Unassuming, quaint, picturesque. Not words one would expect to describe a werewolf den, but Tessa guessed that was the point. The farmhouse jutted out of the oval of trees, a great L-shaped building with ivy crawling over the stone walls and three chimneys, two of which puffed out curling billows of smoke. 

The front garden, encased by a stone wall and boarded with blooming flower beds, was Aunty Deliah’s pride and joy. Hours would be spent pruning the roses, trimming the lavender, talking to the sage, so the best cuttings could be taken for the alpha’s potions. 

Their pack consisted of her Aunty Deliah, her wife Serena, Delilah’s twin sister Demi who had gone to Manchester twelve months ago overnight and popped out her son Solis nine months later. And of course there was their alpha, Sally, Tessa’s mum. A woman who commanded the room in a way which would make world leaders envious. One quirk of her eyebrow and she will have you scrambling to do her bidding. There used to be a lot more wolves in their pack, but these are the ones that survived. 

“I texted mum.” Says Walter. He used to moan about being the only male in the pack, until Solis came with his non-stop screaming and now he moans about Solis instead. “Told her what to expect.”

The three of them are standing at the garden gate, a dismal thing with the paint peeling and a crooked sign which reads Fletcher Farm in Deliah’s best cursive writing. Tessa bit her lip. Normally the pull of the den, of pack, on the full moon is so irresistible she runs all the way home. Today she cannot bring herself to cross into the garden, not when Rye is beside her eyeing their house like its a ticking bomb. His nose is crinkled and features pinched, for him their house must have the wretched smell of a foreign den.

The amount of control he has keeping his wolf hidden now, when faced with an alpha’s den of all things, is staggering. And that’s why she needs him. 

The far chimney churned out smoke; Demi must be brewing potions again. As their pack healer she always brewed on Tuesdays and Thursdays - Tessa isn’t sure why - but she never brewed on a full moon. The stench of the ingredients riles her wolf too much. Tessa’s skin prickled. What if she intended to use one of them on Rye? 

Walter leads them around to the front door, Tessa frowns because she cannot remember the last time they used the front door. In fact, this morning their collection of wellingtons and Walter’s cricket bat had been propped against it. He must have talked to their mum more than he is letting on. 

The doorway is a stranger from another century. The grand stone arch sweeps above them, flowers carved into the stone by hand meet at the pinnacle of a triangle where one large stone jumps out with the carving: 

1759. 

Two hundred and sixty three years. Her pack has lived on this territory for two hundred and sixty three years. Her stomach sinks like someone attached weights to her belly button. Two hundred and sixty three years of defending this territory, of keeping it within the pack, Tessa doubted Sally would let a lone wolf come between this and their territory. After all their pack numbers dwindled for a reason all those years ago. 

Glancing at Rye she wants to apologise for giving him hope, for not letting him run and escape when he had the chance. He meets her stare. There is no hatred or even fear on his face. Only blankness and that makes it worse. She could deal with him screaming and shouting, trying to run away, trying to fight for himself. But she realises this ghost in front of her doesn’t have any fight left. 

If she wants him to stay she is going to have to fight for both of them. 

The rusted metal hinges scream for mercy as the wooden door is opened. Sally Fletcher stands in the hallway, Demi on her left, Delilah on her right. Tessa didn’t have to look to know Serena stood in the kitchen window watching them - she could feel Serena’s eyes burning into her skull. 

Sally, a woman with the fair skin of Snow White and the glare of the Evil Queen, waited for them to speak first. It was one of her little alpha tricks. A breeze blew making her shapeless black dress swish around her ankles. When Tessa left this morning she wore a beige top, she would have changed to make the ruby of her alpha necklace more pronounced. A curling wolf the size of a jam jar lid sat upon her chest, the wolf’s eye a ruby winking at them. 

“This is Rye Frost.” Walter starts, he has a hard look on his face, one he shares with Deliah. The look of a beta willing to do anything for their alpha. Delilah wore the same hard look now, somehow making the patchwork cardigan she wore over her pear shaped body seem menacing. “He was trespassing on our territory.” But they already knew that.

They stare at Rye, and Rye stares back. A game of chicken. 

“You're a lone wolf.” Sally’s not asking a question and Rye doesn’t answer. She cocks her head to the side studying him as if he doesn’t meet the criteria of the blood thirsty demon folklore found the truth in. “Were you bitten or born?” 

“What?” She expects a quiver in Rye’s voice, some sign of nervousness, fear, or some emotion at least. Instead he looks at Sally with stony eyes. Like he’s daring her to try and make him crumble. 

“Were your parents werewolves, or were you bitten and then developed a wolf, love?” Demi’s hair was piled on her head in an elaborate display of curls and ribbons, her bright red lips always spoke in a slow drawl like she was making up the words as she went along. 

“Born,” Rye glances at Tessa as if trying to check he gave the right answer. “My dad was a werewolf.”