Hide and Go Seek - Elara

Hide and Go Seek - Elara
I keep my breathing shallow because even the softest sound seems obscene in the thick hush of the safe room. The door is locked, the bolt slid home with a practiced, decisive click that still makes my heart thump, and I listen to the house breathe around me—wood settling, distant footsteps, the muffled panic that rolls like thunder through the floorboards. Helen’s face is a pale moon in the dim light; she gives me a tiny nod and then melts into the doorway, a guardian at the second latch. I tell her to hold the line; only Austin, Marcus, Leo, or me may open it. Her hand on my wrist is quick, warm, and my fingers clamp reflexively, grateful for the contact that steadies instead of stirs.

When the first set of rogues moves outside the closet, their bootfalls are heavy but measured: men who have been told what to look for and how to look. I count them anyway, because counting distracts from the fear. One, two, three—voices low, the rasp of blades rubbing the leather of their sheaths. They whisper like plotting birds, and for a moment I am a small, quiet animal waiting in a trap of my own making.

I have to leave the safe room. The thought of staying put while they comb the house—closet by closet, room by room—fills me with a buzz of desperate energy. If they find Austin’s office, if they tear it apart, if the dagger—my hands go cold and the book’s pages flash behind my eyes—if they take it again, I will hate myself for being cowardly.

I slide the bolt with hands that do not tremble, quietly open the outer door, and slip out into the hall. Helen’s whisper follows me—a quick, steady “Be careful.” I close the door so gently the latch clicks almost like a kiss. The closet smells of dust and clean linens and the faint trace of blood from yesterday’s wounds. I press myself against the wall and move like smoke: shoulders flat, steps measured, every nerve tuned to catch the faintest change in tone or shadow.

The house has been rifled. Clothes are flung across the floor in an accusation of motion—shirts ripped from hangers, skirts puddled like fallen leaves. Our bedroom has been searched; feathers float in lazy circles from the shredded bed, each mote a little white ghost. It’s like walking through someone’s memory torn apart.

Their search feels precise; they know they’re hunting an object, not people. The rogues ignore the cradled toys, the half-folded laundry, the quilts that whisper of bedtime. They are methodical, and for that I am grateful. It means they are looking for the dagger, not for the children we have hidden in the walls. They toss cushions and fling open wardrobes, voices sharp with command, eyes scanning for the metal glint of what they think will make them kings.

I crouch low by the foot of our bed, fingers splayed on the wood, breath held until my ears hum. They stand there—two men, younger than I expected, their hands quick with practiced violence. I can hear them talk even when they try not to: “Nothing on this second floor—are we sure it’s here?” one asks, the vowels thick with the sourness of doubt.

“The dagger was brought to this area,” the other replies. His voice is low, almost vicious with certainty. “Maybe it’s moved. Maybe they took it already and ran. Or maybe it’s hidden here and the Alpha’s men—” He spits the last word like a curse and turns, searching.

Relief that they cleared the office hits me like cold water. For a breath I let myself think the worst is over. They didn't find it in Austin’s study. They didn't tear the desk drawers or topple the manuscripts. The dagger might still be where we left it. The book’s vision thrummed at the edges of my mind, and I press a palm to my sternum until the pulse steadies.

Then a new sound rips through the quiet—a shout outside, a single voice that carries with the iron note of leadership. Both rogues snap their heads toward the window, then drift like shadows toward the stairs. My insides roll. I move toward the nearest pane and peer through.

What I see makes my lungs tighten until I fear they will fold and forget their purpose. Austin is running. He’s clearing the yard in long, powerful strides, the white blur of his wolf-leaning body not yet unleashed but visible in the way his shoulders roll. He is alone—no pack flanking him, no Marcus or Leo at his side. Behind him, Taylor rides like a dark comet, flanked by rogues. Taylor isn’t just chasing; he’s driving. His mouth is a determined line. His eyes are bright as if something outside the ordinary has been set alight inside him.

They’re racing away from the house—away from safety—and Austin’s face as he glances back is a contained storm: focus, calculation, exhaustion mingled with fury. It isn’t that he looks hurt. He looks… outnumbered.

Heat gathers at the base of my skull. The urge to throw the closet door wide and sprint for the yard claws at me. Every instinct screams to run, to join, to be the one at Austin’s side. But my feet are rooted by the knowledge of the book, the dagger, the ritual. If Taylor wants Austin dead so he can catch my tears, then Austin cannot be reckless. He cannot be bait. He needs us—Marcus, Leo, me—to be surgical, to cut the chase into a trap.

“Damn you,” I murmur into the glass, though they cannot hear. “Not today.”

One of the rogues mutters under his breath, and I hear Taylor’s voice—raucous, hungry—call out something that sends a cold finger up my spine: “Drive him! Don’t let the Alpha think he can outrun us!”

Austin’s stride lengthens; he dives into a stand of trees. Taylor rallies the rogues at a gallop, voices rising into something savage and bright. In a heartbeat they vanish down the slope, wind tearing at their cloaks, blades catching the last light.

I press my forehead to the cold pane until the glass fogs. For a dizzy moment Austin looks directly at the house—at this window—and something like recognition flashes behind his eyes. I do not know if he saw me. I do not know if he hoped I’d leap out at him. He is a man of action; he will take the fight to them. He always does.

My hands find the edge of the sill and grip until my knuckles whiten.

I swallow down the hot panic and turn my face to the stairs. Marcus’ voice is distant and full of a command I can hear in the hollow of the house. Leo curses somewhere below. The pack is moving. They will meet Austin on the field.

I straighten my shoulders. There is fear in my chest as big as the moon, but beneath it, something harder: a thin white ember of resolve. I tuck the knowledge of the book into the folds of my mind, and with it the plan forming like a blade.