Chapter 31 Quiet Years (Cont'd)
At seven months, Aurora's walking. Not wobbly first steps but confident strides, as if she's been doing it for months.
At eight months, she's running.
At nine months, she speaks in complete sentences.
"Mama, why we hiding?" she asks one morning over breakfast.
I nearly choke on my coffee. "What makes you think we're hiding?"
"We never go outside. Never see other people. You scared all the time." She tilts her head, studying me. "What you scared of?"
"I'm not—" But I can't lie to her. Those amber eyes see everything. "I'm scared of losing you, baby. Of people taking you away from me."
"Bad people?"
"Yes. Very bad people."
She considers this for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. We keep hiding then. Keep Mama safe too."
My heart breaks and swells simultaneously. She's nine months old but showing the protective instincts of a much older child. Already putting my needs before her own.
"You don't need to worry about keeping me safe, Rory. That's my job."
She's started going by Rory instead of Aurora—says it's easier, sounds stronger. I didn't have the heart to argue.
"We keep each other safe," she insists. "Like pack."
"Like pack," I agree, pulling her into a hug.
But the truth is becoming impossible to ignore: we need a real pack. Rory needs other wolves, other children like her. And I'm failing her by keeping us isolated.
At ten months, Rory partially shifts in front of Carmen.
We're in the living room, Rory playing with blocks while I work on my laptop. Carmen is in the kitchen making lunch.
Then Rory gets frustrated with a tower that won't balance. Her eyes flash, fur ripples across her arms, and she growls—an actual wolf growl from a ten-month-old child.
Carmen drops the plate she's holding. It shatters on the tile floor.
Rory immediately shifts back, looking guilty. "Sorry, Auntie Carmen. Didn't mean to."
"You just..." Carmen can't finish the sentence, can't process what she saw.
I move to intercept, to explain, but Carmen holds up a hand.
"I knew," she says quietly. "I mean, I suspected. But seeing it..." She sinks into a chair. "Rafael and I always knew there was something different about her. About you. But this..."
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I should have told you."
"No, you were protecting her. I understand that." Carmen looks at Rory, who's watching us with concerned eyes. "Does it hurt? When she changes?"
"No." Rory answers for herself. "Feels good. Feels right. But Mama says can't do it outside. Can't let people see."
"She's right." Carmen's voice is firm. "Rory, baby, you have to be very careful. Very, very careful. There are people who wouldn't understand, who might try to hurt you or your mama."
Rory's eyes flash amber again. "Let them try."
"Rory—"
"I protect us, Mama. You taught me strong. Taught me survive." She lifts her chin stubbornly. "Nobody hurt us."
Carmen and I exchange glances over her head.
"She's extraordinary," Carmen whispers.
"She's exhausting," I counter, but there's no heat in it.
That night, after Rory is asleep, Carmen and Rafael sit me down for a serious conversation.
"You can't keep doing this alone," Rafael says gently. "She needs more than you can give her."
"I'm giving her everything—"
"You're giving her survival," Carmen interrupts. "But she needs to thrive, not just survive. She needs other children, education, socialization. She needs a community that understands what she is."
"I know." The admission hurts. "But I don't know who to trust."
"What about that sanctuary Mark mentioned?" Rafael pulls out a folder. "I did some research. It's legitimate—been running for fifteen years, housed over two hundred displaced wolves. They have schools, training programs, security measures."
"And if someone there recognizes me? If word gets back to Mason's pack?"
"The sanctuary has strict privacy policies. No information shared without explicit consent." He slides the folder toward me. "Sage, I know you're scared. But fear can't be the only thing driving your decisions anymore."
I open the folder and start reading.
Northern Sanctuary: Founded in 2010 by a coalition of rogues seeking safe haven from pack politics. Located on 500 acres of protected wilderness in northern British Columbia. Population approximately 150 wolves and their families.
Amenities include: specialized education for supernatural children, training programs for developing abilities, medical facilities equipped to handle supernatural needs, and round-the-clock security.
There are testimonials from parents whose children have thrived there. Photos of smiling kids—some fully human, some shifted, all looking happy and safe.
"It could be a trap," I say, but the argument sounds weak even to me.
"It could also be exactly what Rory needs."
I close the folder and look toward the stairs, where my daughter sleeps peacefully.
She's ten months old but appears almost two. In another year, she'll look four or five. The discrepancy will become impossible to hide.
Dr. Chen is right. Carmen and Rafael are right. Even Margaret—who's been my staunchest supporter—has gently suggested I consider alternatives.
But making that call, taking that step, feels like admitting defeat. Like admitting I can't protect my daughter alone.
"I'll think about it," I finally say.
"Don't think too long," Rafael warns. "Every day you wait is another day Rory doesn't get what she needs."
At eleven months, Rory experiences her first full shift.
We're alone in the house—I've started limiting visitors, terrified of another incident. Rory is playing in her room when I hear an anguished cry.
I run upstairs to find her on the floor, her body contorting. Bones shifting, reforming. Fur sprouting in patches.
"Mama!" Her voice is caught between human and wolf. "Mama, help!"
"I'm here, baby. I'm here." I kneel beside her, placing my hands on her shoulders. "Don't fight it. Let it happen."
"Hurts!"
"I know. But fighting makes it worse. Just breathe. Let your wolf come."
She whimpers, tears streaming down her face, but she stops fighting.
The shift completes in seconds.
Where my eleven-month-old daughter was sitting, there's now a wolf pup. Small—about the size of a six-month-old regular wolf—with silver-gray fur and those same distinctive amber eyes.
"Rory?" I whisper.
The pup whines and stumbles toward me on unsteady legs.
I gather her into my arms, and she burrows against my chest, trembling.
"It's okay. You're okay. You're just... you're just a wolf now. That's all."
She whimpers again, clearly frightened by her new form.
"Want to shift back?"
The pup nods—actually nods, with clear understanding.
"Okay. Close your eyes. Picture yourself as a little girl. Picture your human hands, your human face. And just... let it happen."
She shifts back even faster than she shifted forward. One moment, a wolf pup. The next, my daughter, naked and shivering.
I wrap her in a blanket and hold her while she cries.
"What happened?" she asks between sobs.
"You shifted. Fully shifted, for the first time."
"Don't like it. Felt scary. Felt wrong."
"It won't always feel that way," I promise, even though I'm not entirely sure that's true. "With practice, it'll become natural. Easy. Like putting on your favorite dress."
She sniffles, considering this. "Can do it again? Practice now?"
"Are you sure?"
She nods firmly. "If scary, need to practice. Need to make it not scary."
My brave, brilliant daughter.
We spend the next hour practicing. She shifts repeatedly, getting faster each time, more controlled. By the end, she's shifting almost effortlessly, moving between forms like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Better," she announces, back in human form. "Not scary now."
"No?"
"Still weird. But not scary. Like you said—just putting on different dress."
I hold her close, my heart aching with pride and fear in equal measure.
She's eleven months old and shifting at will. Speaking in complex sentences. Showing cognitive abilities of a three or four-year-old.
And I'm still hiding her in a house in Vancouver, pretending we can do this alone forever.
That night, after Rory is asleep, I take out the business card.
I stare at it for a long time, turning it over in my hands, weighing options.
Finally, I dial the number.
It rings three times before a woman answers. "Northern Sanctuary. This is Elena. How can I help you?"
"I..." My voice catches. "I was given this number by Marcus. He said... he said you help displaced wolves."
"We do." Her voice is warm, welcoming. "What's your situation?"
"I have a daughter. She's eleven months old but developing very quickly. Shifting already. I need..." I take a deep breath. "I need help. I need somewhere
safe for her to grow up."
"Can I get your name?"
I hesitate, then decide if I'm doing this, I'm doing it all the way. "Sage Mitchell. And my daughter's name is Aurora, but she goes by Rory."
There's a pause. "Sage Mitchell. The Sage Mitchell? Former omega of the Northern Ridge Pack?"
My blood runs cold. "How do you—"
"Word travels in the supernatural community. Especially about a female Alpha born to a rogue." Elena's voice softens. "Don't worry. Your secrets are safe here. We don't share information with anyone, including former packs. Whatever happened before you came to us stays in the past."
"You promise?"
"I promise. Now, when can you come visit? We'd love to meet you and Rory."
We make an appointment for the following week. A tour, an interview, a chance to see if the sanctuary is really what it claims to be.
After I hang up, I sit in the darkness, trying to decide if I've just made the best decision of my life or the worst.
Only time will tell.
But as I climb the stairs to check on Rory, I find her standing in her crib, wide awake.
"We going somewhere, Mama?" she asks.
"Maybe, baby. Maybe we're going to find our pack."
She smiles—a real, genuine smile that lights up her whole face.
"Good. I ready for pack now."
And looking at my brave, brilliant, extraordinary daughter, I realize something important.
She's not the one who's been afraid of joining a pack.
I have.
But it's time to stop letting fear control our lives.
It's time to give Rory the childhood she deserves—one filled with community, belonging, and the chance to be exactly who she is.
The next morning, I start packing.