Chapter 13: The Great Pajama Tragedy

I've been in some terrible situations in my life.

Like the time I accidentally wore a see-through shirt to school and only realized after second period when Tommy Martinez asked if my bra was supposed to match my underwear, which it wasn't, and also how did he know what color my underwear was? Or when my wolf came out for the first time during a family barbecue and I bit a tree so hard I got splinters in my teeth and had to explain to the dentist why I needed emergency bark removal.

But this?

This is worse.

I'm under house arrest.

Not official "court of law" house arrest with ankle monitors and parole officers who smell like disappointment and cheap coffee. No, this is Mom's version—which is basically the same thing, except there's no ankle monitor, just her judgmental eyes following me around the house like I'm a toddler with a lighter and a history of arson.

It started the second we got home from the hunt. I barely had time to change out of my "I just fainted in front of my mate because his penis broke my brain and possibly my ability to form coherent thoughts" outfit before Mom dragged me to the kitchen and sat me down like I was about to confess to a war crime.

Which, in her eyes, I kind of had.

The kitchen chair felt like an electric chair. Mom stood across from me, arms folded, wearing the expression she usually reserved for telemarketers and people who put pineapple on pizza.

"Julia."

That's all she said at first. My name. No nickname. No "baby." No "sweetie." Just Julia—Beta-mom code for you've brought shame upon our family and possibly the entire pack, and I'm reconsidering my decision not to eat my young.

She didn't even yell, which would have been preferable. Yelling I can handle. Yelling means she's angry but she'll get over it. This calm, deadly quiet voice means I've crossed a line I didn't even know existed and now I'm in supernatural parenting hell.

She just informed me, in her calm and terrifying voice that could probably make serial killers confess, that until further notice, I was not allowed to:

1\. Leave the house. At all. For any reason. Even if there's a fire. Especially if there's a fire involving vampires.

2\. Speak to Rowan. Or about Rowan. Or in the general direction where Rowan might hypothetically exist.

3\. Think about Rowan. Which is the stupidest rule in the history of stupid rules because how the hell am I supposed to control my thoughts?

Which is especially stupid because, hello, how am I supposed to stop thinking about Rowan when the mental image of him rising out of that lake like some kind of aquatic sex god is permanently tattooed on my brain in high definition with surround sound?

It's not my fault he looked like a sinful Greek god carved out of danger and bad decisions by some very horny sculptor who clearly had never heard of modesty or reasonable proportions. And it's definitely not my fault my brain short-circuited at the sight of his... enormous problem.

I mean, I'm seventeen. I'm supposed to be curious about male anatomy. It's developmentally appropriate, according to the health textbooks that clearly did not prepare me for vampire-level endowment situations.

The only good thing is that Dad hasn't said a word to me about it. He's been busy pretending Rowan doesn't exist, which is fine by me because the alternative is him asking questions about what exactly I saw and how exactly I reacted to seeing it. One "so... big, huh?" joke from him and I'd have to throw myself into oncoming traffic just to escape the humiliation.

So here I am. Day two of my incarceration. I've been reduced to wearing my ugliest pajamas because if I'm stuck in this house indefinitely, I'm committing to the full tragic aesthetic of house arrest chic.

And by "ugliest pajamas," I mean: an oversized pink t-shirt that says WORLD'S BEST GRANDMA in sparkly letters (thrift store find from Amy's "ironic clothing" phase, don't ask) and flannel pants covered in cartoon muffins with little smiley faces that mock my current life situation.

My hair's in a messy bun that could double as a bird's nest, I haven't showered since yesterday because what's the point, and I'm pretty sure there's still chocolate chip residue on my chin from my earlier stress eating.

If Rowan saw me like this, he'd...

Actually, no. He'd probably still look at me like I'm dessert because fate's cruel like that and vampires apparently have no standards when it comes to their mates' grooming habits.

I'm halfway through my third boredom snack of the day (an unholy sandwich creation of peanut butter, marshmallow fluff, chocolate chips, and what might be the last of Mom's good strawberry jam) when the distress call comes in.

It's loud and urgent—howling through the house via the pack's communication system, which is basically just everyone howling really loudly until someone responds. The sound cuts through my self-pity party like a fire alarm, making me drop my sandwich onto the kitchen floor where it lands face-down because of course it does.

Mom and Dad are in the kitchen in seconds, already grabbing their weapons from the cabinet that's supposed to be locked but everyone knows the combination is Dad's birthday because he's not creative with security.

"What's going on?" I ask, even though I know I won't get a real answer because I'm currently on the supernatural equivalent of the kid's table.

"Rogue activity on the south border," Mom says briskly, strapping on her weapons belt like she's preparing for war instead of a Tuesday evening. "Pack's been tracking them since dawn. They're making a move."

"Rogues?" My stomach drops. "Like, actual dangerous rogues or Mrs. Patterson's cousin who keeps forgetting to register his visits?"

"Actual dangerous," Dad says grimly, checking his wooden stakes. "Three of them. Armed and aggressive."

I stand up, abandoning my fallen sandwich. "I'll come—"

"No." They say it at the same time, like synchronized rejection champions who've been practicing this routine.

Dad steps closer, using his Beta voice that brooks no argument. "You stay inside, lock all the doors, don't answer the windows, and don't open them for anyone except us. Do you understand?"

"Right," I mutter, crossing my arms. "Because I'm definitely going to invite murderers in for tea and cookies."

"Julia." Mom's voice carries that edge that means she's not in the mood for my sarcasm. "This is serious. Rogues don't follow pack law. They don't follow any law. If they find out the Beta's daughter is here alone..."

The implication hangs in the air like a threat. I'm not just any pack member—I'm valuable. A target. Leverage.

"Okay," I say, more subdued. "I'll stay inside. Lock the doors. Hide under my bed like a reasonable person."

They're already moving toward the door, Mom checking her crossbow and Dad still muttering about proper rogue protocol. The urgency radiating off them makes my wolf pace anxiously.

"We'll be back as soon as we can," Mom calls over her shoulder. "Don't do anything stupid while we're gone."

They're already gone before I can make another sarcastic comment about my recent track record with stupid decisions. The door slams, and the house goes quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes you hyperaware of every small sound—the refrigerator humming, the old floorboards settling, the distant sound of pack members mobilizing in the forest.

I'm about to go back to my sandwich (five-second rule applies to stress eating) when there's a knock at the back door.

I freeze, my hand halfway to the fallen sandwich.

It's not a loud knock. Not aggressive or demanding. Just... firm. Deliberate. Three measured taps like whoever's out there knows exactly what they're doing and exactly how to get my attention without alerting the entire neighborhood.

My heart thuds against my ribs. Mom's words echo in my head: Don't open them for anyone except us.

Which is exactly why I grab the nearest kitchen knife—a big one that Mom uses for cutting up whole chickens—and creep toward the door like some kind of pajama-clad action hero who clearly didn't learn anything from horror movies about investigating suspicious noises.

I peek out the window, expecting to see rogues or burglars or possibly Mrs. Henderson's ghost cat making another appearance.

And instantly regret every single life choice that led me to this moment.

Because standing on my back porch, looking like temptation wrapped in leather and bad decisions, is Rowan.