They once spoke my name like a prayer. Now, I am all but forgotten. Once upon a time, the farmers of Whisper Grove laid offerings at my feet.
In return, I blessed their fields and guarded their harvests. I was their crow shifter alpha. Their king. They wanted everything from me: prosperity, protection, and peaches. Lots and lots of peaches.
All I wanted was a mate. Someone to call home and to bring shiny trinkets to. My mate never arrived, and, over time, the offerings slowed to nothing.
How could I provide them with blessings when all my dreams of a mate had never come true? Now, I’m a whisper of a memory. A story older people tell each other, reminiscing about the past.
Some still remember me. A few even fear me. But days of savoring their reverence are long gone. I don’t want their worship, their tribute, their acts of perceived obligation. I want my mate.
Someone who chooses me for who I am and not what I can do for them. Someone to spoil. Someone to call my own.
