Emily
12:01 AM.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes of Maple screaming for milk. My sweet two-year-old is inconsolable, her fevered little body shaking in my arms. This is night three of what I’m sure is strep throat. The milk is the only thing that soothes her pain.
But we’re out.
“I want milk!” Her wail echoes through the house, piercing through the walls.
“Shhh, baby, I know,” I whisper, rocking her desperately, trying anything to calm her before—
A door creaks open.
“Mama?” Aspen’s small voice carries down the hall. My nine-year-old peeks her head out, her eyes heavy with exhaustion but full of concern. “Do you want me to get her a sippy cup?”
She’s too grown for her age, forced to be. Guilt gnaws at my insides, knowing she has seen too much, carried too much for a child.
“No, honey,” I say softly. “We ran out this morning, and I forgot to get more.”
Aspen’s sharp eyes flicker with doubt. She knows that’s not the full truth, but thankfully, she doesn’t push.
“I. Want. Milk.” Maple emphasizes each word with another gut-wrenching sob.
Then I hear it.
A door slamming.
The dog barking.
Aspen’s eyes lock onto mine, wide with fear.
“Take her,” I whisper, shoving the screaming toddler into her arms. “Go to your room and try to keep her quiet.”
She hesitates for a second, but she knows. She always knows. With a quick nod, she turns, whispering soft reassurances to Maple as she hurries back down the hall.
As soon as their door clicks shut, I move.
Fast.
I rush into the kitchen, forcing my hands to stay steady, my breaths even. If this has to happen, it has to happen away from them. Less chance they’ll become a target.
Footsteps thunder behind me.
“Why the hell is she screaming again?”
I turn just as Derek storms in, his face twisted in anger, eyes wild with rage.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “She’s sick, and we’re out of milk.”
His lip curls in disgust. “Maybe if you were a better mother, they wouldn’t be sick all the damn time.”
The words slice deep. I know I shouldn’t let them hurt—I shouldn’t let him hurt me. But my kids are my world, and every time he says things like that, a small part of me wonders if he’s right.
What kind of mother lets her kids live in a prison like this?
My chin drops, my voice barely above a whisper. “I know, Derek. I’ll try to be better.”
“You always say that.”
I don’t see him move, but suddenly, he’s inches from me. His rough fingers curl under my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
“Maybe it’s time for another lesson,” he murmurs, his smile cruel. “It’s been a while. I shouldn’t have let you go this long without a reminder of your place.”
My stomach twists. My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
I know what’s coming next.
“So beautiful,” he muses, releasing my chin. “But so very stupid.”
The slap comes fast. Hard. My head snaps to the side, my ear ringing from the impact.
I taste blood.
“Tell me, Emily,” he sneers, “why are we out of milk?”
I clutch my cheek, blinking back the tears. Don’t cry. Don’t give him that satisfaction.
I force my voice to stay calm. “With her being sick, she drank more than usual. I didn’t account for it when I went shopping last week. You also wouldn’t let me go back to the store yet.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know.
Wrong answer.
His hand wraps around my throat, shoving me against the refrigerator.
“So, it’s my fault?” he growls. “My fault that you’re an awful mother who couldn’t stop thinking about herself long enough to make sure there was enough milk?”
“N—No,” I barely manage to choke out.
But it doesn’t matter. I’ve already said the wrong thing.
His fist slams into my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. My body sags forward, gasping for breath. His other hand releases my throat just long enough for him to strike the back of my head.
Pain explodes through my skull.
I crumple to the floor, desperately trying to suck in air.
Then his foot connects with my side.
And again.
And again.
I curl in on myself, my arms instinctively wrapping around my ribs. But nothing stops the kicks. Nothing stops him.
Then the beating changes. He’s on top of me now, fists raining down on my face. I feel the warm trickle of blood from my nose, pooling onto the cold tile floor.
Then—
A movement.
A shadow in the doorway.
Eli.
Our five-year-old son stands there, frozen, his wide blue eyes locked on his father.
No. No, no, no. He can’t see this.
I force my shattered body to move, gasping, “Derek, please—the kids.”
Derek stills, glancing over his shoulder. For a moment, I think he’ll stop. That maybe—maybe—seeing Eli will snap him out of it.
But then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.
And my stomach turns to ice.
“Son,” he says, almost cheerfully. “This is how you train a woman. They don’t know anything, so sometimes you have to teach them.”
Panic surges through me, stronger than the pain. Stronger than the fear.
This isn’t just about me anymore.
Derek’s hands wrap around my throat again, shoving me down.
I thrash, clawing at his arms, fighting. But he has a hundred pounds of muscle on me, and I’m already too weak.
My lungs scream for air.
Darkness edges my vision.
I look at Eli—my sweet, quiet boy, watching this monster slowly kill me.
Tears streak down his pale face.
I want to tell him it will be okay. That I will be okay.
But I can’t breathe.
I feel it then—the fight slipping away.
This is it.
I’ve stayed to protect them. Because if I leave, Derek will still have rights, still have custody. I won’t be able to keep them safe when they’re alone with him.
But now, none of it matters.
Because they’re about to be alone anyway.
My vision blurs.
Eli’s face is the last thing I see.
And then—
Everything goes dark.
***
I wake up to a cool breeze against my face, the scent of morning dew drifting through the open window. My body feels like it’s been trampled, every inch of me aching, screaming with pain. My ribs burn with every breath, and when I shift even slightly, a sharp sting shoots up my side.
I’m not dead.
The realization comes slow, sluggish, as if my mind can’t quite catch up. I was sure last night would be the end. I felt it—the darkness closing in, my body giving up. And yet, I’m still here. Still breathing.
Why?
Dread coils in my stomach as I force myself to move. My fingers tremble as I push the blankets off me, revealing bruised skin, dark and angry. My lip is split, my cheek swollen. I don’t need a mirror to know I look as broken as I feel.
I have to get up.
The kids.
The thought is enough to make me shove aside the pain. I grit my teeth, forcing my feet to the floor. My legs threaten to buckle, but I catch myself on the nightstand, sucking in a sharp breath. Move, Emily.
I don’t know what I expect when I step out of the bedroom. Silence? Chaos?
But it’s normal.
That’s what sends ice through my veins.
The quiet murmur of forks scraping against plates drifts from the kitchen. The smell of food—eggs, toast, bacon—lingers in the air, and for a brief, foolish second, it almost feels like a regular morning.
It isn’t.
It never will be.
I make my way down the hall, every step slow, careful, my body begging me to stop. But I can’t. Not when I hear them.
Aspen. Eli. Maple.
My babies.
I reach the kitchen and my heart squeezes painfully at the sight before me.
Aspen sits at the table, stiff as a board, her small hands resting on her lap instead of touching her plate. She’s scanning the room, her sharp eyes taking in every movement, every breath, every potential threat. At just nine years old, she’s learned to be cautious, to be prepared.
Because of me.
Eli is silent. His plate sits untouched, his fork gripped so tightly his knuckles are white. His little shoulders are tense, his head ducked down, his gaze locked onto the table. I don’t even know if he’s blinking.
And then there’s Maple, humming softly, swinging her little legs under the chair. She’s the only one who doesn’t understand. The only one still blissfully untouched by the reality of our world.
And at the head of the table sits him.
Derek.
Casual. Relaxed. Like last night never happened.
Like he didn’t nearly kill me on our kitchen floor.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, lifting his coffee mug to his lips. His voice is easy, calm.
Like we’re just a normal family having breakfast.
Like I don’t still feel the ghost of his hands around my throat.
I swallow hard, my fingers curling into the fabric of my oversized shirt, the only thing shielding my bruises from sight. I keep my face blank, my voice steady.
“Morning,” I force out.
Aspen glances at me, her gaze flicking over my face, assessing, searching. She doesn’t say anything, but she knows.
Of course she knows.
Eli doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. He just sits there, silent and small, trapped in a world he shouldn’t have to understand.
My chest tightens.
I have to get them out.
Derek sets his mug down with a soft clink and leans back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over me.
“I made breakfast.”
My stomach churns.
I should sit down. I should play along. I should keep the peace.
But all I can think is—
We don’t belong here.
And we have to leave before it’s too late.
I force myself to nod, to move stiffly toward the table. Every instinct in me screams don’t sit down. Don’t stay. Don’t let your guard down.
But I do.
Because I have no other choice.
The chair feels ice cold as I lower myself onto it, my hands resting in my lap, curling into fists beneath the table where Derek can’t see. My body is a battlefield of pain, but I keep my face smooth, neutral. I can’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much I hurt.
Derek takes another slow sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of his mug. Waiting.
The tension in the room is suffocating. Aspen hasn’t touched her food. Eli sits unnervingly still. Maple babbles softly to herself, pushing her eggs around with her fingers, oblivious to the way the air crackles with unspoken threats.
Finally, Derek sets his mug down with a deliberate clink.
“You should go see Bridget today,” he says casually, like it’s a suggestion. But I know better.
Bridget. My only friend. The only person outside of my children who speaks to me like I’m a person and not just Derek’s possession. She’s married to Dug—Derek’s best friend. But Dug isn’t like Derek. He’s kind. Oblivious, but kind. I don’t think he has any idea what Derek is truly capable of. He jokes with me, ruffles Aspen’s hair when he visits, and always brings a small toy or treat for Maple and Eli.
I used to wonder how someone like him could be so close to Derek. But then again, Dug only ever sees the charming version of Derek. The one who laughs easily and shakes hands firmly, who makes crude jokes but never crosses a line in public. The one who can convince anyone that he’s just a man’s man, a little rough around the edges but ultimately harmless.
He has no idea what happens behind closed doors.
I feel Aspen’s eyes on me, sharp and assessing, as I give a slow nod. “Okay.”
Derek tilts his head, studying me, and my pulse kicks up. He’s looking for something. A crack, a hesitation. I smooth my expression, keeping it blank, obedient.
His lips curve slightly. Approval.
“But first,” he says, his voice dipping into something colder, more controlled, “sit back down.”
My stomach twists.
I’m already sitting.
His eyes narrow.
I swallow hard and lower myself deeper into the chair, pressing my spine against the backrest, my hands locking around the edges of the seat to keep them from shaking.
Derek leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his fingers steepling together.
“Last night,” he says smoothly, as if he’s commenting on the weather, “was a lesson. You understand that, don’t you?”
The words send a shudder through me.
I glance at the kids. He’s doing this in front of them.
Aspen’s fists are clenched under the table. She’s staring at her plate, jaw locked so tightly I swear I hear her teeth grind.
Eli’s still frozen, barely breathing.
Maple, sweet and unaware, is stacking pieces of toast into a tower, humming to herself.
I swallow back the bile rising in my throat.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I understand.”
Derek leans back again, looking satisfied. “Good.”
He takes another bite of his food, chewing slowly, deliberately. The conversation is over—for him, at least.
For me?
It’s another reminder.
I have to get out.
I have to get the kids out.
And I need to do it soon.
After breakfast, I move through the motions like I always do—cleaning up, making sure the kids are dressed, forcing a smile when Maple chatters on about absolutely nothing. My body aches with every step, every stretch of movement, but I don’t let it show. I can’t let it show.
Derek watches from the table, drinking his coffee like a king overseeing his kingdom, completely unbothered by the damage he inflicted just hours ago. I don’t meet his gaze as I gather the kids, as I tell him I’ll be taking them to Bridget’s. He only nods, reminding me to “be back before dinner,” before turning his attention to his phone.
He isn’t worried.
He never is.
Because he thinks I’ll always come back.
The drive to Bridget’s is quiet. Aspen’s arms are crossed tightly over her chest, eyes locked on the passing trees outside the window. Eli is curled up in his seat, his small hands gripping the straps of his seatbelt. Maple hums softly to herself, kicking her little feet as she clutches her stuffed rabbit.
I keep my hands steady on the wheel, my knuckles only slightly white from how hard I grip it. Every mile that puts distance between us and him is another breath I can take just a little deeper.
By the time I pull up to Bridget’s house, my pulse has slowed, but the exhaustion settling in my bones feels heavier than ever.
She’s already at the door when I park, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, her brows pinched together in concern.
“Emily?” She glances between me and the kids as I step out. “What’s wrong?”
I force a smile. “Nothing, I just—”
She tilts her head, skeptical. She always knows.
Bridget has never outright said she suspects anything, but I’ve seen it in her eyes—the silent questions, the way she watches Derek when he speaks to me, how her body tenses at the way Aspen flinches when a loud noise startles her.
Still, I can’t tell her. I can’t put her in danger.
So I laugh, a little too forced, a little too sharp. “Had a fight with the stairs,” I joke, waving a hand as if it’s no big deal. “The stairs won.”
Bridget’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, she frowns deeper.
Aspen, still standing by the car, suddenly turns, her voice sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.
“No.”
I freeze.
“Aspen,” I say softly, warning her, pleading with her to not do this here. Not now.
She steps forward, fists clenched, eyes blazing. “No, Mom. Stop lying.”
My stomach drops.
Bridget looks between us, her frown turning into something sharper, something that demands answers.
Aspen lifts her chin, her voice trembling with barely contained anger.
“Show her.”
I swallow hard. “Aspen—”
“Show her, Mom.” Her hands shake at her sides. “Tell her the truth.”
Bridget stiffens, her attention snapping back to me.
I feel like I’m suffocating. The walls are closing in, the air too thick.
I shake my head. “It’s not—”
Aspen moves before I can stop her. She grabs the collar of my sweater, my high-neck sweater that I specifically wore to hide the bruises, and yanks it down.
The gasp Bridget lets out is sharp, horrified.
The bruises on my throat, my collarbone, the unmistakable marks of his hands—they’re all out in the open now. No more hiding. No more pretending.
Bridget’s eyes fill with something I’ve never seen before. Not just sadness. Not just pity.
Rage.
“Aspen,” I breathe, my throat tightening, my vision blurring with unshed tears.
My daughter stares at me, her own eyes shining with something fierce, something broken.
“No more lying,” she whispers. “Please, Mom. No more lying.”
I feel my knees threaten to give out.
Bridget steps forward, placing a firm, steady hand on my arm.
“You’re not going back there,” she says, her voice shaking with barely restrained fury.
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do.
Bridget doesn’t hesitate. She ushers all of us inside, closing the door behind us like she’s locking out something dangerous, something vile.
“Alright, kids,” she says, her voice steady, though I can hear the tightness behind it. “Who wants cookies?”
Maple, blissfully unaware of the tension, cheers, clapping her hands. Eli stays close to me, his tiny fingers curled in my sweater, but Aspen lets go, stepping forward as if she doesn’t trust what comes next.
Bridget doesn’t push. She just turns on the TV, putting on an old cartoon, and sets a plate of cookies on the coffee table. “Eat up, sweethearts,” she murmurs, ruffling Eli’s hair before she turns to me.
“Come on,” she says softly, nodding toward the kitchen.
My legs feel like lead as I follow her.
I sink into a chair at her kitchen table, exhaustion weighing on me like an anchor.
Bridget places a warm mug of tea in front of me before sitting across from me, her hands folded together, her expression unreadable.
“Start from the beginning,” she says gently.
And I do.
The words come out in a flood, a tidal wave of pain and secrets that I have buried for too long.
I tell her about the beatings—how they started as just words but became so much more.
I tell her about the shopping days—how I only get to go once a week, how I’m never allowed to pick when, how Derek controls everything down to what brand of cereal I buy.
I tell her how I’m not allowed to take the kids to the doctor, how Maple has strep throat and I can’t even do anything about it because Derek refuses to let me.
Bridget doesn’t say a word as I speak. She just listens, her face going pale, her eyes filling with tears.
By the time I finish, my hands are shaking around my mug, my throat raw from the weight of it all.
Bridget wipes at her eyes, swallowing hard before she speaks.
“This ends now,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re not going back, Emily. We’re going to figure this out. You and the kids are getting out of there, and you’re never looking back.”
Tears blur my vision, and I let out a shaky breath. “Bridget—”
“No,” she cuts me off, her expression fierce. “No more excuses. No more waiting. You’re leaving him.”
She stands suddenly, stepping into the next room, and I hear her grab the phone.
I don’t need to strain my wolf hearing to know what she’s saying.
“Dug, you need to come home. Now. I’m fine, but we have an emergency.”
A pause.
“No, I mean it. Just get here. This is serious.”
I tighten my grip around the mug, my stomach twisting.
Then I hear her dial another number.
This one makes my blood turn cold.
The alpha.
"Alpha,” she says, her voice a mix of urgency and barely contained rage. “I need you to hurry over. There’s something we need to take care of.”
Another pause.
“No, it can’t wait.”
She hangs up and walks back into the kitchen, determination written all over her face.
I stare at her, my heart pounding in my chest.
Dug and Pete will be here soon.
They have no idea what they’re walking into.
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