Rejected as Weak: The Alpha Wants Me Back

Silence

I slept for thirteen hours.

When I opened my eyes, the hotel room was bright with late-morning light. I lay still for a long moment, trying to remember the last time I'd woken up without someone knocking at my door or a phone buzzing against my nightstand. I couldn't.

The headache was still there. But it had moved back, from a sharp pressure behind my eyes to something dull and distant, like a storm that had passed to the other side of the mountains. I pressed two fingers to my temple. The pain responded, but it didn't flare.

I sat up slowly, waiting for the dizziness. It didn't come.

My hands were warm. Not cold. Not trembling. I turned them over in my lap, studying the steady fingers as if they belonged to someone else. For years, I'd measured my mornings by how much I shook before breakfast. Today, the answer was: barely at all.

Hunger hit me next—a real, demanding pull low in my stomach. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt genuinely hungry. I'd eaten because schedules said to, because other people needed me upright, because skipping meals made the nausea worse. Not because my body wanted food.

I showered, dressed, and left the room before I could talk myself into lying back down.

My wolf stirred somewhere under my skin when I stepped into the sun. Not restless. Not pushing. Just there. The sensation felt oddly clear, as if I'd spent years hearing it through a closed door.

The hotel diner was half empty. I ordered eggs and toast and coffee, and I ate all of it. No one interrupted. No one asked me to look at a frightened child or calm a panicked parent. The waitress refilled my coffee and asked if I

wanted anything else. She meant the food. That was all.

Afterward, I walked.

The town was small—a main street, a few shops, a bus station at the far end. Ordinary. No one knew my name. No one looked at me like I might be needed for something. A child ran past with a backpack bouncing against his shoulders, and my whole body tensed for the moment he'd trip or cry out. He didn't. His mother caught his hand, and they kept walking. The world continued without me.

Back in my room, I turned my phone on.

I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for the screen to light up. My chest was tight. I expected a flood—missed calls, urgent messages, youth center staff asking where I was, Cale's mother, Noah. The screen brightened. Three notifications.

One from Pack Administration: a confirmation of my withdrawal and the five-day residence checklist.

One from an old scheduling group: a generic reminder about next month's training rotation.

One from Noah. The same message from before I left, still unanswered.

Are you still coming? I can't stop shaking.

I stared at it for a long time. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. That I hadn't abandoned him. That he'd be okay.

But I could say something smaller and still be honest.

I'm sorry I missed this. I'm away from Blackridge, and I won't be at your sessions for a while. Stay with the trainers if you're scared, okay? You don't have to handle it alone.

I sent it before I could second-guess myself. Then I put the phone face-down on the nightstand.

There was no message from Rowan.

Part of me was relieved. Another part, the part I'd spent years feeding with hope, felt the silence like a small cut. He'd told me to take time. He'd said I'd come back. And then he'd let me go without a word.

That was what I'd asked for. It still hurt.

I picked the phone up again and opened a booking app, more to give my hands something to do than out of any clear plan. The map showed a thin line of towns running east toward the border. The farther from Blackridge, the cheaper the rooms. The bus route went all the way to the last stop on the eastbound line, a small settlement near the territory edge.

The border region wasn't a place Blackridge wolves usually chose. The towns were cheaper. Less familiar. That felt like enough.

I left the phone where it was and went back outside.

The bus station sat at the edge of town, a low building with a cracked sign and a schedule printed behind smudged glass. I stepped up to the ticket window. The clerk barely looked at me.

"Where to?"

"The last stop on the eastbound line," I said.

The clerk tapped at the screen. "One way or return?"

The word return sat in the air between us.

I thought of Blackridge. My room with the blanket I'd had since I was sixteen. The training hall. Elin's steady hands. Noah sitting on the floor outside his room. Rowan's voice saying, You'll come back.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I would. I didn't know.

But I wasn't going to buy a ticket like I was already halfway back.

"One way," I said.

The bus left an hour later.

I found a seat near the window and watched the town thin out into trees and low hills. The Blackridge boundary was already behind me. Somewhere ahead, the border region waited—unfamiliar, too far away to feel like home.

The low hum in my head was still quieter than it had been in Blackridge. Not gone. But softer.

I didn't know why.

No one was waiting for me at the other end. I had no session to make, no name on a schedule, no one expecting me to fix anything. Just a ticket I'd bought because I wanted more distance.

For now, that was enough.

I rested my head against the window and let the road carry me.