Shadows on the Edge
1782 Words
Sloane's POV
I sat there for hours, calling her name until my voice cracked, until a police found me shivering and alone.
They called it abandonment.
But I still pretended nothing happened when the police took me back to my mother, pretending that I really believed that she had forgotten me because she suddenly got a part-time job, pretending that I didn't know the truth about abandonment.
Tears soaked the photo now, blurring Dad's smile into a watercolor smear. Heartache twisted in my chest, raw and unrelenting.
Juno whined softly inside, bound but aching with me.
I swiped at my eyes with the heel of my hand, the photo still clutched in my fist like a lifeline.
Get up, Sloane, I told myself. Homework won't do itself.
I shoved the picture back into the drawer, slamming it shut with more force than needed. The wood splintered a little at the edge—great, another thing to fix.
The stack of textbooks waited on the floor, dog-eared and secondhand, covers peeling like old skin. Community college online classes, because who had time for campus with the bakery shift? I flipped open my notebook, pencil scratching out equations that blurred together.
The burn on my wrist throbbed dully.
Hours ticked by, the single bulb buzzing overhead like an angry hornet. My stomach twisted, empty. Dinner? Yeah, right. Mom and Will probably scarfed whatever was left downstairs. I rummaged in my backpack, pulling out the pilfered loaf from the shop—stale cinnamon swirl, but better than nothing. I tore off chunks, chewing mechanically while staring at the page.
Night deepened outside, the window rattling with a hot breeze that carried the distant hum of crickets.
Moonblood Pack never really slept; wolves prowled the edges, shadows shifting under the full summer moon. But up here, it was quiet. Too quiet. Until the knock came—sharp and insistent.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Who the hell?
It was late. I froze, pencil hovering.
Another knock, heavier.
Juno whined, a faint ripple of alarm.
Swallowing hard, I crept to the door, bare feet silent on the creaky boards. The knob was cool under my palm, and I cracked it open just an inch, peeking down the dim stairwell.
Nothing.
Then a shadow loomed, massive and blotting out the faint light from below.
William.
His bulk filled the frame, that scarred eye gleaming like a dead moon, the good one fixed on me with a hunger that made my skin crawl.
He grinned, teeth flashing. "Evenin', darlin'."
I jerked back, door slamming halfway before his boot wedged it open. Panic clawed up my throat—hot, choking.
No, not now. Not him. My mind raced: the window? Too high. The stairs? He'd block them easy.
I pressed against the wall, heart pounding like a trapped bird, scanning for anything—a lamp to swing, the drawer with the photo that could double as a weapon.
"Sloane? You deaf up there?" Victoria's voice cut through from downstairs, sharp and irritated. "Get your ass down here! Customer emergency!"
William's grin faltered, but he didn't budge, his hand flat on the door like he owned the space between us.
"Easy, girl. Just checking on you." His voice dropped, syrupy low. "Heard you had a rough day. Thought you might need... company."
Bile rose in my throat. I shoved the door harder, my slippered foot bracing against it.
"I'm coming, Mom!" The words tumbled out, high and breathless. Anything to get him gone.
He chuckled, low and rumbling, but stepped back. "Take care, Sloane." The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended, each step echoing like a threat.
I sagged against the frame, breath ragged. Hearing mom's calling again, I grabbed my sneakers and red plaid shirt, tugging them on quick.
Downstairs, the kitchen light spilled harsh yellow into the hall. Victoria paced by the counter, phone in hand, her bun looser now, strands escaping like her patience.
"Finally," she snapped, thrusting a glossy cake box at me. It was heavy, chilled from the ice packs inside, ribbons tied fancy around the lid.
"Rich client—threw extra cash for a rush job. Birthday cake for some big shot at Eclipse Lounge downtown. Deliver it, get the tip, and don't screw it up."
Eclipse Lounge? My gut twisted.
That was pack neutral ground, the kind of place where alphas from stronger packs rubbed elbows with humans who didn't know better. Miles away, through the dark. But William hovered in the doorway to the front, wiping his hands on a rag, eyes on me like a wolf scenting blood.
No way I'm staying here.
"Sure, Mom. On it." I snatched the box, forcing a nod.
Her gaze flicked to my wrist, the red mark peeking from my sleeve—a flash of something soft, gone quick as smoke.
"Good. Bus runs late—don't dawdle." She turned away, already scrolling her phone.
William cleared his throat. "Be careful out there, Sloane. Streets ain't safe at night." His tone dripped concern, but that grin said different. Especially for girls like me.
I bolted before he could say more, door clicking shut behind me.
The summer air hit like a wall—humid, thick with the scent of pine and distant rain. I paused on the porch, box clutched to my chest, peering through the bakery window. The clock glowed 9:05.
Pitch black stretched ahead, the road to the bus stop a mile of cracked asphalt flanked by overgrown woods. Streetlights flickered, half burnt out, casting long shadows that twisted like claws in the wind.
Shit.
Regret hit fast, sour in my mouth.
Why'd I agree?
But Mom's face flashed—pinched with anger—and William's shadow loomed larger.
No choice.
I swallowed hard, throat dry, and stepped off the porch. The gravel crunched under my sneakers, too loud in the quiet. Trees loomed, branches whispering secrets, leaves rustling like footsteps.
And the rumors.
God, the rumors.
Pack talk buzzed like flies lately—young omegas vanishing, girls my age, no rank, no protection. Snatched in the night, they said. One whisper painted a killer like Jack the Ripper: gutted, violated, dumped in the wilds for the crows.
Another swore it was labs, rogue betas experimenting on us "lessers," testing wolfsbane strains or inhibitors that stuck forever. No proof, no bodies, just empty beds and frantic searches. Moonblood Pack was on edge, soldiers patrolling tighter, but who cared about an omega like me?
We were disposable.
A twig snapped.
I froze, breath hitching.
Wind? Animal?
My pulse thundered, Juno's faint growl urging run.
I shook my head, forcing steps forward. Just get to the bus. Tip money means rent, means space from him.
But fear layered on, sweat prickling despite the heat. Every shadow hid eyes, every gust a hand on my shoulder.
Then—a blur from the bushes. Black fur, yellow eyes flashing. A cat yowled, streaking across the path.
I screamed, legs buckling, cake box flying.
Ice packs scattered, cold against my knees as I hit the ground hard. Gravel bit through my jeans, the box tumbling open just enough to reveal the cake's edge.
"Oh god." I scrambled up, heart jackhammering, scooping it all back in with shaking hands.
The cat vanished into the underbrush, tail flicking like mockery.
Tears stung—stupid, scared tears. Pull it together.
But the dark pressed closer now, wolf howls echoing faint from the hills, full moon calling kin I couldn't join.
Dad's voice cut through, soft as a lullaby.
Sing it out, princess. Chases the monsters away.
I could see him still—big hands clapping rhythm, brown eyes twinkling. The song he'd made up, silly and safe, for stormy nights in Murkwood. I hugged the box tighter, lips moving hesitant at first.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little wolf, how I wonder where you howl..." My voice cracked, thin in the night. But I pushed on, feet picking up pace. "...Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky." The tune wrapped around me.
Fear ebbed, just a bit—not gone, but bearable. Like Juno's whisper, bound but there.
I sang louder, off-key and defiant, until the bus stop lights flickered ahead.
The bus wheezed to a halt, doors hissing open. I climbed on, box on my lap, the driver barely glancing.
"Downtown?"
Yeah. One-way ticket, change rattling in my pocket.
The ride blurred—suburbs giving way to neon glow, pack edges bleeding into city sprawl.
Air conditioning hummed, cooling the sweat on my skin, but my mind raced.
Eclipse Lounge.
I'd heard whispers: where deals went down, alphas sealed pacts over whiskey, omegas like me stayed the hell out.
The stop jolted me alert.
City center pulsed—horns blaring, laughter spilling from doorways. Summer night thrived here, humans and wolves mingling oblivious.
I followed the GPS on my cracked phone screen, sneakers sticking to sidewalks slick with spilled drinks. The bar squatted at street's end, all glass and chrome, pulsing bass thumping like a heartbeat. Valet stood out front, suits and dresses gliding past.
Me? Faded red plaid shirt over a threadbare tee, jeans frayed at the hems. I felt it—the stares, the way heads turned, scenting outsider.
Security loomed at the door, arms like tree trunks, earpiece crackling. "Delivery?" His nose twitched—omega, bound like me, but bulked up on pack perks.
"Yeah. Cake for... uh, Whitman? Birthday thing." I held up the box, ribbons wilting a little from the chaos.
He nodded, waving me through. "This way."
Inside hit like a wave: smoke and sweat, bodies grinding under strobing lights. The dance floor writhed—alphas in crisp shirts, betas flashing smiles, humans none the wiser. Scents layered thick: musk, perfume, spilled liquor. Curiosity tugged despite the knot in my gut. This was glamour, the kind Moonblood only dreamed of.
I tugged my red plaid shirt closer, trying to be invisible.
Security led through a maze—corridors dim and velvet-draped, bass fading to murmurs. My sneakers squeaked on polished floors, too loud. We stopped at a door, heavy oak with a brass handle.
"Whitman Junior. Your stop."
He rapped twice, voice booming. "Whitman Junior, your delivery's here."
The door swung in, and chaos spilled out—a woman's shriek, sharp as shattered glass, followed by the crack of flesh on flesh. A slap, echoing.
"Hunter, you rotten bastard!"
I jolted, box nearly slipping again. Defiance? In a place like this? The security guy didn't blink, just stepped aside.
But me—wide-eyed, breath caught. Who the hell slaps in a place like this? And who the hell was Hunter?
- Writer
