BLOOD DREAM (Ongoing)

3.1: We Have A Wide Selection Of Shovels

The rest of that night, Theron stayed awake, brooding.

It was easier to feel light when he was alone with Kitra; there was nothing for him to prove. After she left him to his thoughts, his mood soured again. It could be a huge mistake, vouching for her to officially join the ranks of the Tyndall Park pack—especially given that she wasn't Dire—but she wanted to. And if he wanted Kitra's support, he needed to support her back. So he'd give her what she wanted. Let Theron be her first champion. Because if it was Liam, Theron would probably murder him.

To be fair, Theron had never murdered before, so morally he had that against Sadie. Did it mean it was below him? Not necessarily. Not if it would prevent him from losing Kitra. But would he murder Liam, his oldest friend after Sadie? ...No, he didn't think he could. Sadie wasn't the only person he missed.

After Theron exhausted his anger on Liam, Sadie haunted him again. Four years he waited for the person he coveted to come back, and she was trying to murder him! He understood why now. His obsessive love for her all these years was entirely one-sided, and the claims of their destiny together were just somebody's selfish lie. It left him feeling lonelier than ever. It used to be that nobody mattered except Sadie—that was why he felt numb to her murder of his harshly traditional father—but if he didn't have Sadie, who could he wrap his life around? Nobody else would ever be enough like Sadie was.

When he got out of bed, Kitra was already gone to work. She worked at a library in the neighborhood; never too far away, never too busy, but always cocky about it, as if by virtue of being surrounded by books, she osmosed every page and that made her the smartest person in the room. His sister was clinically intrusive, believing that she knew better than everybody else—but the stupid thing was, she often did. She was probably smarter than all the Dire. That was why Theron could believe the pack needed her.

He cycled through self-deprecating and mildly hopeful thoughts all morning, warming his body up with a jog outside, a few reps on his bench press in the basement, a few chin-ups on the bar in the door frame. Sadie always came fluttering back. Look what you're missing out on, he thought while scouring his marble physique in the mirror. It resembled vanity, but he was swollen with doubt like it was a parasite. Theron doubted everything now. It made him so angry he almost broke that mirror too.

There were techniques he looked up on the internet to curb his anger. Redirecting his negativity toward a positive outlet, he sunk a lot of time into home maintenance; since Oliver died and he inherited the house, it became rewarding work that he could take pride in. Early that afternoon, he found himself in the front yard, shorts and loose tank, uprooting weeds with his gardening gloves. He took care not to disturb the pink, white, and purple impatiens, and his favorite red geraniums. Fragile masculinity my ass. Theron grumbled to himself, craning his body across the garden to grab weeds pushed up against the house.

He would have liked to redirect his anger through his teeth as a wolf, but in an hour, he had to leave for his weekend supershift as a security guard. Maybe if he was lucky, he could toss around the riffraff that sometimes snuck into the vacant building downtown where he was stationed. You'd think that an Alpha's family would be so affluent that his son never had to work a day in his life, but you'd be wrong. Much of Oliver's middleclass income had gone toward the pack, leaving little for Theron and Kitra to inherit. Even the monthly deposits from Imogen were hardly enough to survive off of. But he and Kitra made it work. It was Frank's responsibility to fund the pack now, anyway.

He would turn wolf after the weekend. It was Monday since he shifted last, and the way it gnawed at his brain and made his skin itch, Theron knew his Dire instincts couldn't be smothered for much longer.

Theron mulled on this as he plunged his fingers into the dirt. He excavated a handful of roots, listening to a car growl up to the house. When the car stopped, he sat up and looked over his shoulder. Two police officers exited the white-and-black cruiser. Theron's gut plunged with dread. He hid it under a surly façade, rising to brush dirt off his knees and watching them approach with brisk strides.