NICHOLAS

No one rests easily, on the sixteenth of November.

For my friends, for my family. For any female over the age of eighteen who has the unfortunate curse of being born within our packs lands. Any female, unmated and of age, generally does her best to remain inconspicuous. You keep your head low, your mouth shut. If you don't attract attention, perhaps the man who may be your future mate won't see you. Won't notice you. You may survive another year, if you're lucky.

Alpha Nicholas' pack has the highest male werewolf population in not only the continent, but the world. He also had the highest unmated male population, including himself and his Beta. So he went to-and-fro, conquering and bringing fear to just about every pack that was convenient and worth his time, to allow his men to find their mates.

"Darcy." My mother's voice pulls me out of my trance of depression and anxiety, and I struggle to focus on the plate of toaster waffles in front of me, overdone at the edges and underdone in the center. I'm not sure how long I've been in my head, but they're cold once again. I eye the microwave across the kitchen, but decide I'm not hungry enough for the effort it would take to heat them up. I haven't slept in two days, and I'm running low on energy.

The odds are, my mate will be in Alpha Nicholas' pack. My gut tells me this with absolute certainty, and while I know it's paranoia, that every women felt that way, statistics agree with my gut. Three quarters of unmated males are in Nicholas' custody. I have only a quarter of a chance of my mate being elsewhere.

"Sweetheart, you've got to relax." My mother coos, reaching across the wooden table and taking my hand in her own. They're soft, smelling like her lotion, and while I might otherwise be calmed by her touch, I only feel guilty. If she loses me, she loses her daughter. "They'll look at you more if they smell the anxiety. These men are warriors, they feed off of fear." She tells me, voice soft and understanding, and after a minute, she stands up and picks up my plate. She walks to the microwave and sticks the plate in, fingers dancing across the keys until it hummed as the waffles spun round-and-round, heating up with the help of some friendly radiation.

My sister's flip flops smacked against the tiles as she sauntered into the kitchen, and I glanced at her, the corners of my lips tugging into a smile. Candy was twenty-three, and she'd played this game more than a few times. For a remarkably attractive woman, she could turn into an eyesore without too much effort.

For a week, she didn't shower, and she smelled foul and sour. She wore dirty clothes, her face greasy and lacking in makeup. The general thought was that the more unappealing you seemed, the less likely they'd be to look at you. Who would want anything to do with some slob, mate or not? I'm not sure it really works, but I play along well enough, leaving my hair frizzy and face devoid of makeup, with stained, baggy clothing.

"Please tell me you're not going to be eating down here!" Tyler moans, pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose, seemingly preferring the stench of his own nineteen-year-old-boy body over Candy.

Even my mother's nose scrunched up as the microwave went off, carrying the plate back to me. "Candace, you really do smell foul." She observes, but there was a degree of approval to her words. Candy and I didn't want to be taken, but I think mom's desire for us to not be taken was stronger. She'd lost her own sister to Nicholas' pack; I didn't remember much about Aunt Mila, I'd been eight when they'd taken her, but mom had loved her more than life itself. She didn't want to lose her only daughters as well.

"It's an art." Candace said with a confident shrug of her shoulder, pushing her hair back as she took a seat, reaching out to grab a muffin but stopped.

I glance at her and see her pupils dilate, her face go pale. She's the firstborn, and with the death of our father, Candace is technically the head of the family. She represents us in pack meetings in place of our father, and she makes some of the important decisions. With being the head comes another perk: heightened senses.

She can tell when they're coming.

After a moment, she snaps out of it, clears her throat. Her gaze flutters to her hands as she wrings them in her lap. "Uh, Darcy," she says, her voice quivering, "it's time to go."

My heart thumps in my chest like a war drum, and my legs feel heavy. This is the first year I'll be participating. The first year until the rest of my life, right up until I either find my mate, or he finds me. I know it's unlikely that I'll find him here, this time; I turned eighteen only a month ago, my body's pull for a mate is irregular, it isn't strong. I might see him today and not even know it. Really, the only way to guarantee is if he's older than me; his pull might make up for my lack of one.

"Darcy, come on, we'll get in trouble if we're late." She says quietly, though her tone is distressed. This is Candy's sixth year; her pull is stronger than ever. She needs her mate, mentally and biologically. She has more to fear than I do.

I stand up and take her outstretched hand, following her out of the kitchen and down the hallway. The walls are freckled with little pieces of our lives, pictures of our family at our happiest moments. Mom and Dad's wedding, birthday parties, school pictures. They're snapshots of small moments, small memories that made us who we are. Eventually, we get to the front door, and Candy's shaking as she twists the handle, easing it open as the hinges groan. We stand there, faces pointed toward the road, eyes on the ground, slipping out of our home and onto the weathered floorboards of the porch. If we don't make eye contact, we'll be okay. If we don't look at them, everything will be fine. Though it's explicitly against the rules to look away, almost everyone does. It's instinctual.

Minutes pass as they move down the road, a mass of men. I hear them laughing and chatting, shoving one another playfully. This is the best day of the year for many of them, regardless of how we feel. They'll find their mates, and how we feel isn't important.

A cheer rings out along the crowd, and my head snaps up, surprised. I spot a man pulling out of the crowd, running up the porch of our neighbor. I recognize Kelsey immediately, a girl I've gone to school with my entire life. She turned eighteen three days ago, she hadn't even celebrated. Her parents had been hopeful, scheduled her party for tomorrow. Surely she won't be taken, they'd thought, as hopeful as anyone might be in these circumstances.

He runs up to her and picks her up, twirling her around, clearly overjoyed, though her eyes are as wide as saucers. She's a tall girl, but this guy is massive and muscular, though he couldn't be much older than we were.

Suddenly, I feel far less confident in my age protecting me.

I glance over my shoulder, and sure enough, my mother and Tyler are standing in the doorway, hugging one another tightly. My mother seems to gather the same conclusion, and tears fill her eyes, while Tyler hugs her to him. I try to breathe easily, I try to stay calm. I take my glasses off, cleaning them on my shirt, the same one I'd worn to bed, and place the frames on my face. I blink a few times, making sure they're clean, and that's when I see him.

Everyone knows about Nicholas. I'd been watching him from the doorway for as long as I could remember, since he was younger than I am now. He walks not to find a mate, but to keep track of how many of his men acquired them. He'd been made an Alpha at the age of eleven, younger than anyone before, and he'd embraced the power of that rank, for better or worse. Perhaps he wasn't loved, but he was powerful. He got shit done, and sometimes, that was what you needed in an Alpha. He had the strongest army, the largest pack, the most pups. His females didn't need to walk, because his male population was so high that they almost always found their mates in their own pack.

Everyone knows who Nicholas is, right on sight. Even if you don't know his face, you can tell him apart from the crowd. Power radiates out of every pore, danger showing in every easy step he takes. Nobody challenges Nicholas, despite the things he's done in his life. The people he's killed, the lives he's ruined. Because he could kill with his gaze.

I can't not stare at him, and once my eyes hit his face, I'm in a trance. He's terrifying and mesmerizing at the same time. He seems to feel my eyes, and stops walking, turning to stare at me.

Our eyes lock, and in that moment, I know I'm fucked.

He doesn't move, and neither do I.

We stand there, staring at one another, waiting for the other to do something, to say something. He seems to realize that I have no intention of moving from my spot, my feet anchored to the ground, so he began to move through the crowd. As soon as he begins moving, the parade stops, watching.

Nicholas is twenty-six. He's gone eight years unmated; by now, the assumption was that she'd died, or he'd never find her. But he had. I just happened to be a child for the last eight years, a juvenile.

He's stalking toward me, one loud step followed by another as he ascends the stairs, gaze fascinated and fixated on my features, and I find his power contagious. Everyone seems to cower, but I feel myself squaring my shoulders, feel my hands forming into tight fists, jaw clenched as he moves closer.

He keeps moving toward me, and as he gets closer, not stopping, I find myself backing against the house. My body presses against the screen of the window, the smell of the waffles wafting out from the kitchen, and he doesn't stop until only inches separate us. He's so close, I can all but taste the scent of his toothpaste and his laundry soap, and it occurs to me in that moment that I recognize that smell.

"I think we use the same laundry soap." The words fall out of my lips before I can stop them. They're not a protest, I don't tell him to go fuck a bowl of fruit. I comment on his laundry soap, and heat floods my cheeks, but my features don't change. I still regard him coldly, harshly, unwillingly.

Emotions shift so rapidly across his features I have difficulty keeping up with them, categorizing them. Confusion shows in the furrow of his brows; his lips curl into an amused smile; his eyes reflect a deeper sense of longing and frustration.

"Breeze scented?" He finally asks, that same intensity in his voice that he carried with each step.

"Clean breeze, actually." I mumble, and I'm not sure why. I'm not sure why I'm standing here, centimeters separating us, talking about laundry soap. It's mundane, it's domestic, and this situation is anything but. My heart thunders in my chest, overwhelming me with the urge to run, but I resist. Even if I could run, there's nowhere I can go. There's nowhere he won't find me.

He nods slowly. "Yeah, sounds right."

We stand there. Seconds tick by, tension growing in the air, my palms sweating, and we stare at each other. He looks at me like he's trying to memorize my face, the coordinates of every freckle, count every eyelash. All I can do is stare back, stare at the depth of his gaze and the beginnings of facial hair that need shaving, and eyebrows that could probably use a little trimming.

"Go inside," he finally says, voice quiet and level, "pack a bag with whatever you need. You've got five minutes." He steps back, only a foot, and tucks his hands into his pockets.

I part my lips to speak, but no sound comes out. My hands hang limply at my sides, as if itching to do something, and as I process the eyes on me, I cross my arms, suddenly self conscious. I turn, meeting the frightening eyes of my family, and all but cower beneath them. Shouldering my way through, I slip through the front door, and the sound of half a dozen footsteps behind me indicate my entourage following.

Behind the closed doors, away from the army, my mother grabs my shoulder. It’s rough, in a way she’d never handled me before, pulling me to turn and there’s fear in her gaze. “Darcy—” Her voice is thick with pain, with fear, with the suffering of a mother about to watch her daughter walk away. People didn’t return, not when they went to Nicholas’ pack. And I was walking away with the king of them all.

“What do you want me to do?” I whisper, and I try to keep my voice strong, but it cracks a bit at the end. It breaks. It breaks because I’m breaking. “I don’t get to say no. This isn’t a world where women get to say no.” This isn’t a man women get to say no to.

She’s trembling, her arm still on my shoulder, searching for the words. But his footsteps all but reverberate the house, carrying authority in each step, and my eyes are attracted to him like magnets as they find him over her shoulder. He moves so easily, so confidently. Hands in his pockets, wearing a tee shirt and jeans with the confidence of a man who doesn’t need to dress nicely to prove he owns the place. There’s something about him, even dressed so normally, that looks out of place in a house like this. A little four bedroom house that was worn and frayed at the edges. He didn’t look domestic enough for a place like this.

“Four minutes.” He says this quietly, but it carries.

I grind my teeth at that, my eyes sharp as they meet his, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wither beneath the heat of them. He just stands there, unbothered, features saying nothing.

“I need to go pack.” I tell her quietly, turning to walk up the hallway.

“So, you like hockey?” Tyler’s voice is awkward behind me, obviously trying to make the best of a shit situation. If Nicholas responds, I don’t hear it; I’m slipping up the stairs in a rush, hurrying down the hallway and into my room.

Eighteen years of memories fill it. Pictures on the walls, stains on the carpet, memorabilia lining every surface. My heart aches at the thought of leaving it, at the thought of being without the world I’d always known. Leaving my family, my friends, my home.

“This place is gonna be so quiet at night, without you snoring.” Candy’s voice is soft, and I jump in surprise at it. I’m so alert, half expecting Nicholas to come drag me out of there, I’ve all but drowned out the energies of everyone else. I glance at her, but turn away just as quickly, moving to my closet to pull out the suitcase I’d taken on that trip to Florida we’d taken a few years ago.

I toss it on my bed, unzipping it, and Candy doesn’t say anything. I don’t speak as I hurry around my room, grabbing things and tossing them in. Clothes, pictures, chargers, my wallet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be back, if I’ll ever see her again, but somehow saying goodbye seems infinitely more painful than saying nothing. I dump my jewelry box into the suitcase, my sock drawer following. All of a sudden, having enough socks meant the world to me, like I’d never have the chance to get more. Maybe I wouldn’t.

His footsteps are quick as he ascends the stairs, distinctly not rushed but natural instead. He’s a powerful Alpha, speed must be nothing new to him. Panic fills me, and I find myself moving faster. Throwing things into the suitcase until it’s overflowing, with no chance of being zipped properly, and I look up to see him a foot behind Candy in the doorway. She doesn’t move, doesn’t let him in or even acknowledge him; she only stares at me with tear filled eyes.

“Move.” He speaks firmly, curtly, eyes trained on the back of her head.

“Fuck off.” She replies through ground teeth, and I feel every muscle in my body tense as I realize what’s coming.

Before I can react, she’s spinning around, swinging a fist, ready for a fight; before she can land the hit, he has her restrained, arms twisted in a way that makes me flinch, and an arm around her neck. He doesn’t look at her, though; people rush up the stairs, but he doesn’t look at them either. His eyes are cold, trained on my features, jaw clenched tightly.

“I’m letting her live as a favor to you.” He says this pointedly, and I feel the blood drain from my body at the implication behind his words. The danger in his eyes. The animal within him, hungry and angry and bursting at the seams. “It’s time to go now.” He releases her, shoving her forward sharply, and she stumbles onto my carpet, looking angry and frustrated and— powerless.

Exactly how I felt.

But this wasn’t a man that could be fought. Candy was the most dangerous member of our family, and her inability to so much as land a hit against him spoke volumes. She couldn’t do anything, so who was to say I stood any chance? I had no choice but to give in, to go along with him like a lamb to the slaughter.

I lean down, take Candy’s hand to help her up, but my eyes don’t leave his. My regard of him is cold and hard, paling in comparison to his own, but it’s all the rebellion I have the nerve to muster. “You can carry my bag.” I mutter under my breath as I release my sister, grabbing a picture of my parents off my nightstand as I move forward, twisting to avoid touching him and heading out the door.