Chapter 3
"Mrs. Martinez, could I speak with you for a moment?"
Ms. Rodriguez's voice made my stomach drop. I'd been dreading this conversation for weeks, ever since Ethan started kindergarten at Little Sprouts. At five years old, he was already the size of a seven-year-old, and his "differences" were becoming harder to hide.
"Of course," I said, watching Ethan through the classroom window as he helped a smaller child reach the monkey bars – by lifting the boy up with one hand like he weighed nothing.
"Ethan is... remarkable," she began carefully. "His physical abilities are extraordinary. Yesterday, he moved a desk that usually takes two adults to lift. And when Tommy was being picked on by the older boys..."
Here it comes.
"His eyes seemed to change color, and he made this sound – almost like a growl. The bullies backed off immediately." She paused, studying my face. "I think we should consider having him tested for the gifted program. Perhaps even some specialized physical assessments."
"He's just... he's always been strong for his age," I managed. "Good genetics."
If only it were that simple.
That evening, I sat Ethan down for another one of our "special talks."
"Remember what Mommy taught you about being different?" I asked, smoothing his dark hair.
"I have to be normal," he recited dutifully. "But why, Mama? I'm stronger than the other kids. I can help them."
Because being different will get us both killed.
"Sometimes being special can be dangerous, sweetheart. There are people who might want to take you away from me if they knew how special you are."
His golden eyes – more noticeable every day – flashed with understanding beyond his years. "Bad people?"
"People who think they know what's best for you. But they don't love you like I do."
Three weeks later, our fragile peace shattered when Jake Morrison moved in next door.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of easy smile that should have been comforting but instead made every instinct I had scream danger. He introduced himself as an IT consultant, worked from home, and seemed to have an awful lot of free time to be outside whenever Ethan and I were.
"Beautiful boy you have there," he said one afternoon as I picked up Ethan from the school bus. "He's quite... impressive for his age."
"Thank you," I replied shortly, ushering Ethan toward our front door.
But Ethan had gone rigid beside me, his small hand gripping mine tightly.
"Mama," he whispered later, once we were safely inside. "I don't like the new man. He smells... wrong."
Smells wrong. That phrase made my blood run cold.
"What do you mean, baby?"
**"Like the woods. Like..." he struggled for words, "like something wild, but pretending not to be."
Oh God. He's one of them.
Over the next few days, I watched Jake more carefully. His "work hours" were erratic. He seemed to know exactly when we'd be leaving the house. And twice, I could have sworn I saw him watching our windows from his darkened kitchen.
The breaking point came on the night of the full moon.
I'd learned to dread these nights. Ethan always got restless, unable to sleep, pacing his room like a caged animal. But this time was different. This time, I heard him making sounds I'd never heard before – low, guttural noises that definitely weren't human.
I rushed to his room and found him standing by the window, his back to me. Moonlight streamed across his small frame, and when he turned around, I had to bite back a scream.
His canine teeth had elongated into sharp points. His fingernails had grown into claws. And his eyes – his beautiful brown eyes with their golden flecks – were now completely, unmistakably gold.
"Mama," he said, and his voice carried a deeper resonance than any five-year-old should possess. "Something's happening to me."
Then he tilted his head back and howled – a sound so purely wolf that it seemed to shake the windows.
We're out of time.
I spent the next week researching emergency relocation options, but before I could act, everything fell apart at Riverside Park.
We were having a normal afternoon – or as normal as anything could be with Ethan. He was playing with a group of kids while I sat on a bench, trying to look like any other mother and failing miserably at relaxing.
That's when the dog appeared.
It was a massive German Shepherd, clearly aggressive, clearly not supposed to be in the playground. It had somehow gotten loose and was heading straight for a group of toddlers by the slide, lips pulled back in a snarl.
Parents started screaming, trying to reach their children, but they were too far away.
Ethan wasn't.
He moved faster than any human child could, positioning himself between the dog and the babies. The animal launched itself at him, and I watched in horror as my five-year-old son caught a hundred-pound dog in midair.
His eyes blazed gold. His small hands gripped the animal's shoulders, and he made a sound – part growl, part command – that froze every person in that park.
The dog immediately submitted, lowering its head and backing away with its tail between its legs.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then the whispers started. The phones came out. Someone was definitely recording.
"Did you see that?"
"That kid's not normal."
"How did he do that?"
I grabbed Ethan's hand and ran, leaving behind a park full of staring parents and their very traumatized children.
That night, Jake Morrison knocked on my door.
"Sophie, we need to talk."
I kept the chain lock engaged, speaking through the crack. "It's late. Ethan's sleeping."
"No, he's not. He's standing right behind you, listening to every word." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "And we both know he hears better than most."
How could he possibly know that?
"You can't run forever," Jake continued. "What happened at the park today? That's going to be all over social media by tomorrow. People are asking questions."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sophie Matthews. That's your real name, isn't it? Not Martinez." My heart stopped. "You've done an impressive job staying hidden for five years. But the Alpha is coming."
The Alpha. Alex.
"You have a choice," Jake's voice carried a note of something that might have been sympathy. "Come willingly, or he'll take the boy by force. You have twenty-four hours."
I slammed the door and immediately started packing, my hands shaking so badly I could barely fold clothes.
Ethan appeared in the doorway, no longer the carefree child I'd tried so hard to let him be.
"Mama, someone else is coming," he said quietly. "Someone... important."
"How do you know?"
"I can feel him. He's like me, but stronger. Much stronger." He paused, tilting his head as if listening to something I couldn't hear. "And he's angry."
Through the window, I saw headlights turning into our quiet street. A black sedan – expensive, out of place in our middle-class neighborhood – pulled up to the curb and idled there, engine running.
Twenty-four hours, my ass.