Aurora POV:
Two weeks later.
I moved like a ghost through the Pack House. I used a cane now, my leg still stiff, but I forced myself to walk upright. I wouldn't show weakness. Not anymore.
I had spent the last fortnight playing the role of the submissive, broken wife. I nodded when Ethan spoke. I stayed out of Ilene's way. I let them think they had won.
But in the shadows, I was busy.
I had contacted a human immigration lawyer, a man who specialized in "disappearing" people from abusive marriages. He didn't know about wolves, he just knew about cash. And I had plenty of that.
I had pawned every piece of jewelry Ethan had ever given me. The diamond earrings from our wedding? Sold. The emerald necklace from my twenty-first birthday? Sold.
They were just cold stones. They meant nothing compared to freedom.
I stood in the guest room, staring at a small backpack. It was all I was taking. A change of clothes, my sketchbook, a roll of cash, and a small vial of dark liquid.
Scent Masker.
I had bought it on the black market from a shady witch in the downtown district. It smelled like sulfur and rotten eggs, but it would hide my wolf scent for 24 hours. Long enough to cross the border into neutral territory.
"Going somewhere?"
I froze.
Ilene was leaning against the doorframe. She was always there, lurking like a bad smell.
"I'm going to the park to sketch," I said, keeping my voice flat. "The doctor said fresh air would help my recovery."
She eyed the backpack. "That looks heavy for a cripple."
"It's just art supplies."
She stepped into the room, reaching for the bag. "Let me see."
"Don't touch my things," I said, pulling it away.
"Ethan!" she screamed. "Ethan, help! She's attacking me!"
It was like a script she rehearsed every day.
Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall. Ethan appeared, looking harassed. He was wearing a suit; he had a board meeting in twenty minutes.
"What now?" he groaned.
"She has a bag! She hit me with it!" Ilene sobbed, clutching her arm. "I think she stole my jewelry!"
"I didn't touch her," I said, tired. So tired. "I'm just going to paint."
Ethan looked at me, then at the bag. Suspicion clouded his eyes. "Open it, Aurora."
"No."
"Open the bag. That is an Alpha Command."
My fingers twitched, fighting the order. But the command wasn't full force; he was distracted. I managed to unzip it just enough to show the sketchbook on top.
"See?" I said. "Paper."
Ethan let out a breath. "Ilene, stop it. She's just painting."
"But—"
"I have a meeting," Ethan checked his watch. "I'm late. Ilene, go to your room. Aurora, go to the park. Just... everyone stay away from each other."
He turned to leave.
"Ethan," Ilene gasped. She grabbed her chest, her face turning a spectacular shade of gray. "My heart... it's fluttering. I think... I think I need the Healer."
Ethan stopped. He looked at his watch, then at me, then at Ilene.
"I can call a driver for her," I suggested.
"No!" Ilene wailed. "Only you make me feel safe, Ethan!"
Ethan looked at me one last time. I stood there, leaning on my cane, my backpack hiding the ticket to my freedom. If he stayed, if he looked closer, he might see the desperation in my eyes. He might smell the sulfur of the masking potion through the zipper.
"I'll take her," Ethan said. "Go paint, Aurora."
He wrapped his arm around Ilene and walked her down the hall, cooing soft words of comfort.
He left me. Again.
I waited until I heard the front door close and the engine of his car fade into the distance.
I didn't go to the park.
I went to the bathroom and downed the vial of Scent Masker. It tasted like ash. I gagged, feeling the magic take hold, erasing my scent, erasing my identity.
I picked up my backpack.
I walked to the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was pale, thin, with a scar running down her neck. But her eyes... her eyes were burning with a silver fire.
I placed a hand on my flat stomach.
"I'm sorry," I whispered to the children I would never have with him. "I'm glad you never existed. He would have broken you too."
I turned my back on the reflection. I walked out of the room, down the stairs where I had almost died, and out the back door.
It was raining. Good. The rain would wash away my tracks.
I didn't look back at the Pack House. I limped toward the treeline, toward the border, toward the unknown.
For the first time in five years, I was alone. And it felt like breathing.
