Chapter 147

Emily

I can feel the walls closing in. Every step I take in this house echoes like a reminder: I’m not free. I’m not trusted. I’m not safe—not from danger, but from the people who claim to love me. Logan says he’s protecting me, but it doesn’t feel like protection. It feels like a cage.

We’ve been back in the city for a week now and already the house doesn’t feel like mine anymore. There are two Delta wolves stationed outside at all times, rotating in shifts like I’m some high-risk prisoner they’re guarding. They're not even trying to hide it. One of them stands near the front door, the other circles the backyard like he’s waiting for me to run.

Maybe I am. Maybe I will. What’s that saying about trapped animals?

It will chew its own leg off if it means that it will be freed from the trap?

The resentment is a slow boil in my chest. I can’t stop replaying Logan’s words from before—I forbid you. I’m locking you in. To keep you safe.

That’s not what love feels like. That’s not support. That is fear dressed up in authority. Every time I look at Logan, all I see is the man who doesn’t trust me with my own choices. Who loves me enough to fight for me—but not enough to listen.

He still hasn't said sorry. Not really.

We have fallen into a routine ever since we came home. I play the role of a good wife, someone quiet and obedient. I fall asleep at his side and greet him when he wakes up. He kisses my forehead and moves to change, talking to me as if I care what it is he has to say.

He pretends like everything between us is fine. Like everything is okay. It only makes me angrier. Furious that he has placed golden handcuffs around my wrists under the name of protection.

I wander into the bedroom on the first floor—our room now, apparently, since Logan doesn’t want me near the balcony upstairs. Besides, it’s easier for the Delta guards to watch me here. Easier to keep me contained. What he doesn’t realize is he’s given me exactly what I need.

There’s a window in this room. It leads towards the extra garage where Logan’s extra belongings remain. Logan’s spare car is parked inside of the garage, just out of reach. I have watched it with a close eye for the past few days, keeping note of my surroundings during my new routine.

A routine that keeps the Delta soldiers busy and far away from me. I claimed that I do not wish to see them, ordering them to put as much distance between me and them as possible. They are completely clueless as to what is going on in my head, the plan that I am slowly forming right under their noses.

They think that I am simply writing in my mother’s journal, describing every single thought that comes to mind. Judging by the looks on their faces, they pity me. They pity the wife of the future Alpha King, the strong man who is leading the polls with every new update.

I glance at the clock. 2:47 p.m. The guards usually switch rotations just before three. There’s a few minutes of overlap—just a sliver of opportunity, a moment where the old guards are leaving and the new ones haven’t fully settled.

I’ve been watching. Counting the seconds. Memorizing the rhythm of their patrols. Every single move that they make, I take note of. Every time one of them goes to the bathroom gives me the opportunity to walk away. Just a minute or two that will allow me to slip away.

I can do this. Freedom is just a few steps away. I can taste the sweetness of the air, the intoxicating scent of fresh air and the road that lies ahead.

I toss my bag onto the bed and unzip it. Inside, there’s only what I need: phone, cash, Logan’s car keys, and the small slip of paper with the address Wanda gave me. I fold it tightly and slip it into my bra, keeping it close to my heart. My pulse beats against it like a war drum.

I crawl onto the bed and lie on my side, facing the window, pretending to nap. It’s an easy enough performance. I’ve been exhausted for days, claiming that a migraine has hit me yet again and that the last trimester of pregnancy is always the worst.

But this time, my body buzzes with anticipation. It bubbles and fizzles with excitement of my plan, the one thing that I have planned for the last week.

Through my lashes, I see one of the guards pass by the bedroom window, heading toward the front gate. He looks relaxed. They all do now. I’ve behaved just long enough for them to think I’ve given up. Suckers.

Seconds tick by. My eyes snap to the clock again—2:58. Now.

I sit up slowly, quietly. I sling my bag over my shoulder and move to the window. The latch is old, slightly rusted, but I’ve already loosened it during the night. I push it open with a soft click.

Cool air rushes in from the garage, carrying the faint scent of motor oil and dust. I slip one leg through, then the other, careful not to knock over the box of tools just beneath the window. My feet hit the concrete floor silently.

I don’t breathe. I listen for any kind of movement on the other side of the wall, anything that will give me and my plan away. There’s nothing but silence.

I move fast, ducking low and heading for the car — Logan’s silver sedan from high school, the one he never drives because he “likes the sound of the engine in the other one.” Fine by me. This one’s quieter. It makes it easier to slip away from the Delta guards that are supposed to keep an eye on me.

I open the door, slide in, and close it softly behind me. The keys are already in my hand, the weight of the metal light in my hand. The quiet jingle of the extra keys and keychain fill my ears like a melody that has come down from the heavens. I grab them, jamming them into the ignition with shaking hands.

“Come on, you piece of shit car!” I can’t help but breathe the words into existence, my voice remaining low and quiet.

The engine turns over. No alarm. No lights. Just the quiet purr of freedom.

I slowly inch the car out of the garage, heart slamming against my ribs. I barely glance in the rearview mirror, but I see movement—two shapes rushing from the side of the house.

Shit! It’s too late. I floor it.

Tires screech as I shoot down the driveway, veering left onto the street. The Delta wolves shout something, but their voices fade behind me. I’m not stopping. I don’t care if they shift mid-run and chase me down barefoot—I’m not stopping.

This is mine. My choice. My body. My life.

And Logan? He doesn’t get to hold me hostage in the name of love. Not anymore.