Page 2 of Tide Touched

One of these days, my Wise Voice says, I should listen to her. But I don’t. My smart ass instincts will always trump my survival instincts.

Levi fumes and stalks off, bored. I guess he got tired of his punching bag.

Despite my light-hearted attitude, I’m not stupid. (I mean, if you ask Moira, that might be a different answer.) My gaze doesn’t leave Levi until he disappears over the sandy dune which leads back home. Once he’s out of sight, I let out a breath. My throat is sore, and my head is pounding.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to clear my mind. My cheek aches, and now my ribs. At least I’ll get wolf healing tomorrow.

‘Are you out of books to read?’ Moira demands, hands on her hips. ‘Or have you run out of paint again? Why are you picking fights with wolves like Levi? For something to do?’ Her voice rises several octaves. ‘You could really have gotten hurt, Katie!’ She throws her arms around me, the adoptive big sister I’ve always loved.

Picking fights? I want to snap. As though I go out of my way to get my ass kicked? I roll my eyes. ‘I’m fine.’ Truthfully, yes, I have run out of books. Living with my stepmother, Beatrice, is best done quietly. The only way to put up with her is to keep low and out of sight so that she forgets I exist between drunken hazes. And I haven’t had paint in a long time. Beatrice gets our pack allowance and always spends it on booze before I get anywhere near it. A serious alpha-oversight, if you ask me.

My father neglected to remedy this in his will before he died. Of course, drinking yourself to death tends to blur one’s thoughts and abilities to plan shit. I feel guilty even thinking of him that way, but it’s easier to hate someone you loved who leaves you.

Moira holds me at arm’s length, her soft hands grasping my upper arms. Her gaze sweeps over me, expertly looking for any signs of damage. Or, more damage than before. ‘Come on, you’re coming home with me.’

I don’t want pity. I wave Moira’s concern off.

Moira turns to look out at the waves, the darkening horizon. ‘It really is beautiful.’ Her short hair dances around her cheeks in loose curls as she tilts her head back. ‘So close.’ The moon is just shy of full. She links her arm with mine and leads us down the beach, toward her place. ‘Are you excited to get your wolf tomorrow?’ Trust her to try to find something positive in all this crap.

In the near-darkness, I brush my throat. Not that I would admit it, even to Moira, but Levi’s grip had hurt. I swallow. It stings. Excited isn’t the word I’d use—shifting for the first time will be a bitch—but I nod. I need my wolf. ‘Hell yes.’

I know I won’t necessarily get a mate right away, but as of tomorrow night, it’s possible. I am the last woman to think that I need a man to be strong or complete or something, but if I had a mate… things would be easier in a practical sense.

I would have someone to ‘look after me’, in that he would have to feed me, clothe me. His standing in the pack would spill over to me. People might treat me a little better.

‘I’ll Turn with you,’ Moira says. ‘The first time is a little rough.’

I face her. ‘Really? My bones snapping isn’t going to be fun?’ I set a hand on my chest in shock, and she laughs, elbowing me.

‘Not so much, no.’

I close my eyes briefly as we ascend the rocky shore which leads up to her place. I turn, staring out at the wide expanse of water. ‘What is wrong with me?’

‘Nothing,’ Moira says, just like always.

‘I’m serious. Some Fire wolf I am.’ I stare out at the sea, wishing I were swimming amongst the waves. Most Fire wolves don’t even know how to swim, which is stupid.

Moira hugs me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder. ‘I don’t know,’ she breathes. She steers me to her place. It’s a right sight better that the shit hole I live in. It’s an old three-bedroom place that overlooks the beach. From the open back door, the smell of pasta wafts out to greet us. I inhale. Coming home to the smell of dinner is not something most people think of as amazing, but it’s not often something I get. My feet pick up, following the smell.

Moira’s mother, Anna, glances up as we come in. Moira’s family are better off than mine, but that’s because there’s still a man around to ‘protect’ them. Their standing in the pack. There’s an old family photo on a nearby bookcase: Anna, her head tossed back in a genuine laugh, as her husband tickles her sides from behind, his face caught in one of mischief.

Beside that photo is another, of Moira and I when we were kids. Her tenth birthday, I think. We’re both on the beach, doing cartwheels on the shore. The photo is faded now, but you can still clearly see our smiles. I know for a fact that Moira’s father doesn’t like that photo. To her credit, whenever he moves it or tries to throw it out, or shoves it in a drawer, when I return, Anna’s always put it back home.

Her father doesn’t like to be reminded of me. His daughter’s freak friend.

‘Dinner’s ready, kids.’ Anna waves to the table, a glass of white wine in her hand. She doesn’t notice the bruises on my cheek, the finger-marks around my neck, the way I hold my aching ribs. She never does. Or, perhaps she just can’t deal with it. I don’t blame her. I’m not her responsibility, but she often feeds, clothes, and houses me, so I can’t complain.

Moira offers me a sympathetic glance. ‘Mum, Moira’s going to stay with us tonight, okay?’

Anna nods without looking at us. The entire pack could come through her doors and she wouldn’t notice. She’s a woman who does her best to keep out of the way, which usually means her head in a bottle of wine, not grousing about anything around her husband, always making sure there’s plenty of food around, mostly for him.

Moira pushes a bowl of spaghetti toward me, breaking off some garlic bread. ‘I’ll get you some ice when we go upstairs,’ she says quietly.

I shrug. I don’t really care about my bruises. They’ll heal. Then more will come. I dip the bread into the sauce and eat it gratefully. Anna has some serious parental flaws, but the fact that there’s food in the house has never been one of them, and she’s always fed me. Especially in the last year. Since my father left me. Well, died. Same thing.

Moira and I eat in companiable silence until our bowls are clean, not even a crumb of garlic bread remaining. I know that if I was still hungry, I could go and help myself to anything in the kitchen while her father isn’t here. Anna doesn’t mind me at all.

Moira goes and pecks her mother on the cheek with a murmur of goodnight. I get a glimpse of Anna’s glassy eyes—from that look, she’s at least two glasses into that Chardonnay. I wonder what it must be like, going through life in a daze.