The unnamed third finally spoke, his wolf-voice younger but no less threatening. “Maybe she ran away. Maybe no one’s looking for her at all.”
They were testing, seeing if I’d claim pack protection, if I’d threaten them with retribution from some fictional alpha who’d come for me. But I had nothing to threaten them with.
The gray leader lunged without warning, his massive body aimed at my throat. His attack was designed to subdue, not kill, they wanted me alive, wanted the pups I carried. That gave me the only advantage I’d get.
When he lunged, I moved on pure instinct. I ducked under his attack, using my smaller size as an advantage. My swollen sides scraped the ground but I twisted, feeling his claws catch air where my throat had been. His momentum carried him past, and I tore into the russet wolf’s flank as he tried to compensate for his leader’s miss.
The taste of rogue blood flooded my mouth. It carried the flavor of meat gone bad, of wolves who’d eaten things that shouldn’t be eaten, who’d crossed lines that tainted their very blood. The russet wolf howled, more surprised than hurt, but it broke their coordination momentarily. They’d expected easy submission, a pregnant omega who’d bare her throat rather than risk her pups. They hadn’t expected fury.
I bolted through the gap, my body protesting the speed but adrenaline overriding pain. My swollen sides made me lumber where I should have flown. Each stride sent shock waves through my frame. But I ran anyway, crashing through an underbrush that tore at my fur, leaving bloody patches on thorns.
They pursued with the lazy confidence of predators who knew the territory better. I could hear them behind me, not running full out, just maintaining pace. They knew these woods, knew every deer path and dry creek bed. The gray leader snarled commands to his packmates, coordinating their hunt with the efficiency of long practice.
“Circle around! Drive her toward the deadfall!”
They were herding me, I realized with sick certainty. Not chasing, herding. Toward some predetermined spot where a fourth member probably waited. Because there was always a fourth in these rogue packs, always one more than you counted on. My path curved left, away from their pressure, but that’s where they wanted me to go.
River. Get to the river. Protect the pups.
Water might mask my trail, might give me options they couldn’t predict. The sound of rushing water grew stronger, the spring melt making even small streams dangerous. But dangerous water was better than certain capture. I crashed through a final wall of brambles, feeling them tear skin beneath fur, and saw the river ahead.
Wider than I’d hoped, faster than was safe. Black water reflecting fractured moonlight, carrying branches and debrisfrom upstream. The kind of current that killed wolves who weren’t careful. But behind me, the leader’s howl signaled his pack. They’d figured out my destination, and were moving to cut me off.
“Stop running, omega. We’ll be gentle... enough.” The gray wolf’s voice carried false promise, the kind of gentle that left scars.
I didn’t hesitate. Pregnant belly and all, I launched myself into the black water. The cold hit like a physical blow, driving air from my lungs. Current caught me immediately, spinning my body as I fought to keep my head above water.
But I kicked anyway, paws churning water, aiming for the far bank. Behind me, I heard splashing. At least one of them had followed, probably the russet wolf with his wounded pride. But the current was stronger than any of us expected. It pulled me downstream, away from their territory, toward the human bridges and morning traffic.
My paws found purchase on a submerged log, letting me push toward shore. I dragged myself onto the opposite bank, fur plastered to my body, shivering so hard my teeth chattered. When I looked back, the russet wolf was fighting the current midstream, his injured flank making swimming difficult. The gray leader stood on the far bank, yellow eyes burning with fury at losing his prize.
I didn’t wait to see if they’d follow. On shaking legs, I ran back toward Millbrook, toward the safety of human witnesses and locked doors. The twins rolled inside me, active after the adrenaline dump, reminding me how close I’d come to losing everything. My wolf form wouldn’t last much longer, the shift wanting to reclaim human shape after such trauma.
By the time I reached the dumpster, dawn was breaking. I shifted in painful stages, body reluctant to change after such abuse. Human skin showed the damage, scratches from thorns, bruises from the river rocks, exhaustion that went bone deep. My hidden clothes were still there, blessed mundane reality. I dressed with shaking hands, every movement an effort.
The apartment building’s back door had never looked so welcoming. I slipped inside, dripping river water and trying not to think about what could have happened. What nearly happened.
In the shower, I scrubbed rogue blood from beneath my fingernails, washed river mud from my hair, counted new injuries that would need explaining if anyone asked.
I pressed a hand to my belly, feeling movement beneath my palm. “No more midnight runs,” I promised them. “Your mother learned her lesson.”
But even as I made the vow, my wolf whined for the forest, for the freedom of four legs and wind in her fur. Some hungers couldn’t be satisfied with safety. Some needs demanded risk. And somewhere in the woods, three rogues nursed wounds and wondered about the pregnant omega who’d fought instead of submitted, who’d chosen drowning over capture.
They’d remember my scent. I’d remember theirs. And if our paths crossed again, there would be no river to save me.
20
— • —
Rhea
Monday morning arrived with me jumping at every shadow. The encounter with the rogue pack over the weekend had rewired my nervous system, turning every unexpected sound into a threat. I’d spent Sunday holed up in my apartment, peeking through curtains at every car that passed, every person who walked by. The gray leader’s yellow eyes haunted me, that predatory interest in my swollen sides replaying every time I closed my eyes.
I arrived at work an hour early, circling the parking lot three times before committing to a space. The beat-up Honda next to Wayne’s truck could hide anyone. The dumpster behind the building offered too many shadows. Even the familiar creak of the office door made my shoulders tense, body coiled to run or fight despite knowing neither was a real option anymore.
My desk felt like a trap the moment I sat down. Back to the door, no peripheral vision, nowhere to escape if they came through the entrance. I stood up, then sat down, then stood again, anxiety making decisions impossible. Finally, I dragged my chair to the corner, angling it so I could see both the door and window. The computer monitor had to be adjusted, the phone cord stretched to its limit, but at least I could watch for threats.
The rearrangement took fifteen minutes of quiet furniture scraping. I mapped escape routes while I worked, through Wayne’s office to the back exit, out the window if desperate enough, maybe through the bathroom’s small window if I could fit with my growing belly. Each option seemed worse than the last, but having them catalogued made my racing heart slow fractionally.
