the couch after all, if only to pretend for this pack that I can be comfortable among them—that I can be one of them. Caleb offers me some of his quilt, but I shake my head, no-thanks.

"So," I say, and all three of them look at my expectantly. I do my best not to shrink. "Who here is Beta?"

"Oh! Uh-" Says Caleb, and they all look at each other.

"We uh," Kristofer takes a bite of one of the pancakes, plain and right off the skillet. I watch him chew it with his mouth open, full of those same sharp teeth. "We haven't decided yet."

Caleb puts a hand over his face, as if embarrassed. "Awesome, Kristofer," he says under his palm.

Kristofer is immediately defensive, "Sorry, but, like, we haven't though! Right?"

"Why don't-" Brayden interrupts, loudly. Then he looks at me and says, softer, "we wait for Y.N. to get back, and he can make our introductions."

"Sure," shrugs Kristofer, finishing off his pancake.

I don't know what to say, but I don't need to, because—as if on cue—the door opens, and Alpha Yale is there, his broad shoulders nearly taking up the entire frame.

He looks furious.

"You guys have to be fucking kidding me!" He says. It's not quite a shout, but it's not exactly not a shout. I clamp my teeth together, forcing myself to look neutral.

"You can't be mad at us, dude." Brayden speaks first, sounding unphased by the Alpha's anger. "We spent all night expecting you in a body bag. Obviously we came looking for y'all."

"What?" Alpha Yale looks bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"You went off to some high-stakes meeting with uh," Brayden seemed uncertain for a moment, like he doesn't know exactly what he's about to say—what he should say. I recognize this, because it's how I so often speak—like I have to choose my words very carefully. "A rival Pack. And you never came back."

"Shit," Alpha Yale says. I don't know what to make of it, the way he completely deflates, like all the anger's gone out of him at once. I can't believe there won't be yelling, fighting, someone's broken bones at the end of it. But he just says, "Sorry. That sucks, I shouldn't have done that."

"True," says Caleb, not unkindly.

"I just ... Got in my head, on the way back, you know?"

"We get it, we get it," Says Kristofer, around another mouthful of pancake. "You wanted her all to yourself."

At this, Caleb makes an Alright, Enough face at Kristofer, who shrugs defensively.

Alpha Yale chooses to ignore the exchange, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Finally, he looks at me, and I think—against all logic—that every part of him softens—his eyes, his shoulders, his whole posture.

"Are you getting along alright, M.C.? Sorry I left you. I got us pancakes, but I see I've been outdone." He looks somehow ... uncertain. I don't understand it—any of it. This gentle Alpha—betraying every bit of his reputation—this place, this pack.

"We've been good company," says Caleb, and I find myself smiling, despite myself.

"It's ... true," I agree, quietly. "They've been ... very nice."

Alpha Yale rolls his eyes. "They're always nice," he says. "But you still have to watch out."

"For what?" Kristofer says, mock-offended. I begin to suspect he's always on the defense.

"I never know," says Alpha Yale. "Which is what worries me." He puts down the plastic carry-out bags beside the door, where he kicks off his boots and shrugs his Carhartt jacket off, onto the coat tree.

I expect him to join Caleb and me on the couch. He is my Alpha. But he sits on the little loveseat across from us, his broad frame sinking into the old, too-soft floral cushions. He smiles again at me—shyly, I think beyond all reason—but then his eyes widen.

"Willow's not here, is she?"

Kristofer scoffs through yet another pancake. "We're not completely clueless."

Alpha Yale's shoulders relax, but for only a second before the kitchen door—which I've only just noticed—bangs open.

"You guys are clueless, and I am here," says a woman with brown eyes. With brunette hair in a messy bun. Grown so much since I saw her last, but still somehow just the same. I completely forget myself. I'm standing before I can even consider the consequences for speaking out of turn, for failing to answer my Alpha's question, failing to acknowledge him at all.

"Meredith?" I ask, my voice louder than I've ever heard it, so I cringe even as I take a step forward toward her.

She stops smiling, turns pale with shock, and she looks right past me, to Alpha Yale. She's so stricken that I turn to look at him too, and his face is an exact echo of hers. Caleb has a hand over his own face again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realized she'd be here," says Meredith. Says my childhood friend—my only friend—lost for a decade since her mom gave her away to that boy band.

"Meredith," I say again, still looking at Alpha Yale, still trying to understand his shock and hers—trying to understand anything. "What's going on?"

I look back at her, and now Meredith is blushing, from her ears, all the way down her neck. "I'm not-" she starts, but she stops, apparently unsure what to say.

"You are!" I say, unable to contain myself, startling myself with my own voice. I'm shaking. I feel suddenly hysterical. I can hear that in my voice too—the panic, the loose ends. I know I'm fucking everything up—for myself, even for my pack—but I can't put myself back together. "Meredith! What is going ON?"

Meredith is still looking past me, at Alpha Yale, who is looking back at her desperately. They seem to be having some sort of conversation with their eyes. I can't stand it. I may not have my Wolf, but I feel myself transforming into some monstrous version of myself that I never knew exists—some desperate, angry, clawing thing that cannot stay quiet, no matter what catastrophe I bring down upon myself.

"Someone say SOMETHING!" I shout, and even Brayden looks shocked by my outburst.

Meredith's mouth is open, as if she'll speak, but nothing comes out. Kristofer takes another bite of a pancake.

I'm about to grab someone by the shoulders and start shaking them, when Caleb looks up from behind his hand and says, "Y.N.—Yale. I don't wanna air your whole life out, but you need to say something here."

Yale looks at him, opens his mouth, shuts it again, and takes a deep breath through his nose.

"She's not Meredith, M.C."

I'm about to argue, and he knows it, because I inhale, sharp and fast, ready to yell, to tell him he's wrong, he's lying.

But he reaches across the coffee table and puts a hand on my knee.

"I am—was," He says, awkwardly, painfully.

I cannot even begin to understand what he means.

"And that's Willow," he says. "Was Meredith. Was, uh, me?"

"I'm losing track of this explanation," offers Kristofer, uselessly.

I look back at Meredith—Willow?—who shrugs and smiles sheepishly, like she still has no idea what to say.

I feel faint. Everything is catching up to me at once. The days before Alpha Yale's arrival that I didn't eat—barely slept. The shock of all things unfamiliar. The years of grief—of sleepless nights crying for Meredith. My vision goes vignette, blackening at the edges.

Caleb must notice first, because I hear him say my name, feel his hands on my back and chest, to steady me. I try to answer, but the words are like syrup in my mouth. I feel like I drool them, but I don't know if I really do. The last thing I hear before I collapse is Kristofer's voice.