Claimed by the Wrong Alphas

Charis

I lay on my side, with my eyes wide open, the blankets tangled around my legs, until the pack house grew silent.

Every creak of the stairs sent my heart racing, convinced that my father was coming to finish what he’d started. My cheek still throbbed from the slap; my body still had the painful welts that had formed where his belt had struck me.

I could still feel his fingers in my hair, his spit-filled words about duty and obedience clinging to my skin like filth, and I know it won’t stop.

Marriage would not be my redemption.

The grandfather clock in the hallway finally chimed midnight. The pack house had finally fallen silent.

Slowly, silently, I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to my vanity. The floor was cold beneath my toes, the kind of cold that wakes your bones and reminds you that you’re alive.

I yanked open the bottom drawer where I had hidden my escape plan weeks ago. The forged admission letter and other forged documents for my new identity were there, just like I left them weeks ago – back when running away was a fantasy, not a necessity.

I hesitated for only a second before shoving them into the duffel bag I had bought from the market the previous afternoon. Working quickly, I retrieved the money I’d been saving – tips from waitressing at the pack’s diner, birthday gifts, small amounts skimmed from my allowance that wouldn’t be noticed.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

When my bag was packed with essentials, I stood up and turned to the mirror.