Chapter 30 Quiet Years
"Home?" I press myself against the wall, Aurora clutched to my chest. "I don't have a home."
Mark steps into the room, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Poor choice of words. Let me rephrase—it's time to stop running."
"Get out." My voice is steadier than I feel. "Get out of this house before I scream."
"And bring the human authorities down on yourself? On your daughter?" One of the wolves behind Mark—a tall woman with silver-streaked hair—shakes her head. "We both know you won't do that."
She's right, and I hate her for it.
"What do you want?" I demand.
"To help you." Mark moves slowly, carefully, like he's approaching a spooked animal.
"By breaking into my home in the middle of the night?"
"By offering you protection. Training. A community." He nods toward Aurora, who's watching them with those too-alert amber eyes. "By offering your daughter a chance to grow up around others like her."
"She's not like anyone." The words come out fiercer than I intended. "And I'm doing just fine on my own."
The silver-haired woman laughs—not unkindly. "Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you're one crisis away from complete collapse. What happens when your daughter shifts in public? When her supernatural nature becomes impossible to hide?"
Before I can answer, Carmen's voice rings out from downstairs. "Sage? I heard glass breaking. Are you—"
She appears in the doorway and freezes, taking in the scene. Four strange wolves in my bedroom. Me backed into a corner with Aurora.
"Call 911," I tell her.
"Don't." Mark turns to Carmen. "Mrs. Garcia, I presume? Your husband is downstairs, unharmed. We mean no one any harm. We just need to talk to Sage."
"Talk?" Carmen's voice drips with contempt. "You break into our home, terrify a new mother, and call it talking?"
"We tried the conventional approach. Sage didn't respond to our letters."
"Because I don't want anything to do with you!" I move toward the door, toward Carmen and safety. "I left that world behind."
"That world doesn't let people leave." The silver-haired woman's voice is gentle now. "Especially not people like you. Like your daughter. Sooner or later, Sage, someone will find you who doesn't have your best interests at heart."
"Like Stella?" The name tastes bitter on my tongue.
Mark's expression darkens. "Stella is... unstable. After losing her son, she's become obsessed with finding you. With finding your daughter."
"Why my daughter?"
"Because word has gotten out," the third wolf speaks for the first time—a young man, maybe twenty, with kind eyes. "About a female Alpha born to a rogue. About unprecedented power in an infant. People talk, Sage. And some of those people are dangerous."
Aurora chooses that moment to shift.
Not a full shift, not even a partial one. Just a flash of amber in her eyes, a brief ripple of silver fur across her tiny arms.
Everyone in the room goes still.
"She's two months old," the silver-haired woman breathes. "Two months old and already manifesting. Dear God."
"Get out." I push past Carmen into the hallway. "All of you, get out of my house before I—"
"Before you what?" Mark follows me. "Sage, please. Just listen."
"I listened once before. I listened to promises of protection, of belonging, of pack. And it got me pregnant with twins and hunted like an animal." I spin to face him. "So forgive me if I don't trust strange wolves who break into my home."
"Then trust this." He pulls something from his pocket—a business card. "This is the location of a sanctuary. A place where rogues and displaced wolves can live safely, away from pack politics. Where children like Aurora can grow up learning to control their abilities without fear of persecution."
I don't take the card.
"There's training available," the young wolf adds eagerly. "Teachers who specialize in young shifters, especially those with unusual development patterns. Your daughter needs that, Sage. She needs guidance that you can't provide alone."
"I'm doing fine."
"For now." The silver-haired woman's voice is kind but firm. "But what happens when she's six months old and shifting fully? When she's a year old and running at supernatural speeds? How will you explain that to doctors, to neighbors, to the world?"
Aurora whimpers in my arms, sensing my distress.
"Please leave," I whisper. "Please just... leave us alone."
Mark sets the card on the dresser. "The offer stands. When you're ready—and you will be ready, Sage, sooner than you think—call that number. We'll help you. No strings attached."
"Why?" I look at him directly for the first time. "Why do you care?"
"Because I was you once. A rogue with nowhere to go, no one to trust. Someone gave me a chance." His smile is sad. "I'm just paying it forward."
They leave as quietly as they came, disappearing into the night like ghosts.
Rafael appears from downstairs, pale and shaken. "They didn't hurt me. Just... told me to stay put. Are you okay?"
"No." I sink onto the bed, Aurora still clutched to my chest. "No, I'm really not."
Carmen calls the police anyway. They come, take statements, dust for prints that won't lead anywhere. The wolves were careful—gloves, no trace evidence, nothing to follow.
"Probably just a random break-in," the officer says, not believing his own words. "But we'll increase patrols in the area."
After they leave, Margaret arrives.
"I heard what happened," she says, settling into the chair beside my bed. "Wolves?"
"How did you—"
"I told you, dear. I know things. I see things." She looks at Aurora, sleeping peacefully despite the chaos. "They're right, you know. About her needing training. About the danger of staying isolated."
"Not you too."
"I'm not saying join them. I'm saying consider your options carefully." Margaret's voice is gentle. "Pride is a luxury you can't afford right now, Sage. Not with a child to protect."
I don't sleep that night. Can't stop thinking about the silver-haired woman's words, about the card sitting on my dresser, about the future I'm so desperately trying to control.
When Aurora wakes for her 4 AM feeding, I make a decision.
We're not going to the sanctuary. We're not calling Mark or accepting help from strangers.
We're going to disappear. Completely.
The next morning, I tell the Garcias my plan.
"Absolutely not." Carmen crosses her arms. "You're not well enough to travel. Aurora is too young. And where would you even go?"
"Somewhere remote. Somewhere off the grid. Somewhere no one would think to look."
"Sage, running isn't the answer."
"It's the only answer I have."
But before I can make any concrete plans, Dr. Chen calls.
"Sage, I need to see Aurora. Today, if possible. Her latest blood work shows some anomalies."
My heart stops. "What kind of anomalies?"
"Nothing immediately dangerous. But I want to run some additional tests."
We go to his office that afternoon. He examines Aurora thoroughly, takes more blood samples, runs tests I don't understand.
"Her cellular development is extraordinary," he finally says. "She's growing at approximately one and a half times the normal rate. By the time she's one year old, she'll appear closer to eighteen months. By age three, she'll look five."
"Is that dangerous?"
"I don't know. We're still in uncharted territory." He hands Aurora back to me. "But Sage, you need to be prepared. By the time she's school-aged, the discrepancy between her actual age and apparent age will be impossible to hide."
Another problem. Another complication.
"What do I do?"
"Honestly? I think you should consider the sanctuary Mark mentioned." Dr. Chen holds up a hand when I start to protest. "I know you don't trust them. I know you want to handle this alone. But Aurora's needs are going to exceed your capabilities very soon. She needs specialized care. A community that understands what she is."
"I can't risk it."
"Can you risk not trying?"
I leave his office with more questions than answers, the business card burning a hole in my pocket.
Over the next few weeks, I settle into a new routine.
Work during Aurora's naps—Margaret has increased my hours, giving me just enough income to start saving for our eventual escape.
Feed Aurora every three hours, watching her grow visibly day by day.
Exercise during her alert periods, knowing I need to be strong enough to run if necessary.
And every night, I research. Towns so small they don't appear on maps. Places where people don't ask questions. Locations where a single mother and her unusual daughter might blend in.
Aurora continues to develop at an alarming rate. By three months, she's sitting up independently. By four months, she's crawling—not the awkward baby crawl but a coordinated, purposeful movement that's too advanced for her age.
At five months, she says her first word.
Not "mama" or "dada" like normal babies. Instead, she looks directly at me and says, clear as day: "Wolf."
I nearly drop the bottle I'm holding.
"What did you say, baby?"
"Wolf." She points to herself, then to me. "We wolf."
Carmen, who's visiting, stares in shock. "Did she just—"
"She's five months old," I whisper. "She's not supposed to be talking yet."
But Aurora isn't finished. Over the next hour, she demonstrates a vocabulary of at least twenty words. Not baby babble or approximations—full, clear words with obvious understanding of their meaning.
"Pack," she says, touching my face. "Mama pack."
"Yes, baby. Mama's your pack."
"More pack?" Her amber eyes are so intelligent, so knowing. "Need more pack."
My heart breaks a little.
She's lonely. My five-month-old daughter is lonely, craving the connection to other wolves that I'm denying her.
That night, after Carmen leaves, I finally look at the business card Mark left.
Northern Sanctuary. A safe haven for displaced wolves.
Below that, a phone number and an address in the mountains north of Vancouver.
I don't call. Can't bring myself to take that step.
But I don't throw the card away either.
Aurora is six months old when Damon emails again.
'Sage,
I don't know if you're reading these, but I have to try.
Mason is deteriorating. After losing his son, he's become a shell of who he was. He barely eats, barely sleeps, and when he does sleep, he calls your name.
The pack is falling apart. Stella has convinced half the wolves that you're somehow responsible for everything—the miscarriage, the instability, the weakening pack bonds.
But the other half remembers who you really were. They remember your kindness, your strength. They want you back, Sage.
Mason wants you back. Even if he can't admit it to himself.
I know you have a daughter now. I know you're trying to protect her. But running forever isn't protecting anyone.
Please consider coming home. Not to the pack, if you don't want that. But to Vancouver. To somewhere Mason can find you, if he chooses.
The mate bond is killing him, Sage. And whether you want to admit it or not, it's killing you too.
\-D'
I delete the email immediately. Then empty my trash folder so I won't be tempted to read it again.
Mason made his choice. I made mine. And Aurora is all that matters now.
But that night, I dream of him.
In the dream, he's searching for me. Running through forests, calling my name, desperate and lost.
I wake with tears on my face and Aurora standing in her crib, watching me with those too-knowing eyes.
"Sad," she says. Not a question—a statement.
"Yes, baby. Mama's sad."
"Why sad?"
How do I explain loss to a six-month-old? How do I tell her about the father she'll never know, the pack she'll never be part of, the life I'm denying both of us?
"Because sometimes the world is hard," I finally say. "But we're strong, you and me. We can handle hard."
Aurora reaches through the crib bars, and I take her small hand. She squeezes with surprising strength, her eyes flashing amber in the darkness.
"We strong," she agrees. "We survive."
Words no six-month-old should be capable of speaking. But then, Aurora has never been a normal child.