I don't understand much of what's going on, except that I belong to the giant, now.

I'd been hoping to be claimed by the alpha, but it seems he already has a mate, and children to boot.

That hadn't been part of my plan.

The other thing that surprised me was the size of the Hunter Pack. Selene made it sound like there were at least as many Hunters as there are Mortaines, but it seemed there are far fewer — and half of them aren't even Wolves.

At least they've accepted me; I'm grateful for that.

And once they'd decided, they welcomed me with bewildering warmth, and then the giant took me home.

The giant. Monty.

I glance over at him as he drives. He might not be the alpha, but he's strong and powerful. I have a hazy memory of his wolf-form, the night I'd arrived: of something impossibly large approaching through the dark.

At first, I'd thought it was Ferrault — that he'd recovered and caught up with me. No other Wolf I'd seen even came close to the dire in size. I'd nearly expired from relief when, instead of him, it was this giant, Monty, who was strange, but kind.

"So, what d'ya think?" he asks me, after some minutes of silence have passed. "Of the Pack, I mean."

"They are... wonderful," I answer. And this is true, for they cause me to wonder many things.

Silence lapses again, and I sit as I've been taught, with my head bowed and my hands folded in my lap.

After a few more minutes, he speaks again. "Gracie said she'd bring over some hot meals for us, but in the meantime I got some shopping to do. What do you like to eat, Kit?"

"I like whatever you like," I reply.

He frowns. "I don't eat meat, though."

"Then I also do not eat meat."

His frown deepens, and I sense his displeasure. This also confuses me, as he seems to dislike my submission; but it is my nature, and what I was raised for; to submit and obey, and to serve. If only I had not been given to Ferrault — if only anyone but him — I'd have dared nothing so rash as to rebel and run away.

And yet, if I want this man to claim me as his own — with a strong enough claim he can challenge Ferrault's — I need to find a way to please him.

I cast my memory back to earlier days, to the time before my other nature came to light. Then, I was just the disfavored, illegitimate son of a disgrace mother-wolf, nameless and unacknowledged, but at least allowed the freedom to roam as I would, once my chores were done. They seldom were, but every so often I would finish a task and someone would forget to set me another, and then I might escape to the woods for an hour or two, though I knew I would pay for it on my return.

There, sometimes, I would find little treasures, just for me — a pretty stone, or a feather; flowers in spring and flame-coloured leaves in the fall. And late in the summer...

"Blackberries."

"What?" Monty looks over at me, his brow creased.

"I like blackberries," I say very softly, half afraid.

"Oh! Well lucky you — I got blackberries comin' outta my ass."

I stare, taken aback. Surely that must leave stains, and why on earth would he...

He glances over at me, takes in my expression, and laughs aloud.

It's the first time I've heard his laugh, and it's unexpectedly light for a man with such a deep voice — almost a giggle.

"I guess you're a literal kinda guy, huh? I just mean I got blackberries growing everywhere at home. Nice ones, too — big and sweet, and ready to pick. I was thinking of gathering a bunch, actually, to share with everyone. Grace said if I pick 'em she'll make the pies and jams. You can help me, if you like."

"Yes!" I say, pouncing on the offer. "I will help you pick blackberries."

"O...kay." He sounds a bit surprised, but smiles at me. "We can do that, sure."

When we arrive at his house, he takes me inside and tells me to make myself comfortable, and I'm once more uncertain what to do. I settle to sit on the floor with my legs tucked under me, as I've been taught, but Monty's expression turns to displeasure once more.

"Should I not... sit on the floor?" I ask.

"You can sit wherever you like, Kit," he tells me, gently. "You can ask questions, too. I don't mind."

He gets a pad of paper and a pencil and goes into the kitchen. I rise and follow him, watching as he opens the refrigerator and the cabinets, and makes notes on the pad.

If he wants me to ask questions, I can certainly do that. I ask questions all the time in my head, though I seldom dare voice them aloud.

"Are there other Hunters?" I ask, settling to sit with my knees tucked up against the wall. Perhaps I hadn't yet met the whole Pack.

"Not here, but yeah," he answers, dashing my hopes. "The rest are still with my parents' Pack, and unless one of them mates an alpha, I don't think any more will split off. Since my sister Freya and I are the last two without mates, that doesn't seem likely."

"Do you... want a mate?"

"Uh..." He rubs the back of his neck, seemingly distracted by the contents of his cabinets. "I dunno. Not really. I don't think I'm 'mate' material."

"Why not?"

"Well... because I've never fallen in love, I guess. And no one's ever fallen in love with me. Figure if it was meant to be, it would've happened by now."

"Why don't you ask your alpha for a mate?"

He closes the pantry and turns to me. "You mean like an arrangement? I guess that works out well enough, sometimes, but I'd rather have someone Choose me because they want me, and to Choose someone I loved. Besides," he opens another cabinet, "our parents only agreed to that with your sister and Dane because of the peace deal between our Packs. Otherwise it's not common practice for us."

"But don't you want someone to take care of you? To cook and clean, and... see to your needs?"

"Uh..." Monty frowns. "That sounds like a servant, not a Mate. And no, if I had a Mate, that's not what I'd want."

"What would you want?"

"I don't know, Kit." He sighs. "I don't think about it much, to be honest. A friend first, I guess. Someone to share things with, laugh with. Someone who'd want to just... I don't know, be with me." He sighs again. "Hey, let's talk about something else now, okay?"

I duck my head, hearing something strange in his tone, and fall silent, afraid I've overstepped.

"How about you?" he asks after a moment, with a casualness that seems almost studied. "Anything else you want to tell me about yourself? Anything you, uh, you think I ought to know?"

I keep my eyes lowered, and shake my head. "I would rather forget."

"Yeah," he sighed yet again, and rubbed at his brow. "That's kinda what I figured. Hey listen, I'm gonna drive back into town and pick some things up at the store. Why don't you stay here, relax, get settled in. I'll be back in an hour or so, then we can talk more. Sound good?"

"Yes." I nod. "As you wish."

"Yeah, I kinda figured you'd say that, too." This time I hear a smile in his tone, though, and glance up to see it reflected on his face. "Okay, I'll be back in a bit then. This is your home, too, as long as you're here. I know I don't really have a lot, but what there is, you're welcome to it."

I nod again, and when he walks past me, he gives me a gentle pat on the head.

A few minutes later, he grabs his wallet and keys, and drives away again, list in hand. I watch him go from the window, and then listen to the silence in the house. It's very quiet here, I realize. Isolated.

In other circumstances, I might be afraid, but now — at last — I'm not. I have asylum, and even Ferrault wouldn't dare attack me within another Wolf's territory — if he finds me at all.

No, I remind myself: if he's alive, he will find me. And if he doesn't, then my family will find me, and the result will be the same.

They'll kill me, or worse — Ferrault will take me back.

That's why I need someone else to claim me; someone else to say that I belong to him.

Someone who can stand up to Ferrault and challenge him.

Monty could be that someone; I could do worse. But I need to be more than his 'charge' or his 'responsibility.'

I need him to need me.

Turning from the window, I take his invitation and set about exploring the house.

As he'd admitted, there's not much to see. There's his bedroom, and the cramped little bathroom that seems far too small for him. There's the kitchen, and the living area, and another little room used for storage space. There's no basement and no attic, and his bedroom doesn't even have a proper closet.

It seems like far too small a home for far too large a man.

And then there are the furnishings.

The mismatched couch and chair look like something he picked up used; his bedframe is handmade from plywood and two-by-fours, and none of the dishes I'd seen seemed to be from the same set. There are several bookshelves crammed with books, a small wood-burning stove, and a rug that looks to have seen better days.

What there is, though, is well-cared-for. The wooden floors are clean, the old sink looks recently scrubbed, and the blanket on the couch — which had served as a bed while I'd displaced him from his — is neatly folded.

And then there are the pictures.

In the hallway, framed photographs cover the walls. Most of the people I don't recognize, but a few I do. There's the alpha and his mate, and two little babies wrapped in blankets, cradled in their arms; and the smaller man — Noah — looking some years younger, and wearing a strange, tasseled hat and a black gown, with a grin on his face and a roll of paper clutched in his hand. Others include a tall, fierce-looking woman posed beside a motorcycle, and an older couple: a light-skinned woman with a long silver braid and a dark-skinned man with short gray hair, holding hands on a bridge. That must be his parents, I realize — the Hunter originals.

There are many others, too — pictures of weddings and parties, and of mundane, everyday occasions — all filled with smiling faces.

Then there are the other things.

Children's drawings cover the fridge. Some are mere scribbles, some are sophisticated enough to be addressed to 'Uncle Monty,' or, in one case, to 'Mo-mo' (I know a few words by sight, and other I can sound out, if they're simple enough.)

And on the windowsills and the dining table, and just about everywhere there's space, little trinkets rest — the gifts of children, undoubtedly: blobs of modeling clay, acorns, shiny stones; a necklace made of macaroni noodles and a random selection of stray toys.

What I don't see are any pictures of the giant himself.

As I look around, it comes to me; this is a house filled with love.

Other people's love.

It's the house of a man with a lot of love to give, and with no-one of his own to give it to.

I explore a bit more, and then return to the kitchen. On the table, he'd left his pen and pad of paper, and on it is a note.

The ability to learn, to acquire knowledge with rapidity and completion, has only just manifested itself in me. With cruel foresight, my family sought to forestall it by not teaching me to read, but I've already learned a little.

Slowly, I sound out, letter by letter, what is written there, until it resolves itself into something that makes sense:

Blackberries for Grace.

Struck by a sudden, desperate, intense resolve, I gather all the baskets and boxes and bowls and empty containers I can find, and carry them outside.

The solution is simple, I tell myself.

I just have to make my giant fall in love with me; because if he loves me, he won't ever let me go.

How hard could it be?