Rhea
The journey from the Kildare estate to our house passed in a haze of agony. Each heartbeat pumped pain through my system where the mate bond used to live. The guards dumped me at the front gates like refuse, my blood still dripping from the torn mark. My mother rushed out of the car, catching me before I hit gravel. Her familiar scent, lavender and sage, offered the first comfort since guards invaded my bedroom. They half-carried me inside while curtains twitched in neighboring houses, the audience to my disgrace.
The world tilted and spun as they maneuvered me through the front door. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain from the wound on my neck. Damon’s claws had been precise, surgical in their cruelty. He’d carved me out of his life as efficiently as a surgeon removing cancer.
Our living room looked exactly as we had left it. The same photographs on the mantle, the same tea stains on my father’s favorite chair, the same night light filtering through lace curtains. But everything had changed. The house felt smaller, more fragile, like the weight of judgment had compressed it.
“Get the medical kit. Hurry!” My mother’s command sent my father scrambling while she examined the wound. His claws had left a gaping hole, edges ragged. It bled sluggishly, refusing to clot properly. Mate wounds never healed clean. My mother worked with field medic efficiency, cleaning and binding while I bit down on my lip to muffle screams.
She’d learned field medicine during the border conflicts twenty years ago, when omegas had to tend their own because alpha medics wouldn’t touch them. Those skills served her now as she worked on her daughter’s devastation.
“This needs stitches,” she muttered, threading a needle with steady hands that belied the tears on her cheeks. “It’ll scar badly without proper treatment.”
“Let it scar.” My voice came out raw, harsh. “I want to remember.”
The needle pierced flesh already screaming. I locked my jaw around the leather my father had stuffed into my mouth and breathed through my nose, counting each stitch like a rosary of pain. One for trusting an alpha. Two for believing in mate bonds. Three for thinking I could rise above my station. Four for the family I’d destroyed. Five for the brother who died in my room. Six for questions that would never be answered.
“Breathe through it, baby. Just breathe,” my mother murmured, the same tone she’d used for skinned knees and childhood heartbreaks. But this wasn’t a wound that mother’s kisses could heal.
He believed them. He actually believed.I thought between stitches. The betrayal burned worse than the wound. I’d seen his eyes in that judgment hall, cold and distant as winter stars. The man who’d claimed me with such passion, who’d missed his own coronation for my heat, had carved me away without hesitation.
“Seven guards at the front gate,” my father reported from the window, medical supplies clutched uselessly in his hands. “Three more at the back. They’re not taking chances.”
Of course not. I was a convicted murderer now, an omega who’d killed a prince. Never mind the lack of real evidence. The narrative had been written, the judgment passed. Truth was a luxury the powerful couldn’t afford.
“They’ve given us three hours to pack. Whatever fits in one vehicle.” A lifetime reduced to trunk space. My mother didn’t pause bandaging my wound, but her hands shook slightly. The Thornback family had built their position over generations, and it was dissolving in minutes.
Through windows, I saw guards positioned at property borders. Two at the corner where our lawn met the Henderson property, their black tactical gear stark against suburban greenery. Another pair by the maple tree where I’d built a swing as a child, assault rifles casual in their grips. They weren’t pack security in ceremonial uniforms. These were Damon’s private force, the ones who handled problems that required discretion. Their faceswere covered, identities hidden behind masks that turned them into interchangeable instruments of enforcement.
My mother finished the last stitch and immediately moved to assess what could be saved. She moved through the house like a general planning retreat, sorting life into essential and abandoned. Important documents went into a lockbox. Winter clothes, despite the season. Medicine, all of it. The silver stayed, too heavy and traceable. My childhood drawings, carefully preserved in a portfolio, were left on the kitchen table like an offering to whoever would clean out our abandoned home.
“The outbacks will kill you both.” I forced words past the pain. “Father has too many enemies there.” The outback territories functioned as pack dumping grounds. Criminal omegas, disgraced alphas, the politically inconvenient. My father had made his career partially by sending problems there. Now he’d face those he’d condemned, without protection or status.
The Hendricks brothers alone would be waiting. He’d testified against them in the contraband trials five years ago, sending the whole family to rot in those lawless territories. Then there was Patricia Morse, the omega activist who’d threatened to expose pack breeding programs. My father had signed her relocation order personally. The Riverside pack insurgents, the ones who’d tried to illegally unionize omega workers, they’d all ended up in the outbacks on his recommendation. Each signature had been politically necessary, maintaining order and hierarchy. Now those signatures would be death warrants.
I remembered the reports that crossed his desk, the careful notations in red ink. “Subject shows signs of sedition, recommend relocation.” “Omega family failing to meet productivity quotas, outback reassignment approved.” Howmany times had he signed those orders, thinking he was maintaining pack stability? Now his own name would join those files, stamped with the same bureaucratic finality.
“We’ll manage. We always have,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. He knew the truth as well as I did. They were soft prey for the hardened criminals and desperate souls who carved out existence in those lawless territories.
“This is my fault. I brought this on us,” I said, watching my mother’s precise stitches close the wound that would never truly heal.
“Stop that.” My mother’s voice cut through my spiral. “This isn’t your fault. Someone wanted you gone and orchestrated this perfectly. Your only crime was being convenient to their plans.”
“Listen to me. Being banished means execution if caught on pack lands. But if you run now, you can reach neutral territory before the decree spreads.” She pulled out an emergency fund envelope hidden behind picture frames. Cash, untraceable credit cards, false documents. The preparation spoke of long-held fears realized.
“How long have you been planning for this?” I stared at the envelope.
“Since the day you were born.” My mother’s smile held infinite sadness. “I knew my daughter would be special. That meant dangerous in our world.”
The envelope contained enough cash to disappear properly. Credit cards linked to accounts I’d never known existed. Contact information for people who owed my parents favors in citiesI’d never visited. An entire escape plan drafted with meticulous care, waiting for the day their daughter became too inconvenient to live.
Three separate IDs tumbled out. Rachel Smith for bus tickets and motels. Sarah Johnson with a Canadian address for border crossings. Elena Rodriguez with documentation suggesting years of restaurant work in Texas. Each came with supporting documents, employment histories, vaccination records, even library cards worn soft with fake age. My mother had built entire lives for me to step into, complete identities waiting on reserve.
“I won’t abandon you,” I protested, but my mother gripped my face with fierce love. “You’ll survive. That’s how you honor us. Take the western bus route. Ronald will drive you. He owes your father enough favors to risk it.” The plan formed quickly, I’d flee while my parents created visible compliance, buying time through cooperation. The guards expected all three to leave together at dawn. By then, I’d be states away.
“They’ll notice I’m gone. They’ll punish you for it.”
“No,” my father said quietly. “They’ll assume you ran ahead, too ashamed to face exile with us. It fits the narrative of a guilty omega fleeing justice. They won’t pursue immediately, and by the time they realize you’re truly gone, the trail will be cold.”
