"Please, I just need some water."
The elderly woman behind the farmhouse door studies me through the screen, her weathered hands gripping a wooden spoon like a weapon. I must look terrible, three days of walking through wilderness, surviving on stream water and the few energy bars I packed, my clothes torn from brambles and my face streaked with dirt.
"You running from something, girl?"
"Something like that." I lean against her porch railing, exhaustion making my knees weak. "I can pay you for the water. And maybe some bread, if you have any to spare."
She opens the screen door wider, revealing a kitchen that smells like cinnamon and fresh baking. "Come in before someone sees you looking like that. Town folks around here don't take kindly to drifters."
I follow her inside, grateful beyond words. The house is small but clean, filled with the kind of warmth that only comes from decades of love and care. Photographs line the mantelpiece, family gatherings, graduations, weddings.
"Sit." She points to a chair at the kitchen table. "I'm Margaret. Margaret Holloway."
"Eve," I say, using the shortened version of my name. No point giving too much away. "Eve Matthews."
Margaret fills a glass with cold water from the tap and sets it in front of me. I drink it so fast it makes my stomach cramp, but I don't care. It's the first clean water I've had since leaving pack territory.
"When's the last time you ate?"
"Yesterday morning." The lie comes easily. Truth is, I finished my last energy bar this morning, but I don't want to seem completely helpless.
She cuts a thick slice of bread from a loaf cooling on the counter and spreads it with butter and honey. "My late husband always said never send someone away hungry. Bob was soft-hearted that way."
I accept the bread gratefully, trying not to wolf it down despite my hunger. "Thank you. This is very kind."
"Kind nothing. It's what decent people do." Margaret settles into the chair across from me. "So what are you running from? Abusive boyfriend? Family trouble?"
"It's complicated."
"Most things worth running from are." She studies my face with sharp blue eyes. "You got the look of someone who's lost everything."
The kindness in her voice almost breaks me. I press my hand to my stomach instinctively, thinking of the tiny life growing there, the one person I haven't lost yet.
"I made some bad choices," I say finally. "Got involved with the wrong person. Now I need to start over somewhere safe."
Margaret nods like she understands. "Been there myself, once upon a time. Before I met Bob." She glances at the photographs on the mantle. "You got anywhere to go?"
"Not really. I was hoping to find work in town, maybe rent a room somewhere."
"Town's not big on strangers. Folks here have lived side by side for generations, they don't trust outsiders easily." Margaret refills my water glass. "But I might have a solution, if you're interested."
"I'm listening."
"My arthritis has been acting up something fierce lately. Doctor says I need help with the heavy work around here, gardening, cleaning, errands in town." She pauses. "Can't pay much, but there's a small room above the garage you could use. Comes with meals and privacy."
"You'd do that for a stranger?"
"You're not a stranger anymore. You're Eve, and you need help." Margaret's smile transforms her weathered face. "Besides, I've been rattling around this old house alone for three years now. Could use the company."
I want to cry with relief. "I don't know how to thank you."
"Start by telling me what skills you have. Can you cook? Clean? Garden?"
"All of those. I'm also good with herbal remedies, teas for headaches, poultices for cuts and bruises, that sort of thing." I hesitate. "I used to help the town doctor back home."
"Herbal medicine?" Margaret's eyes light up. "Now that's interesting. My neighbor Mrs. Patterson has been complaining about her joint pain for months. Doctor's pills aren't helping much."
"I could make her something. If you have the right plants in your garden."
"Got a whole herb section out back. Bob planted it for me years ago." Margaret stands and heads for the back door. "Come on, let's see what you can work with."
The garden is beautiful, rows of vegetables mixed with medicinal plants, all carefully tended despite Margaret's arthritis complaints. I spot willow bark, turmeric, ginger, and several other useful herbs.
"This is perfect," I tell her, kneeling to examine a particularly healthy patch of feverfew. "With these plants, I can make remedies for pain, inflammation, digestive issues, lots of common problems."
"Sounds like you could help more than just Mrs. Patterson." Margaret watches me move through the garden with obvious expertise. "Might be a way for you to earn some extra money too. Folks around here are always looking for alternatives to expensive doctor visits."
For the first time in days, I feel a spark of hope. Maybe I can build something here, a quiet life where my child can grow up safely, away from pack politics and mate bond complications.
The room above the garage is small but clean, with a narrow bed, a dresser, and a window that looks out over the garden. It smells like old books and forgotten dreams, but it's mine, the first space that's ever truly belonged to me.
Over the next few weeks, I settle into a routine. I help Margaret with household tasks, tend the herb garden, and start building a small clientele of locals who need natural remedies. Word spreads quickly in a small town, and soon I'm treating everything from Mrs. Patterson's arthritis to little Tommy Miller's persistent cough.
The work keeps me busy, which is good. Busy means less time to think about what I left behind, about Adrian's wedding that must have happened by now, about Lucas and whether he told anyone about my escape, about the mate bond that still aches in quiet moments.
My pregnancy progresses without complications. Margaret doesn't ask questions when I start showing, just quietly makes sure I eat enough and get plenty of rest. She's the kind of woman who understands that some stories are too painful to tell, at least not yet.
"You're different," she observes one evening as we sit on the porch, watching fireflies dance over the garden. "Stronger than when you first showed up."
"I had to be." I rest my hand on my rounded belly, feeling the baby's gentle movements. "Someone's depending on me now."
"Baby's lucky to have you."
I hope she's right. Most days, I feel like I'm just making it up as I go along, hoping love will be enough to make up for everything I don't know about being a mother.
"Margaret," I start, then stop. There's something I've been wanting to ask, but I'm not sure how.
"What is it, honey?"
"When you were young, did you ever feel like you were running from yourself as much as from other people?"
She considers this, rocking slowly in her chair. "Once or twice. Why?"
"Sometimes I wonder if I'm being brave or just being a coward."
"Can't it be both?" Margaret reaches over and pats my hand. "Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit you're scared and keep going anyway."
The sound of screaming cuts through our peaceful evening like a knife. We both bolt upright, looking toward town where orange light flickers against the darkening sky.
"Fire?" Margaret asks, squinting toward the glow.
"Maybe." But something in my gut tells me it's worse than that. The screams carry a note of terror that goes beyond a simple house fire.
More screams echo from the direction of town, and now I can smell it, smoke, yes, but underneath it something else. Something that makes my wolf instincts scream danger.
"Margaret, we need to get inside. Now."
"What? Why?"
I grab her arm and help her to her feet. "Trust me. Something's wrong."
We've barely made it through the front door when a howl splits the night, long, mournful, and definitely not human. Margaret freezes, her face going pale.
"Was that, "
"A dog," I lie quickly. "Probably scared by the fire."
But I know better. That was a wolf howl, and not from any ordinary wolf. The sound carried an edge of madness, of rage barely contained.
"I should call the sheriff," Margaret says, reaching for her phone.
"The lines might be down because of the fire." I'm already moving toward the windows, checking locks, drawing curtains. "We should just stay inside until morning."
Another howl, closer this time. Then another. My blood runs cold as I realize there's more than one of them.
Rogues. It has to be rogues, wolves without packs, driven mad by isolation and desperation. But what are they doing this far from werewolf territory?
Margaret huddles in her recliner while I pace the living room, every instinct screaming at me to run. But where can I go? I'm eight months pregnant, in a human town under attack by creatures Margaret can't even imagine exist.
A crash from the kitchen makes us both jump. Then footsteps, heavy, deliberate, moving through Margaret's house like they own it.
I grab the fire poker from beside the hearth and position myself between Margaret and t
he kitchen doorway. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure it's audible.