Six Months Ago…

Ashton Smith looked blankly at the canvas before him, brush poised just inches from the pristine white surface. An open bottle of blue gouache perched at his elbow. A sizable amount of the paint puddled across a paper plate, the smooth surface disturbed by a long furrow where he’d dragged his brush through. His other supplies waited nearby on a rolling tea cart that he’d repurposed for his craft, available at a moment’s notice for him to follow the whim of his heart’s desires. Painting was, for him, equal parts skill and instinct. He couldn’t perform without either.

And at this very moment, his instincts had abandoned him. He’d begun losing his touch weeks ago, taking longer to produce his works than ever before. Sales in his new gallery were unaffected, but that wouldn’t mean anything when he no longer had anything to sell. And he needed the money. Desperately needed the money. Any day now, the decision he’d made on a whim a short while back, was going to come back and bite him on the ass.

Nothing would soothe that wound but a bit of cash and a lot of pleading. He had the pleading down pat but not the cash.

He could feel the seconds ticking by, the precious seconds. Time was money, that was what they said, and that sentiment was never more true than when it was applied to a person who created for a living. Every second he stood locked in by his own indecision was a second he wasn’t creating, a second closer his gouache was to drying, becoming useless. If it dried on the brush, that was a ruined brush. Money down the drain.

And still he just stood there, staring at the whiteness, unsure of how to cover it. Blue had seemed like such a perfect neutral color to go with, but now he was locked in by that neutrality, uncertain of where exactly he wanted to go. His hand was rock-steady, and he willed it to begin shaking, to accidentally touch the canvas. He begged the world to give him a jumpstart, a kick in the ass to get him going. But it just wasn’t going to happen. His hands were the steadiest damn things on this side of the US. Never shook. Never betrayed him, even when he was begging for it.

Some people in the art community would insist that there was no such thing as a block. No writer’s block, no painter’s block. They called it laziness or a fabrication of the mind. Ash used to agree with them, but that was when he was throwing out a painting a day, sometimes two or three. That was when he was unbottling, as the experts liked to call it, creating rapidly to make up for all the lost time before he discovered his skill.

And now he knew that those people were pompous bastards with little desire to do anything but cause discord between members of a community. They were also right, but only in a sideways sort of way.

The block was real, but it had nothing to do with the medium involved and everything to do with the person. And Ash was blocked up big time.

The building which he’d chosen for his gallery was almost perfectly soundproof, which was one of the reasons he’d chosen it. It was located on a busy downtown street, which had certainly driven up the cost, but though he could see the crowds and the traffic outside through the windows back here, he couldn’t hear anything except the occasional muted honk whenever someone ran a red light. He liked that, preferred silence for his own personal acts of creation. If anyone entered, he would be able to hear it right away. He would emerge from this back room to greet them, hopefully to charm them into a cup of coffee and a painting.

So when his phone rang up near the front of the gallery, the sound was as shrill as a siren. He flinched, but he flinched away from the canvas and left no guiding mark upon it.

“Dammit,” Ash swore, dropping the loaded brush into a jar of clean water. The phone continued to ring, on and on endlessly. He wanted to ignore it, but when you owned a business like this, you missed no potential opportunities. This might be just a spam telemarketer call, but it might also be a response to one of the many queries he’d sent out to newspapers and magazines in hopes of being featured.

Ash crossed from the back room up through the gallery, wincing at all the empty wall space and the second-rate pieces that were left. They were still pretty good, but they weren’t the sort of paintings that you’d shell out money for when a decent online tutorial could show you how to make one yourself.

The phone was just finishing its seventh ring when he finally got to it and picked it up. Holding it to his ear, he said, “This is the Dust to Dust Art Gallery. Ashton Smith speaking.”

He was proud of the name of his building, though a lot of people didn’t seem to understand the reference. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It was clever—at least he thought so—because of his own name. Maybe he’d have to change it in the future, though he hoped not. Rebranding was a pain in the ass, and it was bound to lose him some of his followers and publicity, when they would be incapable of finding him under his old business name.

“Just the man I wanted to talk to,” a gruff voice said on the other end of the line. Ash relaxed a little, though not all the way. “You give your secretary a break for the day?”

Ash dutifully laughed, though the joke was an old one. Everyone seemed to think it was funny, and they were apt to be offended when he didn’t agree. It was his gallery, his work, his love, his child. He was perfectly capable of performing all the duties which needed doing to ensure that the gallery kept running. He could answer calls, take money, talk to customers, and schedule his own appointments. Everyone just assumed that because he was an artist, he was lacking in organization or brainpower, or both.

Or, they had this awed impression of how art worked, like if they interrupted him he’d have to start all over from the beginning. And that wasn’t the case. He didn’t forget how to do what he was doing just by stepping away from the canvas for a few minutes. If he was in a groove, the groove didn’t just go away because he stopped for a snack or to get fresh water for his brushes.

But people didn’t want to understand how art worked. The process was less important than the final result. So, he just laughed. “What can I do for you, Donald?”

Donald was his pack leader. A nice guy, if as unimaginative as they came.

“Listen, I had something I needed to discuss with you and I got some free time to do it. You mind if I pop on down and pay you a visit?”

Ash knew exactly what was going to be discussed, knew exactly the reason for the visit. His heart sank. I need more time.

But out loud he said, “Sure, I don’t mind. You know where I am. Just come right to the back.”

“Be there in a bit. See you then.” Donald hung up, and the resulting click was as loud and dangerous as a gunshot to Ash’s ears. He put the phone back down in its cradle. He was shaking on the inside, but his hand still didn’t betray him.

Ash headed back to the empty canvas, but all it took was one look, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything to it, not with Donald’s impending visit weighing heavily on his mind. Shaking his head, he recapped the bottle of gouache and set about cleaning up what little mess he’d made. He took extra care to wash the blue-covered brush and then dried it thoroughly. It was one of his favorites, and he would be damned if he ruined the bristles or caused harm to the glue holding the metal portion against the wood.

When that was done, only a few minutes had passed. There was no telling where exactly Donald had been calling from, but if he’d been in the area, he wouldn’t have bothered. This was no visit for pleasure. This was business. Money-related. As such things always were. The idyllic life of an artist wasn’t as easy as a lot of people seemed to think.

Wandering over to his desk in the back, where he kept the majority of the things that should have been up front, he pulled open a drawer and reached within to draw out a stack of papers that had been clipped together. Like any person who more or less worked for themselves, he kept strict financial records. And he didn’t just keep one. He had several copies, both digital and physical, that he kept updated at all times. This particular record he held now was one that he’d been using to figure out his expenses, to see what he could take from here and there to make up some of his debt.

The answer was, he couldn’t. At all. He was going to just barely break even and everything had already been allotted into its proper category. The money he had put away was all that could be put away, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.

But he looked at the paper all the same, flipping through the pages and scanning the numbers as if something would jump out at him at just the right time.

He had made no progress when the front door of his gallery opened, the chimes above jangling peacefully. Ash loved chimes, but right now, they might as well have been an organ playing at his funeral for all the happiness he felt at their little song.

Heavy, clomping footsteps echoed through the gallery as Donald approached the back. He seemed to be taking his time, probably examining the layout of the paintings. Ash had adjusted them only that morning, shifting the positions of the art in such a way as to try and cover more space with less. It probably wouldn’t fool anyone, especially not Donald. Not only was he a wolf, but he had become a pack leader at the age of 17. He had been through a lot and seen even more. Nothing escaped his attention, not when it came to members of his pack.

Ash slid the stack of papers back inside his desk as Donald entered the back. His powerful shoulders barely fit through the doorway. At 6’6”, Donald was a giant. He always had been. He’d been a football star back in his high school and college days and had won numerous awards in basketball as well. The latter required a bit too much running around for his taste, but apparently that hadn’t hurt his career any. And Ash wasn’t surprised. It was almost impossible for a shapeshifter to become obese due to their biology and body chemistry, but Donald had managed it. He was always massive, but he carried it so well that he didn’t look fat. He just looked big, in every single aspect.

The other basketball teams probably fled from him in terror.

“How you been, Ashton? Put Van Gogh to shame yet?”

Ash gave an uneasy smile. His blank canvas was perfectly on display for his leader to see. He should have splattered some paint on it at least, made it seem like he’d been doing something, anything at all. “I’m impressed you know who that is, Donny.”

“Me, too.” Donald placed his hands on his wide stomach and gave a self-deprecating smile, though it looked more like a shark’s toothy grin to Ash. “Just not my forte. And do you know how long ago my high school art class days were?”

Ash could hazard a rough guess. Pack leaders were like the tide. They came and went in their own time. Anyone could challenge the current leader and become the new one, if they won. The frequency at which leaders were replaced varied depending on the participants of the fight.

Donald wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like the tide. He was a mountain, completely unyielding. The man had turned 60 last year, and not a single person had challenged him since he started all that time ago.

“Anyway, I don’t want to keep you for too long. Just got something I need to talk to you about.

“I’m all ears,” Ash said.

“I hate to rush you, but I need you to pay me back.”

It was exactly what Ash had expected, exactly what he feared. “I thought we were doing fine with the monthly payments. I haven’t been late with a single one of them, have I?”

Donald held up one hand. The size of it immediately silenced Ash. “I’m not accusing you of anything, son. The payments have been fine. You’re taking care of your debt. That’s more than can be said for a lot of these pups these days.”

I’m 38. But I guess everyone looks like a pup to you.

“But my Irma, I’m sure you’ve been hearing the news.”

Irma, Donald’s wife, had been fighting breast cancer for a very long time. After an endless amount of treatments proved ineffective, she went through a double mastectomy. Though the surgery vastly weakened her at first, she came back stronger than ever. Until recently, when she went back to the hospital for a follow-up and they found tumors. Ash didn’t know where the tumors were or how many, but the news was beyond disheartening. It didn’t really seem fair for someone to go through so much and still be suffering.

“I have,” Ash said softly. “I’m so sorry, Don.”

Donald waved his hand again, quelling Ash’s sentiments. “We’ve been prepared for this ever since she first got diagnosed. The thing is, there’s something she’s always been wanting to do, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get it to her. That’d be a cruise to the Bahamas. I don’t get it. But that’s what she wants.

“It’s going to be a surprise, so I’m gathering up every last cent of spare change to my name. Which comes to the reason I’m here.”

“I understand.” He didn’t want to understand. He wished he could protest and ask for more time, but in this case there was no more time to be had. The days were limited and someone’s life was quite literally on the line.

Donald looked incredibly uncomfortable. He glanced away, scanning around the supply room that Ash used as his office and studio. Despite his age, weight, and his tendency to smoke cigars, he could have passed for a much younger man on most days; here and now, he suddenly looked as if he had one foot in the grave. His skin was sallow and loose, and his mouth dragged down so intensely at the corners that his lips were lost amongst wrinkles.

“I’d give you all the time in the world under any other circumstances, but in this case, I have to ask for the rest of what you owe me.”

Which was quite a lot. Ash knew the sum by heart, but he didn’t even want to think about it because Donald wasn’t the only person he owed money. He opened his mouth, not sure what he would say, then closed it and opened it once more to try again. “I’ll get it all transferred to you tomorrow morning. Don’t worry about a thing.”

His pack leader smiled with relief. “Good. That’s good to hear. Thank you, Ashton.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Ash repeated. “You just go home and spend time with your wife.”

“I wish I could but she’s got all her friends over for her book club. They don’t like it when I make comments from the living room.”

Ash smiled. “Then maybe you should go buy her some flowers. I’m sure she’d like that.”

Donald snapped his fingers and then pointed at him. “I think you’re right. Pretty romantic for a single guy.”

“Thanks, I try.” There was an awkward pause, which Ash attempted to solve by suggesting he walk Donald up front. However, the words never got to leave his mouth.

“You ever think about settling down, Ashton?”

This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked this question. It was a favorite of nosy people who meant well, to question his opinions on a mate and family. After the tenth time, he’d formulated a generic, artistic answer full of confusing vagaries. That was what people wanted to hear. They didn’t want to actually know how his dating life was or what his true feelings were on parenthood. They wanted to hear about freedom and a bunch of other bullshit.

Ash didn’t think he could get away with bullshitting Donald.

The pack leader continued, barreling on through the sensitive topic much in the same way as he’d barreled down a football field in his youth. “I know you’re one of those homosexuals, but you’ve got all the same rights as we do these days.”

A bit of an uncouth way of putting it, but Ash let it slide. At least the man was accepting.

“No one ever strike your fancy? Or are you just one of the loners? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Sometimes I find myself wishing I’d gone down the same path.” He laughed.

Ash also laughed, but he was mostly amused that right here was a living example of the fact that people just didn’t understand artists. He was a normal person. There was nothing special or unique about him.

“No,” Ash said. “I guess I’ve never really met anyone I wanted to settle down with. Not for a long time.” He didn’t elaborate on what he meant, more for his own mental health than anything else. He tried hard not to think of that time of his life, because all it had done was cause him pain for a very long time. When you were a kid, that was what heartbreak did.

Donald nodded, then looked a little thoughtful. This was the last thing Ash wanted to talk to his pack leader about, right up there with borrowing money to pay for a high-end gallery building that he couldn’t afford. Despite all that, he was curious. He’d never seen this expression on his leader’s face before. It was a little too personal for his liking, a little too intimate.

“Would you like to have a mate, Ashton?”

Ash leaned back slightly in his chair. “What are you proposing here, Donny?”

Donald smiled a little, but his overall expression didn’t change. “Isn’t that what you artist types are all about? Having a muse to inspire you so that you keep working? No offense, but it looks like you might need it.”

Ash opened his mouth and then shut it again. Even though he didn’t want to admit it, there was a sort of truth in those statements that Donald might not have even realized. All the great masters of the world had something for whom they created, crafting their work for the approval of a singular person or organization. For some, that meant religion, a god. For others, it was their lover or partner.

Looking back over at his blank canvas, Ash found himself wondering. The thoughts were almost guilty, and he couldn’t even believe that he was having them.

“Okay, sure. But still, what are you proposing here? Are you going to set me up with one of your kids?”

“No, they’re too good for you.”

Ouch. It was a joke, but damn.

“Haven’t you heard any other rumors lately, about things that can’t be explained?” Donny prompted.

“We’re shifters. Our entire lives are something that can’t be explained.”

“But this is something different. I heard about it from that other pack leader who lives down by the edge of the river. I think his name is Ryan.”

He had no idea who that was, although the fact that he lived by the river hinted at some real money. Lucky bastard, whoever that Ryan guy was.

“He said he was telling every leader in Portsmouth. I’m sure word’s spread across the river to Norfolk by now. Who else knows by now is a mystery. Supposed to be just leaders and anyone else who needs to know.”

“But what are you talking about?”

“Let an old man ramble for a moment, would you? But since you’re in such a rush, I’ll go ahead and tell you. Supposedly there’s a small town over to the west, called Abingdon.”

“Well, I could use a map to figure that out.”

“But it’s not the town. There’s an orchard at this town, owned by the Lakeman family. At the orchard, Ryan says there’s a well that can show shapeshifters who their true mate should be.”

As he listened to this, Ash tried to keep his thoughts free of any sort of judgment. There were stranger things in the world than magic wishing wells, though not all that many. If it was true, it seemed like one of those things that was too good to be true. “What’s the catch? Do I have to sell my soul to the devil or something?”

“Supposedly nothing. It’s just there. Ryan said he tested it out for himself, and it works exactly as it’s supposed to. He saw his mate, and now they’re living together happily in that house on the river. He told the rest of us about it just in case we ever came across a scenario where it could be useful. Told us to use extreme discretion in that scenario anyway, though.”

“So the first person you thought to tell was me?”

“You’re the first person I’ve come across who might get some use out of it. Of course, you don’t have to do anything. I just thought I’d give you the option.”

“Well, I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Of course. And if you go, let me know. I’d love more information on the whole thing.” Donald abruptly glanced at his watch. Where he’d found a watch big enough to fit around his tree trunk of a wrist was a mystery. Probably had it custom made. “I should probably head out if I want to hit the florist. Thanks for that suggestion, by the way. The older you get, the more you start missing out on doing all the small things. Shouldn’t let that happen.”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll walk you out.”

Ash started to rise but Donald waved him back down. Even if Ash wanted to disobey him and stand up, the force of the displaced air being pushed at him by way of those giant mitts would have prevented him from doing so.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I can see myself out. And please, don’t forget about tomorrow morning.”

“You have my word.”

And though it broke his heart to do it, though it knocked him back deep into the hole he’d only just begun to climb out of, Ashton kept his word. He was at the bank the moment it opened the next day, funneling the remainder of the money he owed from his account to Donald’s. A call from the large man later in the day confirmed that the transfer had gone through.

Ash was happy that it succeeded, since technology was as finicky these days as it was advanced, but he also felt very bitter deep in his soul. Life had just gotten four times harder. He couldn’t get a loan from the bank. He’d tried that before and was turned down, which was why he turned to the alternative methods of getting money fast. So, he either needed to start churning out beautiful paintings that sold at extravagant prices or he was going to have to visit yet another shady alleyway and ask for a handout.

He did paint that day, but it was a moody piece composed of mostly blue, and he kept it in the back because it didn’t fit with the aesthetic of everything else currently on display.

And that night, he lay in bed with visions of muses dancing in his head, imagining what it would be like to have someone inspire him day in and day out. Inspiration was such an overrated thing these days. Everyone was always waiting around for the perfect blend of conditions and never getting anything done, when in reality art was just as much work as any other occupation. Anyone worked better when inspired, but that just couldn’t be the only time that things were accomplished.

But if he was inspired more often, the work would come easier. There was no denying that part of the logic. His days of unbottling were over. His publicity days were waning, the 15 minutes of fame already done and gone. He wasn’t amazing. He wasn’t different. He was offering the same things that hundreds of others had been offering for years, and he was just the new kid on the scene. But not anymore. Now he was playing with the big kids, without the handicap of newness.

Like all artists, Ash wanted his work to be about something, to have a meaning beyond simple beauty.

A muse was very much an old-school way of thinking, but it had worked in the past for others. Maybe it would work for him. And what was the worst thing that could happen? If he went to the well, he’d get out of his apartment, see things he’d never seen before. The trip might jump start his imagination on its own. And if he ended up seeing the person who was meant to be his mate, if he saw his muse, that was just the icing on top of the cake.

His dreams were fitful, and he couldn’t remember any of them upon awakening. The sky was still dark outside with only the barest hint of dawn light filtering into the room through his window, but he was abruptly ready to face the day. Rolling out of bed, he grabbed the small art kit he kept for whenever the urge for plein air painting struck him, tossed some clothes into one of the many Walmart bags he kept lying around, and headed out the door.

The building he lived in was very close to the neighborhood where he used to live as a kid, and he’d chosen it for exactly that reason. When his parents were killed in a terrible wreck involving ice on the street and a drunk driver, he was away at college. They left him their home. He hadn’t been able to afford to keep it and had it sold so that he could use the money to take care of his student debt. After graduating, he returned to the area to be close to their memories.

He probably shouldn’t have.

It was a classy neighborhood, and the apartments were spread out in a long line rather than rising upwards. There was no communal laundry room because all the units were large enough to have their very own without having to cram them into some corner or other. The windows were large, the rooms spacious, and the light was pretty decent. All in all, living here was an expense he probably shouldn’t have taken.

Too late to change that part of the past. Even if he downsized, the extra money saved wouldn’t even be a drop in the bucket compared to what he needed.

Ash waved to one of his neighbors who sat on the steps leading up to their apartment, smoking a cigar. Wreaths of perfumed smoke wafted around his face. The man didn’t acknowledge him, just kept puffing on his cigarette. Even in the darkness of predawn, his eyes were incredibly sad. He smelled of smoke and sleeplessness and body odor, though that last one was a common affliction amongst people at such an early hour of the day.

Insomniac, Ash thought, throwing his things into his car. He wondered if there might not be a painting there, a lonely figure thinking effervescent thoughts that drifted up towards the empty black of a city sky. Maybe not. That sounded very depressing. Depressing paintings only sold when you had a very particular audience in mind, or if you were very famous. Ash lacked both of those things.

Hurrying over to the driver’s seat, Ash hopped inside. His car was a 2013 Chevy Impala, slate gray in color. He only knew these things because they had been listed on the advertisement when he was shopping around for a cheap car. Otherwise, it just looked like a regular vehicle to him. Nothing special about it, except for the massive dent in the front fender that made the left headlight bounce around loosely when he went anything above 30 mph. He imagined that had helped to drop the price down a little bit, but he wasn’t a car man, had never had the brain for any of the manly pursuits that guys were supposed to care about so much; as a result, he didn’t know if he’d paid a fair price.

But all that was in the past. Fortune awaited six miles to the west, in a shitty little town called Abingdon. Ash knew it would be shitty because most little towns were these days. He’d been through enough of them when he was away at college and knew that the charming exteriors which faced the highway usually hid a core of rot and corruption. If you passed through a town that was less than a mile from end to end and passed by two churches and three bars on the way, you knew something was wrong. That was what he was expecting from Abingdon. And if there was an orchard there, it wasn’t going to be a great one.

Six hours later, and he was proven wrong. Abingdon lay on the far side of a gently sloping hill, which meant its entirety was available for him to see from the get-go as he drove towards it. It was very early in the day, and the lazy little town still seemed to be asleep, slumbering underneath a gray sky full of stars. He counted one church spire and that was it. There might be a bar, any number of bars down there, but if there were, they blended quite nicely with the long rows of little perfect houses. Every yard seemed to be green, lush, and thriving. No visibly abandoned homes, no yards gone brown with decay.

But I’m still pretty far away, he thought. It’ll look worse when I get up close. His fingers flexed impatiently on the steering wheel, and his foot itched to push down harder on the gas. However, he restrained the urge to push the speed limit. These little towns liked to position their cops right on the outskirts of their jurisdiction, so they could nab speeding passersby in the night when no one expected it.

And then he was in the town, driving through it, and it was still just as beautiful as it had been from the start of the exit ramp he’d taken to get here, when it was only a glimmer of polite, little lights. Everything was as perfect as it had been from afar. Even more perfect, in some ways. He hadn’t realized it until now, but there were very few cars on the street besides his own, and a great deal of people roaming the sidewalks. They felt safe enough to do that. They felt healthy and happy enough to do that. People in the city walked a lot too, but there was a difference here. It was in their pacing, in the way that they looked up instead of down, greeting the world instead of hurrying through it.

Maybe all this perfection and happiness had something to do with the well. It was almost eerie, that was for sure.

And then he felt sad, that happiness should be an uncomfortable thing in this day and age.

The orchard was easy enough to find when he ignored his confused GPS and went looking for it on his own. There was a long ranch house in front of it, and in the yard of that ranch house were two men and a child. The broader man turned to watch Ash as he rolled up, while the smaller one continued to entertain the young kid.

As he got out of his car, he was almost overwhelmed by the scent of wolf. This was definitely the right place. No doubt about it.

Ash turned, and the broad man was right behind him, having moved as stealthily and swiftly as a predator. He smelled strongly of alpha, though the musk of his scent was somewhat muted by the lingering presence of another wolf. He was mated, probably to the other man playing with the kid.

“Hey,” the broad man said. “You’re here to see the well.”

It wasn’t a question but Ash answered anyway. “Yes. I am.”

“Figures. No one actually wants to come here for the fruit.” But even as he said this, the man was smiling. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, which seemed very tired, but otherwise it looked genuine enough. He extended his hand. “I’m Quincy Lakeman. Welcome to the orchard.”

Ash took his hand, not at all surprised by the fierce strength which squeezed his fingers in a near-painful manner. This man standing before him, with his tan, and windswept blond hair, looked like the epitome of a husky farmer’s son, as if he’d spent every day of his life doing hard work. “I’m Ashton. Ash.”

“Nice to meet you.” Quincy turned away to look at the other man. His expression softened in a way that his smile hadn’t been able to. There was no end to the depth of the love in that warm gaze. Ash’s heart gave a wistful twist. “Jake, I’m going to take him on back. Okay?”

The man named Jake looked up. He was an omega, easily identifiable by more than just his scent. There was a softness, a gentleness to him that belied his predator nature. He pushed a lock of brown hair out of his eyes with impatient fingers, and then accepted the ball his child was trying to force into his hands. “Okay. Be careful.”

“See you soon,” Quincy said.

The exchange was casual in words only. The two men said these things much in the same way as another couple would have said “I love you” to each other. This seemed incredibly sweet to Ash, and his heart gave another of those little twists inside his chest. As a rule he didn’t consider himself to be overly emotional or anything, but it was hard to deny that watching others be so cute together filled him with a desire to do the same. It was the omega part of him causing that, but as much as it was annoying, he knew he couldn’t escape it. It was who he was.

And then he looked in the well and that thought was confirmed for him by nature itself, as he was shown the image of the alpha wolf who was meant to be his mate.