But he was looking at me now, waiting, and I couldn't bear to disappoint him before I had even tried.

“I'll do better,” I added.

“You should. Your mother was never afraid to fight.”

My fingers tightened around the spoon.

There was a photograph of her on the shelf behind him. She wore the Ashen Ridge training jacket, one arm around Celine, who was small enough to sit on her hip. Dad was smiling beside them.

I wasn't in any of their photographs together.

My mother had died giving birth to me.

“She was the best female warrior in this pack,” he said. “And look at you.”

I stared at the pale potatoes left in the serving dish. Seventeen years, and I still didn't know what answer he wanted when he spoke about her.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

His fork struck the plate.

“Do you think that brings her back?”

“No. I just—”

“Then stop saying it.”

I pressed my lips together. The cut opened again, sharp and hot.

Granny had told me I wasn't to blame. I had been a baby. I hadn't chosen anything. I knew that when I was alone, when nobody was looking at me the way Dad was now.

In front of him, I wanted to offer something that would make it right. Better marks. A clean house. A meal he liked. Something he could look at without wishing I had died instead.

“I'll try harder tomorrow.”

Celine gave a little laugh into her glass.

Dad didn't look at her.

“Third place. At least.”

I lifted my eyes.

He pushed his chair back. “You heard me.”

“Yes.”

“If you come home with nothing again, we'll finish tonight's training. And I'll be the one teaching you.”

He left his plate on the table. Celine followed him into the living room, carrying her phone and the last piece of chicken.

I stood there until I heard the television.

Then I set the spoon down before I dropped it.

Upstairs, after the dishes were washed, I locked my bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed.

The lock was a small sliding bolt. Dad could break it if he wanted. Still, I checked it twice before lifting my shirt to look at my ribs.

A bruise was spreading beneath them. I pressed a damp washcloth against it and breathed through my nose until the sting eased.

On my bedside table lay a calendar from the pharmacy. I had folded it open to this month. Two days from now, a tiny pencil circle marked my eighteenth birthday.

I touched it with one finger.

Eighteen meant I could finally meet my wolf. It meant I might recognize my mate.

Someone who would want me beside him. Someone I wouldn't have to ask before sitting down to eat.

I tried to imagine his face, but all I could picture was a hand reaching for mine without making me flinch.

Then I thought of the boys in the pack. The way they moved aside when Celine passed and laughed when I did. What if he was one of them?

I turned the calendar facedown.

For a while, I listened to the television downstairs. Dad laughed at something. The sound carried through the heating vent beside my bed, easy and familiar to everyone in this house except me.

I could leave without waiting for a mate.

The thought frightened me enough that I glanced at the door.

I had no money. Granny was gone, and I couldn't think of anyone who would let me stay without calling Dad. Even the bus into town cost more than the coins in my drawer.

I opened it anyway and counted them.

Two dollars and forty cents.

I put them back, ashamed of how badly I wanted that to be enough.

“Rhea!”

I stood so quickly the washcloth fell from my lap.

“Get to bed!” Dad shouted. “You have an early start.”

“Yes, Dad.”

I reached for the switch, then stopped to turn the calendar over again.

Two more days. I needed to believe something good could still happen to me in two more days.

I set the alarm for six and laid out my clothes for the competition.

Under the lamp, I found a tear in the knee of my leggings. I threaded a needle and began closing it, making the stitches small so they wouldn't pull apart when I moved.

Tomorrow, I had to finish third.

I didn't even know how to win the first fight.