I Rejected the Alpha Who Let My Mother Die

No one came to help me bury her.

I waited through the morning, thinking maybe someone would show up. A pack member. An elder. Anyone. But the territory's edge was silent except for the wind moving through the trees and Barnaby's soft breathing beside me.

I looked down at my mother's body, wrapped in the only clean sheet I could find in the cabin. Her face was still peaceful. That hadn't changed. I touched her cold hand one last time, then stood.

The ground was hard. Late autumn had frozen the top layer of soil, and my shovel—borrowed from the gardening shed behind the pack house—hit resistance with every strike. My arms burned. My back ached. I didn't stop.

Barnaby lay a few feet away, his head on his paws, watching me with dark, worried eyes. Every so often he'd whine softly, but he didn't leave. He never left.

I dug until the hole was deep enough. The sun was high overhead by then, cold and bright. My hands were blistered beneath my gloves. I didn't care.

When it was done, I climbed out and stood at the edge, breathing hard. This wasn't a proper burial site. No pack blessing. No consecrated ground. Just a patch of forest at the territory's edge where exiles lived and died without ceremony.

But she deserved words.

I closed my eyes and reached back into memory—back to Silvercrest, back to the funerals my father had led when I was young. The old words came slowly at first, then faster.

"We return to the earth what the earth gave us," I said quietly. My voice didn't shake. "We honor the life lived. We remember the love given. We release the spirit to the Moon Goddess's care."

I opened my eyes. Looked down at the wrapped figure in the grave.

"You deserved better than this, Mom," I whispered. "You deserved a pack that protected you. A daughter who could save you."

I picked up the shovel and began filling the grave.

The sound of dirt hitting the sheet was hollow and final. Each shovelful felt like closing a door I would never open again. When it was done, I patted the earth flat with the back of the shovel and stood there, staring at the mound.

Something inside me didn't break.

It finalized.

***

The days after the burial passed in a strange, quiet rhythm.

I returned to the pack house and resumed my duties. Scrubbed floors. Washed dishes. Served meals to wolves who didn't look at me. Sierra passed me in the hallways with that same thin, professional smile. Jace's scent lingered in the corridors, but I never saw him directly.

No one mentioned my mother. No one asked where I'd been.

I moved through it all with a composure that felt like glass—smooth on the surface, sharp underneath.

But I wasn't idle.

Late at night, when the pack house was quiet, I used the old emergency comm channel my father had taught me years ago—one that bypassed pack monitoring systems. I sent a single encrypted message to Allan Daniels.

*Documents secure?*

His reply came an hour later.

*Secure. Waiting on your word.*

I deleted both messages and sat back on my cot, my hands steady.

The next night, I checked the status of my Lycan Queen petition. The application I'd submitted months ago—back when I still thought maybe, somehow, things would get better—had been marked as received and under review. No decision yet. But it was there. Waiting.

I allowed myself one small breath of relief.

Then I began consolidating.

My mother's silver pendant—the only piece of jewelry she'd kept from Silvercrest. My father's journal, worn and leather-bound, filled with his handwriting. Barnaby's leash. A single change of clothes. I packed them into a small canvas bag and hid it beneath my cot, tucked behind a loose board in the wall.

Everything I needed to leave fit in one bag.

I was ready.

***

Jace noticed something three days after the burial.

I was serving lunch in the main dining hall—moving between tables with a tray of water glasses—when I felt his gaze on me. I didn't look up. I never looked at him anymore unless I had to.

But I felt him watching.

Later, I overheard Sierra talking to him in the corridor outside the kitchens. I was washing dishes, my hands deep in soapy water, and their voices carried through the half-open door.

"She's been quiet," Jace said. His tone was cautious. "Too quiet."

"She's sulking," Sierra replied smoothly. "She does this sometimes. Give her a week. She'll submit again. She always does."

There was a pause.

"Her scent's different," Jace said.

I froze, my hands still in the water.

"Different how?" Sierra asked.

"Grief. But something else underneath. Something—" He stopped. "Never mind. You're probably right."

Their footsteps moved away.

I pulled my hands from the water and dried them slowly, staring at the wall.

He'd noticed.

Good.

***

That night, Jace couldn't sleep.

I didn't know this directly—I wasn't there—but I felt it through the faint, unwanted thread of the mate bond that still lingered between us. A restlessness. An unease.

And something else.

Fenris.

Jace's wolf was stirring.

I lay on my cot in the dark, Barnaby curled against my legs, and felt the distant echo of a growl that wasn't meant for me. It was inward. Directed at his host.

Fenris was waking up.

And he was angry.

I closed my eyes and let the sensation wash over me without reacting. My own wolf—suppressed for so long under Jace's Alpha tone—lifted her head slightly, listening.

She didn't speak. But I felt her agreement.

Soon.

I pulled my mother's pendant from beneath my shirt and held it in my palm. The silver was cool against my skin. I thought about the grave at the territory's edge. About the words I'd spoken. About the door I'd closed.

And I thought about the door I was about to open.

I wasn't broken.

I was done.