Betrayed By My Alpha

Chapter 11

I couldn't save Thelma but at least I could save others.

“I accept your offer” those were the words I had said over Thelma's dead body.

Like a pledge to her, the little I got to see.

Aaron had looked at me with such resentment I thought he might go ahead and kill me.

I still remember the images, they kept hunting me. Pie in hand with her eyes gouged. No one deserves that.

That and the dream from earlier that day, I couldn't understand what it meant.

A psychologist might say, it's me wanting one since, I got divorced for not having one alongside everything.

Maybe it symbolises my spark, which is clearly lost.

I hadn't been outside in two days, I couldn't bear it. Watching the families of victims mourn their loss, knowing I could have helped prevent it.

I felt like an accomplice.

I couldn't sleep that night. The air reeked of smoke and everywhere was eerily quiet.

The next morning came slowly, as if the sun itself hesitated to rise over us.

I overheard some say it was an ambush, some a random hit, someone insisted it was a coup.

That was the day I learned I lived with the Bloodhound pack. The enemy.

Could this horrible act have been done by my people? They're not my people anymore. Would Bloodhound understand that?

Or would they keep me a slave forever when they find out?

I had walked past the kitchen the scent of sugar and vanilla was still very much in the air, I felt my stomach churn.

I almost laughed recalling. “Happy pie.” What a joke.

Today, I got out of bed—Progress—even if it were slowly and poured myself a drink instead. Water, but it felt like acid going down. Maybe because I haven’t cried yet.

It wasn't required anyway, I didn't want to. I understood the pain and felt fear, I just couldn't cry.

I wanted to block everything, to stop thinking about it. I wanted to bake, not there, but I needed to.

I haven't seen Henry or Aaron since then, not that I bothered about the latter.

I could use that steaming bath right now, could give me the grounding I need.

I paced about in my room, ignoring the sound of water dripping somewhere in the room.

I had left the tap running, I tried willing myself to go turn it off, but I wasn't able to.

I caught myself, staring, my mind blank. Been doing that a lot. Zoning out.

When I caught myself, it came with memories of Thelma.

The way she had said, “You’ll like this part, trust me,” as she sprinkled sugar like it was fairy dust.

How is it possible someone I barely knew has such effect on me?

She was gone. And I was still here.

The house hummed with low voices and footsteps. Life goes on, I thought. Even after death. Even in hell.

I washed my face, and changed into something simple white shirt, black trousers, nothing that screamed 'alive'. I needed to keep busy, or I’d drown in my own head.

The kitchen door was half open when I reached it. The smell of yeast and something burnt lingered. Someone had tried to cook. Tried being the key word.

“Mind if I fix this?” I asked the empty room.

No one answered. So I started anyway.

I mixed flour, sugar, and butter without thinking, like my hands remembered something my mind had forgotten. It was mechanical, therapeutic. Maybe defiant. Maybe stupid.

Halfway through kneading, someone entered. I didn’t turn around.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Henry said. His voice was softer than usual, too measured.

“Neither should you,” I murmured, rolling the dough.

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “You’ve got guts, Blondie. I’ll give you that.”

“Not guts,” I said. “Distraction.”

He leaned against the counter, watching me. “You think sugar and flour will fix what you saw?”

I didn’t answer. The dough under my palms was trembling. No. I was trembling.

Henry stepped closer, his tone dropping lower. “Aaron’s still angry. Don’t go near him today.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He hesitated. “He thinks you made the call that brought the raid.”

I froze. “What?”

“You didn’t, right?”

My throat felt tight. “If I had that kind of power, I’d have stopped it, not caused it.”

Henry studied me for a moment, unreadable. Then he nodded slowly. “Then you’d better prove that.”

“How?”

He gave a half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “By staying alive long enough for him to believe you.”

He turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “The pack’s meeting tonight. They’ll expect you there.”

When he was gone, I looked down at the dough. My hands had pressed it too hard it was cracked and dry.

So was I.