Chapter 19
Kara
Hours later—I don't know how many, time is strange when you're a wolf—I finally make my way back toward the house.
My wolf form is exhausted. My paws ache from running on frozen ground. My golden fur is matted with snow and pine needles and God knows what else.
But at least I'm calm now. At least the screaming in my head has quieted to a dull roar.
They didn't follow us, my wolf observes, almost confused. Almost... hurt? Why didn't they follow?
Because they're not as stupid as you are, I think back. They know I'd just run farther. Run forever if I had to.
I shift back to human in the cover of the trees, the transformation somehow less painful this time. Maybe because my body is getting used to it. Maybe because I'm too tired to fight it. Maybe because there's nothing left in me to hurt.
I'm naked and freezing, but there's an old coat hanging on a hook in the mud room. I can sneak in through the side door, grab it, make it back to my storage room before anyone sees—
The house is quiet when I slip inside. The hallway is empty.
But their scents are everywhere. Stronger than before. Like they've been pacing. Searching. Waiting.
For me.
I make it to my door and push it open—
And freeze.
Oh. Oh no.
The smell hits me like a wall, so strong I actually stagger backward.
They were here again. While I was gone, they came back.
And this time they didn't just mark the room.
Every single piece of clothing I own smells like Blake's gunpowder and leather. Like he touched each one, held it, rubbed his scent into the fabric with deliberate, methodical precision.
The mattress reeks of Asher's black ebony and tobacco. Like he laid here. For hours. Covering every inch in his scent.
The walls, the door frame, the tiny window—all of it carries Cole's mint and ozone. Like he paced the perimeter, touching everything, claiming every surface.
Claiming me.
No. No no no—
My wolf sighs in satisfaction, practically purring. Home. Pack. Safe. They marked our den. They claimed us. It's perfect—
But I sink to the floor, back against the door, and wrap my arms around my knees.
"I don't want this," I whisper to the empty room. "I don't want them. I don't—"
But my body is already responding to their scents. My skin is flushed. My neck is hot. My wolf is practically rolling in the smell of them like it's catnip.
And deep down, in a place I don't want to acknowledge, I know the truth.
Running isn't going to work.
Not when they can mark my space like this. Not when my own body betrays me at the first whiff of their scents.
I'm trapped, I realize, and the thought makes me want to laugh and cry and scream all at once. Trapped by biology. Trapped by fate. Trapped by three Alphas who spent ten years making my life hell and now think they own me.
The smell won't come off.
I've been scrubbing Blake's T-shirt—the one he threw on my bed while I was gone—with cold water for ten minutes, and all I've accomplished is making my hands numb and the scent stronger.
Gunpowder and leather. Everywhere. Soaking into the fabric like it's been fucking marinated in his essence.
My wolf practically purrs. Good. Pack scent. Safe. Home—
"This is NOT home!" I hiss at her, throwing the shirt back onto the pile of contaminated clothing. "This is a goddamn prison. And they're the wardens."
I move to Asher's pillow next—the one that reeks of black ebony and tobacco—and try to air it out by the tiny window. But the December wind just blows the scent back at me, stronger than before, and I nearly drop the pillow when my knees go weak.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My hands are shaking. Actually shaking. Like I'm some pathetic addict jonesing for a fix, and the fix is three assholes who made my childhood a living nightmare.
This is insane. This is fucking insane.
My wolf knows exactly what's wrong. Mate bond. Biology. Destiny—
"Fuck destiny," I mutter, slamming the window shut hard enough to rattle the frame. "And fuck biology while we're at it."
On the wall, Cole's handprint still gleams in the dim afternoon light. He must have pressed his palm there deliberately, marking the surface with ozone and mint, claiming every inch of my pathetic storage room like it's his goddamn territory.
Like I'm his territory.
I reach up to peel off the sticky note he left beneath it.
"Princess, we're waiting for you."
Four words. That's all it takes to make my hands shake harder and my throat close up.
Princess. Like I'm something precious. Like I wasn't sleeping on a foam mattress thinner than a yoga mat until yesterday. Like they didn't spend a decade making sure I knew exactly how worthless I was.
"I'm not your fucking princess," I whisper to the empty room, but my voice cracks on the last word.
I should throw it away. Rip it to shreds. Burn it.
Instead, I fold it carefully—carefully, like it's something that matters—and tuck it under my snow wolf plushie.
You're pathetic, I tell myself, disgust rolling through me like nausea. You're actually keeping a note from one of your abusers like it's a goddamn love letter. What the fuck is wrong with you?
But I can't help it. Some sick, broken part of me wants to believe the words might be real.
Maybe they do care. Maybe they—
No. I dig my nails into my palms hard enough to hurt. No. Don't you dare start believing that bullshit. Remember the ice river. Remember the slaps. Remember every single time they made you feel like you were nothing.
My wolf whimpers. But they're trying—
"Trying doesn't erase ten years," I say out loud, and my voice sounds harsh even to my own ears. "Trying doesn't make them the good guys."
But it doesn't stop my body from responding to their scents. Doesn't stop the warmth spreading through my chest or the way my neck glands throb with awareness.
Doesn't stop me from wanting something I know will destroy me.
I'm so fucked.
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