A Wolf's True Mate

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The rhythmic chopping of vegetables is almost therapeutic, my hands moving on autopilot while I focus all my energy inward, trying to maintain the mental barriers that keep the thoughts of others at bay. The impending festival atmosphere in the Golden Paw town square is charged with excitement and anticipation, but for me, it's a battleground where I must constantly defend against the silent intrusions into my mind.

"Skye, could you pass the salt?" Mrs. Abernathy calls from the other side of the long prep table, her voice pulling me back to the task at hand.

"Sure thing," I respond, reaching for the salt without hesitation. I slide it down the table towards her, careful not to make direct eye contact with anyone. Eye contact only makes it harder to keep their thoughts out.

I can feel the tendrils of someone’s curiosity trying to snake its way through my defenses. It's probably about the new dessert recipe I'm attempting, but I can't afford to let my guard down, even for something so benign. Instead, I immerse myself in the scents of roasting meat and fresh bread, letting the familiar smells anchor me to the present moment.

"Are you okay, Skye?" The question comes from a packmate, his concern genuine, but I'm quick to dismiss it with a smile that feels more like a baring of teeth.

"Never better," I lie smoothly, turning back to my work. My knife slices through a ripe tomato, its juices spilling over onto the cutting board, a vivid red against the worn wood.

"Good," he says, though I can hear the unspoken questions lingering in his tone. He turns away, leaving me to wrestle once again with the ambivalence that haunts me every moment of my existence within the Golden Paw Pack.

I wish, more than anything, that I could confide in someone about the voices that fill my head—the relentless whispers of thoughts not my own. The desire to share is a weight in my chest, heavy and unyielding. But fear is a powerful silencer; I dread the thought of being seen as an aberration, of losing my place in this community that took me in when I had nowhere else to go.

The knife pauses in my hand as I glance around at my packmates, all of them blissfully unaware of the gift—or curse—that sets me apart. No, I can't tell them. Not yet. Not until I understand why I am this way, why I alone can hear the secrets hidden within the minds of others. For now, the truth of my telepathy remains locked within me, as tightly sealed as the jars of preserves we're preparing for tonight's feast.

The rhythmic dance of kneading dough offers me a brief respite from the intrusive thoughts that seep into my mind. I press and fold, press and fold, letting the simplicity of the task ground me to the here and now. With each turn, I try to imprint silence over the whispers that threaten to spill from my subconscious into my reality.

"Skye, need a hand?"

I turn at the sound of Luca's voice, his presence like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog. The corners of my mouth lift involuntarily, and for a moment, I simply bask in the normalcy he brings with him.

"Hey, Luca." I push a loose strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. "Sure, we could use some extra muscle over here."

He strides over, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing forearms corded with strength. Despite the flour dusting the air and settling on every available surface, not a speck dares to mar the golden glow of his hair. He flashes me one of those dimpled grins that have unknowingly been the subject of more than a few of my daydreams.

"Show me what to do," he says, reaching for an apron hanging on a nearby hook.

"Alright. You just take the dough and—" I demonstrate, my hands working the soft mound before me, "—knead it like this. It’s all about the heel of your palm."

"Like this?" He mirrors my actions, albeit with a bit more force. Too much force, actually, but I find it endearing rather than irritating.

"Almost," I chuckle, stepping closer to guide his hands with mine. "You've got the power but ease up a little. It's bread dough, not a sparring partner."

"Right, I forget my own strength sometimes," he admits, easing the pressure. His laugh is easy, unfettered by the weight I carry every day.

"Better," I affirm, and our hands move in tandem, kneading the dough beneath our fingers into submission. There's something intimate about the act, our hands brushing occasionally, the shared warmth between us tangible.

"Thanks for the help, Skye. I would've turned this into a rock if it were just me," he says, his blue eyes meeting mine.

"Anytime, Luca." My heart performs an erratic somersault. Here in the midst of flour and warmth, I find an unexpected sanctuary. Even as my abilities continue to hover like specters at the edges of my consciousness, Luca's presence anchors me firmly in the joy of the moment.

"Your mood seems lighter," he observes, a subtle question lurking within his observation.

"Must be the baking magic," I quip, hoping to deflect further inquiry. I can't afford to let slip the true source of my unease, not even to him.

"Or maybe it's the company," he counters playfully, though his gaze holds a depth that suggests a hope for something more.

"Maybe," I allow myself to admit, and for a fleeting second, I dare to imagine a world where secrets aren't barriers, but bridges to be crossed together.