Chapter 8 Whispers in the Dark
The morning sickness hits me like a freight train at exactly 6:47 AM.
I barely make it to the toilet before my stomach empties itself, heaving until there's nothing left but bitter bile. My hands shake as I grip the porcelain, my knees pressed against the cold bathroom floor. This is the third morning in a row. Three mornings of waking up to this reminder that everything has changed, that I'm carrying a secret that could destroy me if anyone finds out.
I flush and rinse my mouth, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I don't want to see the girl staring back at me—pale, scared, pregnant with the child of a man who doesn't want her anymore. Instead, I focus on the facts. On what needs to be done.
I need money. I need supplies. I need a plan.
The realization settled over me last night as I lay awake, one hand pressed protectively against my still-flat stomach. I can't just run with nothing. Winter is coming, and a pregnant wolf alone in the wilderness won't survive long. I need to be smart about this. Methodical. Patient.
Even if patience feels like swallowing glass.
My weekly allowance sits in a small envelope on my dresser—twenty dollars that Mason's father, Alpha Grey, insists all pack members receive for personal expenses. It's not much. Most wolves my age spend it on coffee or clothes or nights out with friends. I've been saving mine for months, though I never knew exactly what I was saving for.
Now I know.
I count the bills carefully. One hundred and sixty dollars accumulated over eight weeks. It's not enough. Not nearly enough to start a new life in a strange place with a baby on the way. But it's a start.
I tuck the money into an old jewelry box buried at the back of my closet, beneath scarves I never wear and childhood keepsakes I can't bear to throw away. No one comes into my room anymore—not Elena and Willow since our last conversation, not Damon who's been avoiding me since I started pulling away from everyone. Certainly not Mason.
The jewelry box is safe. For now.
My next shift in the castle kitchen starts in twenty minutes. I force myself to eat a slice of dry toast, knowing my baby needs the nutrition even if my stomach protests. The bread sits heavy and unwelcome, but I keep it down through sheer willpower.
"We can do this," I whisper to Luna, to the tiny life growing inside me. "We just need time."
The kitchen is already bustling when I arrive. Mrs. Chen, the head cook, moves between stoves with practiced efficiency, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. She's been working for the Grey family since before I was found as a child. She's seen everything—every celebration, every tragedy, every secret this pack tries to hide.
She looks up when I enter and her eyes narrow slightly. "You're pale."
"Didn't sleep well," I lie, reaching for my apron.
"Hmm." She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't press. Instead, she gestures toward a pile of potatoes. "Those need peeling. And there's leftover roast from last night that needs wrapping and storing."
I nod and get to work, grateful for tasks that keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. The rhythm of the peeler against potato skin is soothing. Mindless. Safe.
Around me, the other kitchen staff chat and laugh. Sarah, one of the younger cooks, is telling a story about her mate surprising her with flowers. Emma, who manages inventory, complains good-naturedly about vendors raising prices. Normal pack life. Normal problems.
I am so far from normal now.
"Sage." Mrs. Chen's voice pulls me from my thoughts. She's standing close, close enough that no one else can hear. "Take these to the storage shed out back. We're running low on space in the main pantry."
She hands me a box of canned goods—beans, soup, vegetables. Standard supplies. But there's something in her eyes, something knowing, that makes my breath catch.
"Yes, ma'am."
The storage shed sits at the edge of the tree line, far enough from the main castle that it's rarely visited except during weekly inventory checks. I carry the box carefully, my mind already working through possibilities.
The shed is dim and dusty when I step inside, filled with shelves of preserved foods and bulk supplies. Flour. Rice. Canned goods stacked in neat rows. Everything labeled and organized with Mrs. Chen's meticulous precision.
And everything completely unwatched.
My heart starts to pound. This is an opportunity. A chance to gather supplies without anyone noticing. Not much—just a can here and there, small enough that inventory won't show a discrepancy. Enough to fill a backpack. Enough to survive on while I figure out my next move.
I place the box where Mrs. Chen indicated and take a moment to study the shelves. Canned peaches. Green beans. Chicken soup. Foods that won't spoil. Foods that don't need cooking. Foods that a pregnant woman on the run might desperately need.
Not today. It's too soon, too risky to take anything on my first trip out here. But now I know where to come. Now I have a plan starting to form.
I return to the kitchen and finish my shift in silence, my mind cataloging everything I saw in that shed. By the time I clock out three hours later, I have a mental list of exactly what I need and where to find it.
But I still need something to carry it all in. A bag that won't be missed. Something I can hide until the day I finally run.
The answer comes to me as I'm walking back to my room. The old maintenance shed near the training grounds—the one that hasn't been used since the pack built a new equipment storage facility last year. No one goes there anymore. It's forgotten, abandoned, perfect.
I change direction, heading toward the training grounds. It's mid-afternoon and most of the warriors are out on patrol or resting before the evening session. The maintenance shed stands alone near a cluster of pine trees, its door hanging slightly crooked on rusted hinges.
I slip inside quickly, my wolf senses alert for anyone nearby. The interior smells of motor oil and old wood. Garden tools lean against one wall. Broken training equipment sits in a corner. And there, half-buried under a tarp, I find exactly what I need.
An old hiking backpack. Military green, worn but sturdy. Large enough to carry supplies but not so big that it would slow me down. Someone must have left it here years ago and forgotten about it.
I pull it out and brush off the dust. The zippers still work. The straps are intact. It's perfect.
"Thank you," I whisper to whatever force led me here.
I can't take it back to my room—too obvious, too risky if someone sees me carrying it. Instead, I need to hide it somewhere between here and the storage shed. Somewhere I can access it easily but where no one else will look.
The forest. It has to be the forest.