After My Alpha Killed My Mother, I Escaped Him

The days blurred together as I regained my strength in Demetrius's cabin. My wolf remained weak, a faint presence deep inside me, but at least we were alive. Or rather, reborn.

"You should venture out," Demetrius suggested one morning, his amber eyes studying me with that same careful distance he always maintained. "There's a village nearby where no one will ask questions."

I hesitated at the threshold of his cabin, the misty forest beyond seeming both inviting and threatening. "I don't know if I'm ready."

"You won't be alone," he said simply, and something in his tone made me believe him.

The village was small—a collection of wooden buildings nestled among ancient pines. The residents, a mix of humans and werewolves, paid little attention to us as we walked through. Perhaps they were used to strangers seeking refuge in these neutral territories.

"Gregory might be what you need," Demetrius said as we approached a weathered workshop at the edge of town. The sign above the door read simply: "Moon Stones & Carvings."

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cedar and sage. An elderly man with silver hair and gnarled hands looked up from his workbench.

"Demetrius," he greeted, his voice like dry leaves rustling. "You've brought someone new."

"Eleanora," I said before Demetrius could speak. It felt important to introduce myself.

Gregory's eyes—a startling shade of blue—studied me for a long moment. "Your spirit is fractured, child. Your wolf retreats."

I flinched at his perception. "Is it that obvious?"

"To those who know how to look." He gestured to a stool beside his workbench. "Sit. Let me show you something."

From beneath his bench, he retrieved a block of pale wood and a set of carving tools. "This is Totem Carving," he explained. "The old way of healing."

"I don't understand," I admitted.

"Your grief is trapped inside you," he said, pressing a carving knife into my palm. "Let it flow through your hands instead."

I stared at the blank wood, unsure where to begin. "What should I carve?"

"What calls to you," he replied simply.

My hand moved almost without conscious thought, the knife biting into the wood with surprising ease. Hours passed as I worked, tears streaming silently down my face. When I finally set down the knife, a small wolf emerged from the wood—its gentle features unmistakably my mother's.

"This is Totem Carving," Gregory said softly. "This is how you begin to heal."

---

Weeks passed, and gradually I found myself venturing farther from the cabin. Demetrius often accompanied me, always keeping a respectful distance but never leaving me truly alone.

"Moon stones are most powerful when gathered during a storm," he explained one afternoon as dark clouds gathered on the horizon. "Their energy is heightened by the electricity in the air."

We climbed a rocky slope where moon stones could be found among the granite outcroppings. The first fat raindrops began to fall as we reached the top.

"Here," Demetrius said, pointing to a cluster of small white stones glinting among the rocks.

I knelt to collect them, the rain soaking through my clothes. The storm intensified suddenly, the ground beneath me turning slick with mud.

As I reached for a particularly beautiful stone, my foot slipped on the wet rock. I gasped, losing my balance.

Strong arms caught me before I could fall, pulling me against a solid chest. Heat radiated through me at the contact—a warmth so different from the painful burn of Jaxxon's touch.

"I've got you," Demetrius murmured, his voice close to my ear.

For a moment, we stood frozen, rain streaming down our faces. Then he immediately stepped back, releasing me with careful hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, though there was nothing apologetic in his eyes—only concern for my comfort.

A strange confusion washed over me. The brief contact had sent a jolt through my system—not pain, but something like recognition. My wolf stirred, more present than she'd been since I'd fled the Silver Moon Pack.

"Don't be sorry," I whispered, unsure what else to say.

---

Miles away, in the territory I'd fled, Jaxxon paced his office like a caged animal. His eyes had taken on a feverish gleam, his movements erratic.

"Eleanora," he muttered, inhaling deeply as if he could catch my scent on the air.

Ashlyn watched nervously from the doorway. "Alpha, you need to rest. The pack is concerned."

"She's here," he snarled, whirling on her. "I can smell her."

Ashlyn's face paled. "That's impossible. She's dead."

"Then why do I smell her?" His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "Why does my wolf howl for her every night?"

Ashlyn took a step back as Jaxxon's eyes flashed black, his wolf rising to the surface. "I don't know."

"You," he spat, advancing on her. "This is your fault."

His hand shot out, gripping her throat. "You drove my property away."

Ashlyn's eyes widened in shock and fear as Jaxxon's grip tightened momentarily before he released her with a disgusted sound.

"Get out," he ordered. "You're no longer welcome in my quarters."

As she stumbled from the room, Jaxxon caught his reflection in the window glass—his once-glossy black fur now streaked with premature gray, his eyes wild with an anguish he refused to acknowledge.

"Eleanora," he whispered to the empty room, "you belong to me. Dead or alive."