(Meg's POV)
Silence doesn't arrive gently.
It slams down, sudden and final, like a door closing on a part of you that still wants to scream.
By morning, my hands are shaking. Not from fear—fear I know how to hold—but from the weight of what I've decided. Every thought feels heavy, pressed under something that doesn't care about logic or comfort.
Martins is asleep across the room, the sheet tangled around his waist. Even in rest, he doesn't look peaceful. His wolf is too close to the surface, restless under skin that refuses to pretend calm. He senses the change in the air long before his eyes open.
When they do, the stillness breaks.
"You're leaving," he says.
It's not a question.
I freeze with my boots half-laced and my bag open at my feet. The bond hums faintly between us, tight and alert, as if bracing for pain.
"Yes."
He sits up slowly, his gaze sharp, his jaw set in quiet disbelief. "You won't make it far."
"I don't need far," I answer. "I just need gone."
He stands. Bare feet soundless on the floor, power moving beneath his skin like heat behind glass. He's beautiful in the worst possible way—steady, dangerous, unyielding.
"You think distance will save you?" he asks.
"I think staying will destroy us," I say.
That makes him pause. For the first time, uncertainty flickers through his control.
"You're afraid," he says softly.
A breath escapes me that's almost a laugh. "Of course I am. But that's not why I'm leaving."
I step closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. The pull between us feels alive, taut, like a wire drawn to breaking.
"You can fight the elders," I say quietly. "You can burn the councils and win the battles they start. But you can't win time. You can't outlast the hunger that comes when they scent rare blood."
He flinches at that, almost imperceptibly. "I'll burn them down before they touch my child."
"And when they rebuild?" I ask. "Because they always rebuild. That's what they do. Power doesn't die, Martins. It just changes hands."
The silence that follows is long and fragile.
"This isn't courage," he says finally. "It's exile."
"Yes," I admit. "For me."
His eyes flick toward my stomach, then back to my face. "And for our child?"
"No." My throat tightens. "For our child, it's freedom."
He doesn't breathe for a full heartbeat. Then his expression shifts—understanding dawning in his eyes. Not agreement. Not acceptance. Just understanding.
"You're asking me not to follow," he says.
"I'm asking you to erase me," I reply. "To make them believe I'm gone. No scent. No trace. No trail to hunt."
"That will cost you everything," he says.
"I know."
He hesitates, and when he speaks again his voice is rougher. "And me."
That part nearly breaks me.
I reach for his hand before he can pull away. My palm fits against his, warm and shaking. "I'm not asking you to forget me," I whisper. "I'm asking you to protect the lie."
Something in him breaks quietly. I feel it in the bond—pain, fierce and bright, tempered by the kind of discipline only Alphas learn.
"Go," he says at last. His voice is hoarse. "Before I change my mind."
I nod once, not trusting myself to speak.
I leave before the sun clears the rooftops.
The streets are gray and damp with early rain. The air smells faintly of metal and morning traffic. Each step feels like a heartbeat too loud.
I don't go home. That place is already a memory I can't afford.
Instead, I go where my name still means something.
The Aldden estate rises like a monument to control—polished wood, silent halls, portraits of people who never had to run. The staff greet me with tight politeness, unsure if they should look at me directly. My stepbrother is already seated at the long table when I enter.
He looks up, bored. "You look tired. Late night?"
"I'm resigning," I say, setting the envelope in front of him.
The faintest hint of surprise cracks his composure. He opens the folder, scans the pages, flips them once, twice.
"You're giving up everything," he says at last. "Your shares. Your claim. Even your seat on the board."
"Yes."
He leans back, studying me like I'm a problem he can't solve yet. "Why now?"
"Because I refuse to be owned," I say. "By blood or by board."
He tilts his head. "You're making yourself vulnerable."
"No," I correct. "I'm making myself invisible."
That gets a small smile—half admiration, half warning. "You always did enjoy defying expectation."
By noon, the paperwork is filed. My name begins to fade from ledgers and lists, replaced by numbers and signatures that mean nothing to me. The empire of Aldden closes around itself, and I walk away with a single suitcase and enough cash to stay off the grid.
By dusk, I'm on a train headed north, under a name that isn't mine. The motion of the carriage hums beneath me like a heartbeat I can't separate from my own.
The first jolt of pain comes without warning.
It's sharp, deep enough to fold me forward before I realize what's happening. I grip the edge of the seat, breathing hard. My vision blurs.
Then it fades. Warmth follows—steady, spreading through my abdomen like a small sun unfurling.
The child moves.
My throat closes. Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, hot and sudden. I press my palm over the faint swell of my belly.
"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
The words shake, but I mean every one.
The train clatters through the outskirts of a sleeping town. Light flashes across the window—brief, gold, gone.
Then my phone vibrates.
A message. Unknown number.
They're watching Aldden. Whatever you're carrying isn't hiding the way it should.
I read it twice, heart pounding. The air feels suddenly thinner.
I glance around the carriage, faces buried in books, headphones, sleep. No one looking at me. But the bond hums faintly, a thread stretched too far, Martins' presence faint and restrained but alive. He knows.
I delete the message without answering.
Outside, rain streaks the glass. The world rushes by in blurs of gray and green. For a moment, I let myself breathe, hand still resting over the life growing beneath my ribs.
Silence fills the space around me again, not soft this time. Not kind.
It isn't protection anymore. It's defiance.
And something out there, something old enough to understand what defiance costs, has just accepted my challenge.
The lights in the train flicker once.
Somewhere far away, a wolf howls.
The bond pulses once, then goes still.I
I close my eyes and whisper into the hum of the tracks, "Then come and try."