Little Bird

|one| blackberries

Author's Note

I just wanted to write a damn book where there is realistic characters and also an overprotective dad. I'm interested in pack dynamics, what can I say. Playing around with werewolves, as usual. Honestly, I have somewhat of an idea where this story is going to go, but I am open to suggestions. ALSO: If I were to start a gofundme to help fund-raise for money towards a car-- lol I almost died in a wreck last week and totaled my truck Jolene, talk about Vehicular PTSD hahah--would y'all donate? PS, don't ask someone how a wreck happened when they tell you they were in a wreck because they are literally reliving moments where they thought they were going to die, just say glad you're okay and continue. 

Anyway. Suggestions. I want 'em. These will be relatively short chapters probably.

 The Alpha crouched down, feet curving gently over the tiled floor of the abandoned kitchen, calloused hands careful not to disturb any dish or decoration on the counter top. His breathing slowed, his chest dragging out into a relaxed thrum of flesh and oxygen. Everything in his stance reminiscent of a predator.

He tilted his head to the left, scenting the air in the tiny home, searching for a thinly-covered scent, only tainted by a mark from a larger, stronger wolf. He moved across to the refrigerator, tipping his head up, checking all possible blind spots.

Nothing but a dusty surface covered in forgotten knick-knacks and a couple of storage boxes. His shoulders relaxed, disappointment flooding through, right before he heard a sharp intake of breath from the pantry directly behind him.

He turned on his heel with well-practiced silence, his thick eyebrows drawing downward in frustration, his palms hot, ready for the kill. Every move he created with a defiant rise of his shoulders and the sureness of each step screamed run.

But whatever hid in the pantry stayed, growing even louder, maybe out of fear, from his approach and inevitable arrival. The terrifying quiet which had once been present in the room dissipated. Now, only the tiny sounds echoing from the pantry remained.

He reached out, hand ready to turn the copper knob, which had turned green over the years of grabby sweaty hands, when the antique doors exploded in a blast of dark curls and grey eyes.

"Daddy!" The little girl zipped up from where she hid, smile bright, giggles obvious. "I counted to a hundred—and you, you only gave me fifty seconds!"

"I'm absolutely positive you said fifty seconds, dearest," the Alpha swooped down, hands wrapping just beneath his daughter's armpits to easily lift her up into his arm. From where she sat, perched on his hip, he hardly noticed the weight.

"No, I spefi—specif—" she attempted to pronounce the word through her two missing front teeth. At only four years old, she was beginning her new and final set of canines.

"Specifically, Dove," her father aided with warmth obvious in tone.

"Specifically told you one hundred, as in... ten tens, daddy," Dove, as she always has been and will remain, is smart for her age. Her mind's development seemed to be trained on people, recognizing and remembering and learning the behavior of those around her. In order to keep up with most of those around her, who were all at least ten years her senior, she learned numbers and words particularly fast.

"I could've sworn fifty," he rolled his matching grey eyes, swinging around to glance out of his mother's kitchen window. Outside, a clear pasture, and beyond that, miles of forest dotted with homes from his pack. "C'mon, little bird, grandma picked berries specifically for you," he grins, crossing over the wooden floor to the fridge, where a gallon-sized glass bowl sat tucked between a carton of milk and whatever-leftovers from who knows when.

"Blackberries?" Dove grinned, excitement obvious in her doe eyes.

"Of course," he smiled, grabbing the fruit with his free hand. His daughter watched with her gaze widened and obvious, hypnotized by the promise of the berries which grew on their own and swarmed every bush in her grandmother's pasture. "I think I'll eat all these myself, since I won—"

"Won? You cheated!" The little girl shouted in betrayal, her tiny voice reaching volumes that breeched the sound barrier, or at least, the sound barrier of his sensitive ears. She was too little to know when she grew too loud, and he was too comfortable around his young daughter not to guard his hearing like he did in the company of strangers.

"Dove, volume!" he warned lightly, but not taking it to heart. She had no signs of anything but human. She believed it to be a strictly grown-up thing not raise your voice.

"But you don't deserve 'em, you cheated, daddy!" She pouted, thick brows turning sharply, nearly into one another, as her pretty face screwed up into a ruddy red mess of frustration. "You found me, but you—you,"

"I'm never going to play fair when it comes to you, little bird," he pressed his lips onto her crinkled forehead. "Hide, pretty girl. I'll find you," the hand which kept her anchored to the top of his hip bone balled up, fingers reaching out to tickle at the small of her back.

She exploded into giggles, face curling into the crook of her father's shoulder, hot breath sticky with orange juice warm up the man's neck. As he tickles, she does the opposite of escaping, instead she holds on tighter, blind trust completely surrendered to her father naturally. He wonders, not for the first time, when that blind trust will become anything but completely his.