Yours, Never

Her father once wrote that love was the only known illness people spent their entire lives trying to catch on purpose.

Lillian had always respected the statement. It was, after all, the only explanation for why perfectly intelligent creatures built monogamous homes, wrote poetry, rationalized suffering and agreed to share a bed with another person without the absolute guarantee of safety.

The love of your life is a stranger with direct access to your vulnerable throat and sedated body when you are sound asleep.

But, then again… am I not foolishly praying for years that my stranger wake up next to me?

Lillian had long realized that most problems in life could be delayed, softened, or entirely prevented with proper use of silence. This belief had yet to be formally tested in matters of grief, destiny, or violent men, but it worked remarkably well on a pack house full of underfed wolves who woke up with tempers and no sense of gratitude.

By sunrise, the kitchen where she had worked in for the past four years of her life was warm, orderly, and fragrant with cardamom and baked dough. Her other colleagues were all busily carrying food to the communal hall. She was placing the final rolled cake with strawberry fillings and coconut dust pink pastries onto a tray with unnecessary precision when something heavy slammed into a wall somewhere down the corridor.

Lily didn’t react. It was that normal to hear something break or fall apart in this packhouse. Especially on days Ezra Cirillo graced them with his presence.

She simply breathed, picked up the trays and rushed behind the other staff girls.

“Morning to you too,” she said toward the hallway, dry as toast when she came out and found her best friend and her worst headache outside.

“Gimme one of those before I lose my morals,” Marie called from behind her.

“You had morals?”

Marie had her brown hair shoved into a loose knot, one boot unlaced, and the kind of grin that always meant she had already done something she should not repeat in public.

“You look like you slept in a supply closet,” Lillian noted.

“I did. Technically.” Marie trailed after Lily, eyes fixed on the tray.

Lillian turned her shoulder just enough to block her. “You’re early.”

“Duh. It’s eight.”

“You smell like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” Marie said, grinning. “Also, that’s not a no.”

“It is.”

Marie leaned in, trying to peek at the tray. “Is that coconut? You made coconut. You love me.”

“I made breakfast.”

“For me.”

“For fifty people.”

“Same thing.”

They turned the corner and the hallway opened into the main artery of the pack house. Men in dark uniforms moved with mugs in their hands. Two children, too young to be running, were already racing each other toward the communal hall. One of them nearly clipped a guard’s leg and got scooped up by the back of his shirt before he could take another step. The guard only laughed and set him down again.

The pack house smelled different in the mornings. Less polished, more alive. Toast, stew, laundry soap, boots drying near the vents, old wood warmed by years of bodies moving through it. The windows let in pale gold light from the hill side, and the long corridor buzzed with voices.

The communal hall was already half full when they entered.

Long tables stretched under the chandeliers, some crowded with warriors still half-asleep, some with mothers from the temporary housing wing, some with children in uniforms too big for their shoulders. A couple of older pack members sat with tea and newspapers by the far windows. Someone had left a pair of tiny boots under a chair. One of the house staff was chasing a boy with jam on both cheeks toward the wash basin.

Lillian set the tray down at the buffet table, and the room noticed.

Not all at once. It never was all at once. It started with heads turning, then chairs scraping, then footsteps shifting in her direction. A few voices rose. People knew Lillian cooked the best around these parts.

“Those are hers.”

“No, wait, the pink ones—”

“Move.”

“Get out of the way.”

Marie folded her arms and watched the first wave hit the table. “Every time,” she muttered, amused and offended at once.

A small boy in socks slid between two adults and nearly went headfirst into the pastry tray. Lillian caught him by the back of his shirt before he could collide with the coconut dust.

“Joey. Eyes,” she warned.

He grinned at her with sticky teeth. “I had them.”

“No, you had sugar.”

Then the real push started.

Two pack warriors came from the right, one of them already chewing, both of them reaching for the same tray. A woman from the second-floor housing wing got in first and took three pastries without even pretending otherwise. Someone behind her complained. Someone else answered with a louder complaint. A hand shot out. Then another. The hall filled with the scrape of chairs and the sound of people losing whatever dignity they had intended to keep before breakfast.

Dave appeared at the far side of the buffet table, half buttoned shirt, weapon belt slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. He looked at the tray, then at Lillian, then at the tray again like he was calculating his odds.

“Move,” someone muttered.

“No, I saw it first—”

“Don’t push—”

“Dave, you’re literally shoving children—”

“Save some,” he nudged Marie, reaching for the bread basket.

“You save some,” Marie responded. “You look like a man who has already had two breakfasts.”

Dave pinched her cheek bitterly. “I had one. You just talk like three people.”

His hand was swatted away. “How are you not fat yet. You eat like a pig. I am ashamed to call you my coworker.”

“I need fuel,” Dave said around a full mouth, already chewing. “Training in twenty.”

“You just ate,” Marie snapped.

“So what.”

Lillian set down the second tray some time later and reached for the covered box she had kept separate at the back. This one was smaller. The lid was tied with twine. She prepared a separate pastry batch with lesser sugar every morning when she had time to make one.

As if on cue, a shadow moved beside her.

Alpha Ben came into the hall with two council staff behind him, sleeves rolled up, tie already gone. He had silver in his hair and wrinkles around his eyes but he was as charming and kind to the pack as the day he succeeded as an Alpha. He looked every bit like a wise man who had probably been in a meeting since dawn and had decided, at some point between the first and third disagreement, that he needed breakfast to function.

He spotted the box, smiled, and made a beeline for it.

“Good,” he said. “You remembered me.”

“I always remember who steals the first box.”

Ben placed a hand over his heart. “I am wounded by your tone.”

“You are not.”

“I could be.”

“You are too old to be dramatic.”

He took the box anyway.

At that exact moment, two children from the side table ran straight for him.

“Alpha!” one of them shouted.

Ben turned, saw them coming and tucked the box under one arm before walking away fast enough to keep both his dignity and his breakfast. Lillian watched him weave around a chair and nearly laughed.

Marie was already laughing.

Shaking her head, Lillian took a paper cup from the counter, poured coffee from the pot on the table, and added a splash of milk. The first sip was hot enough to sting her tongue, bitter enough to wake her properly. On the side table, somebody had left a plate with two eggs, toast, and a strip of smoked meat. She took that too, because if she didn’t someone else would.

Rosie, the elderly housekeeper, crossed the hall from the far doorway with a clipboard in one hand and a folded towel over her arm. She had the sort of face that made people lower their voices before she even spoke.

“Trays look good,” Rosie said, glancing over the buffet. “Kitchen’s clean?”

“As clean as this place allows,” Lillian said.

Rosie nodded once. “That’s fair.”

A child with jam on his chin tried to climb onto a chair. Rosie caught him by the back of his collar without looking at him.

“Down,” she said.

He tried to grin at her.

“Do not try that face with me,” Rosie said. “It has never worked.”

The child obeyed at once.

Marie made a low whistle. “Old lady Rosie is not in the mood.”

“There is too much to do,” Rosie said, and kept walking.

Lillian took her seat at the staff table, where the same faces rotated in and out every morning. Some were friendly. Some were competitive. A few acted like they hated each other until the tea arrived and then somehow started talking about weather, new food menus, and whose shift had been worst the night before.

“You know,” Marie said, biting into a roll she had absolutely stolen from Dave, “when you open your own bakery, you’ll have to hire security.”

“I’ll just make fewer pastries.”

Marie looked at her like that was the funniest thing she had ever heard. “You? Make less food? That’s like asking wolves to stop starting problems.”

Rosie passed behind them and tapped Marie’s chair with her ledger. “Eat slower.”

Marie swallowed. “That is not a thing I can learn.”

“It should be.”

Lillian still remembered the first time she met Marie at the spring festival four years ago. Lillian had spent an agonizing hour covered in sweat, forcing charcoal paste down Marie’s throat after she poisoned herself mixing the wrong festival foods. Her reward for saving Marie’s life was four straight years of relentless, unsolicited gossip and overly energetic display of territorial friendship.

“I’m glad Sam lives on the other side of the pack territory,” Lillian drawled, setting her paper cup down. “And doesn’t materialize early in the mornings, even if he wants to.”

Marie stopped chewing. “I’ll remember that attitude when you shift tomorrow night.”

Lily didn’t blink. She just looked at the other woman, briefly nodding.

Marie leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “I pulled strings to get you in my watch group. Don’t forget that.”

When a wolf faced their first shift, they needed heavy surveillance. Sometimes the sheer agony made a wolf snap and go rogue. Sometimes their bodies simply gave out. It usually went fine, leaving them just bruised and starving, but Marie loved holding the danger over Lily’s head.

“I’m weeping with joy on the inside,” Lillian deadpanned.

She was spared from the scary details when a warrior let Lily know that she was summoned to Alpha Ben's office.

Back in her room, Lillian dressed with practiced efficiency. She pulled on a pair of white wide-leg pants matched with a light pink top that flared out at the bottom and fell softly against her frame. With her black hair pulled back into a tight, meticulous braid, and her modest flat sandals, she was a regular in blending into the background. Nothing about her demanded attention. Something she mastered over the years. Lily was somewhere on the introvert spectrum of socializing to be known, not to be engaged with.

She packed her canvas tote bag: a stack of crisp notes, her leather-bound journal, and the new poetry book Sam had lent her. She also retrieved her water bottle from the kitchen and the lunch she had quietly packed at 4:00 AM, long before the packhouse stirred. Rosie gave her the monthly budget plans meant for Alpha Ben on her way over.

Outside the Alpha’s office, the heavy oak door couldn’t muffle the conversation inside.

“So, ‘breaking and entering’ is just a hobby now?” Ben’s voice sounded like he’d aged ten years overnight.

“I prefer calling it 'improvised access,’” a deep, lazy, velvet drawl replied. “Technically, I didn’t break anything. I just lost the key. I have the permission to enter, Oldie.”

“Good. I have decided ‘improvised access’ warrants improvised manual labor, son.”

“A bit harsh for the heir apparent, don’t you think?” another voice interjected.

“I know you helped him, Gabe. Some friendly bunch you are. What was it this time?”

Gabe chuckled. “A magnetic multi-layered key. It’s a work of art, really. Auto-adjusts to the tumblers.”

“I’m confiscating the ‘art,’” Ben said. A heavy thud of metal hit the desk, followed by a defeated groan. “Now, why were you in here at 2:00 AM?”

Ezra Cirillo took a moment to reply. “I was trying to authorize the border pass for the tracks in the west.”

“What for?”

Another voice casually chimed in. ”Training."

“Is that what the kids call illegal street racing these days?”

Composing herself, Lillian knocked and stepped inside when called in. She tried to mind her business but her gaze landed on someone else occupying Ben’s seat.

Ezra was sprawled in the Alpha’s leather chair, boots crossed on the mahogany desk. He looked like a god designed by someone who hated humanity. His hair was a chaotic, beautiful mess of bronze and gold, and his eyes were a piercing, electric blue that felt like a physical shock when he narrowed them. He had that hunter’s sharp jaw, but whenever he flashed his charming smile, a deep dimple cut into his cheek. It was as if the moon goddess cleverly gave him all that lulled humans to excuse his sins just by merely looking at him.

Bored, his eyes flicked to Lillian. She approached Ben in the center, acknowledging the others with only a minimal dip of her chin. She handed the ledger over and adjusted the tote bag on her shoulder as she passed on Rosie’s message. Ezra glazed over her white dress and neat braid with total indifference before he looked over at Gabe and threw him the confiscated gadget back when his father got distracted. He was never really attentive enough to gather what his parents usually talked about during their dinners but he had an inkling of his father’s fondness of her.

Which was never something that effected either of them.

They were furniture to each other for all they cared.

“Lillian, thank Goddess,” Ben sighed and took the envelope from her. He handed it to Ezra before he wrapped his arm around Lillian’s shoulder and walked towards the door. “Can you help your Luna Amelia with lunch tomorrow? The Beta from Obsidian Crest is coming to talk security.”

Zeke, leaning against the wall, groaned. “Why are we playing bodyguard for that pack again? It’s a charity case.”

Ben’s expression turned steel-cold as he paused. “Because their Alpha just died of a broken bond after his Luna died of silver-cancer. It’s called pack honor, Zeke. Try to find some. In fact, I am sending you over again.”

Zeke held his arms up in disbelief while Gabe made a sound trying to hold his chuckle at the sudden order. Zeke was pretty new to the circle so sometimes he crossed lines he didn’t knew should not be crossed.

“Sure. I’ll be there, Alpha Ben,” Lillian said softly to break the tension in the room. The Alpha and his wife were the only reason she felt at home here. It was always a given when Ben asked for a favor. “I’m free over the weekend.”

Ben nodded, then glared at Ezra, who was currently tossing a gold letter opener into the air. “Stop touching things.”

“Then stop putting interesting things in my reach,” Ezra countered.

“Review the protocols and the budget before I see you next,” Ben warned him, grabbing his coat. “Lillian, let’s go. I’ll drop you off. I’m headed the way to your campus.”

Halfway to the parking lot, Ben stopped and patted his chest. “Damn it. Left the keys in the office. Lillian, be a star? I need to catch Rosie about the nursery expansion real quick before we go.”

Lillian doubled back. Her sandals were silent on the floorboards as she approached the office. The door was still slightly ajar.

“I’m telling you, I’m not going back to that pack,” Zeke’s voice was loud and jagged. “Last time was a morgue. There is literally nothing to do. And their women? I’ve seen better-looking wolves in a dumpster.”

A low, melodic laugh followed.

“Imagine dying for a good pussy,” Ezra’s carefree, muffled voice made her pause at the door. “Blud actually died because his Luna kicked the bucket. There are eight billion people on this planet. Find another body to warm the bed and move on. Being that weak is just bad math for the pack.”

Lillian felt a sting of discomfort at someone’s grief being reduced to such a vulgar opinion but there wasn’t much she wanted to do with those kind of people to begin with. So, she knocked again and pushed the door open.

Ezra didn’t move. He kept his boots on the desk, peering at her through the ‘V’ of his crossed feet. One bronze eyebrow went up.

“Alpha Ben’s car keys,” Lillian explained curtly. Her voice was flat but professional.

Ezra bit the inside of his cheek as he reached into the drawer, snagged the heavy brass ring, and flicked it toward her face with a snap of his wrist without warning.

Lillian caught them inches from her nose, slightly taken aback. Yet, as her eyes snapped up, Ezra was casually reading the ledger in his hands.

“Anyway,” Gabe continued as if that was normal, scrolling on his phone. “Let’s send the new trainees to Obsidian Crest. We can mark it up as credit hours. I’ve got ten grand riding on Ironclad at the Belmont Stakes tonight. If the horse wins, I get to upgrade my thermal drone. It can see through concrete. Perfect for... well, everything.”

Swallowing the urge to call him a rude prick, ever the pacifist, Lillian bit her bottom lip and turned to walk out without escalating something that had no right to unnecessarily sour her day.

Goddess, the father and the son are nothing alike.