NICHOLAS

No one rests easily, on the sixteenth of November.

For my friends, for my family. For any female over the age of eighteen who has the unfortunate curse of being born within our packs lands. Any female, unmated and of age, generally does her best to remain inconspicuous. You keep your head low, your mouth shut. If you don't attract attention, perhaps the man who may be your future mate won't see you. Won't notice you. You may survive another year, if you're lucky.

Alpha Nicholas' pack has the highest male werewolf population in not only the continent, but the world. He also had the highest unmated male population, including himself and his Beta. So he went to-and-fro, conquering and bringing fear to just about every pack that was convenient and worth his time, to allow his men to find their mates.

"Darcy." My mother's voice pulls me out of my trance of depression and anxiety, and I struggle to focus on the plate of toaster waffles in front of me, overdone at the edges and underdone in the center. I'm not sure how long I've been in my head, but they're cold once again. I eye the microwave across the kitchen, but decide I'm not hungry enough for the effort it would take to heat them up. I haven't slept in two days, and I'm running low on energy.

The odds are, my mate will be in Alpha Nicholas' pack. My gut tells me this with absolute certainty, and while I know it's paranoia, that every women felt that way, statistics agree with my gut. Three quarters of unmated males are in Nicholas' custody. I have only a quarter of a chance of my mate being elsewhere.

"Sweetheart, you've got to relax." My mother coos, reaching across the wooden table and taking my hand in her own. They're soft, smelling like her lotion, and while I might otherwise be calmed by her touch, I only feel guilty. If she loses me, she loses her daughter. "They'll look at you more if they smell the anxiety. These men are warriors, they feed off of fear." She tells me, voice soft and understanding, and after a minute, she stands up and picks up my plate. She walks to the microwave and sticks the plate in, fingers dancing across the keys until it hummed as the waffles spun round-and-round, heating up with the help of some friendly radiation.

My sister's flip flops smacked against the tiles as she sauntered into the kitchen, and I glanced at her, the corners of my lips tugging into a smile. Candy was twenty-three, and she'd played this game more than a few times. For a remarkably attractive woman, she could turn into an eyesore without too much effort.

For a week, she didn't shower, and she smelled foul and sour. She wore dirty clothes, her face greasy and lacking in makeup. The general thought was that the more unappealing you seemed, the less likely they'd be to look at you. Who would want anything to do with some slob, mate or not? I'm not sure it really works, but I play along well enough, leaving my hair frizzy and face devoid of makeup, with stained, baggy clothing.

"Please tell me you're not going to be eating down here!" Tyler moans, pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose, seemingly preferring the stench of his own nineteen-year-old-boy body over Candy.

Even my mother's nose scrunched up as the microwave went off, carrying the plate back to me. "Candace, you really do smell foul." She observes, but there was a degree of approval to her words. Candy and I didn't want to be taken, but I think mom's desire for us to not be taken was stronger. She'd lost her own sister to Nicholas' pack; I didn't remember much about Aunt Mila, I'd been eight when they'd taken her, but mom had loved her more than life itself. She didn't want to lose her only daughters as well.