Home. Eight o'clock. The kids were finally asleep.
I dragged the dusty suitcase from the top of the closet.
Clothes, fake IDs, emergency cash.
I dug frantically through my stash for an emergency dose of scent suppressants.
Empty. Not a single pill left.
The dose I took this afternoon had been my last.
The doorbell buzzed.
My hand instinctively reached for the knife block on the kitchen counter.
"It's me."
Not Damian's voice.
It was low, raspy, lacking that crushing Alpha weight.
I cracked the door open.
Elliot Grey. My neighbor for the past three years.
He was in his early thirties, with messy brown hair and a faded scar over his left eyebrow. Usually, he worked as a dockhand and occasionally helped fix my busted water heater.
But tonight, his posture was entirely wrong.
His
