Chapter 2: Running from Shadows

10 years later…

10 years later…

The Winter Hill estate is asleep, but I’m very much awake, which is not a good thing for my sanity. The night outside looks like it came straight out of a horror movie—black as ink, cold enough to freeze your soul, and eerily quiet. Even the wind is whispering ominous nonsense. My thin sweater is doing as much against the cold as a wet tissue would against a fire, but hey, fashion over functionality, right?

I bolt.

Not jog, not walk—run. My legs pound the frozen ground like my life depends on it, and let’s be real, it kind of does. My ribs scream with every step where Nick’s fist made contact last night, but that pain is a vacation compared to staying inside that house. The wind slaps my face like an overdramatic soap opera villain, but I welcome it. Anything’s better than the four walls of hell I live in.

Let me clarify something: I’m twenty years old. By now, every other Lycan I know has had their first shift, discovered their inner wolf, and probably posted a dramatic “I’m a wolf now!” selfie. Me? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I’m just me—regular, human-level weak, and wolf-free. If there were a prize for the least impressive Lycan, I’d win it every year.

The forest around me is alive with noises—creaking trees, snapping twigs, and what might be whispers. But I don’t care. Bring on the ghosts, the goblins, the axe murderers. They’re a step up from Nick.

Ah, Nick. The walking embodiment of misery. The alpha that saved the winter hill pack.  My mother’s second husband and her knight in shining armor—or so the pack believes. For me, he’s the monster under the bed, in the closet, and lurking behind every corner. His punches are lessons, his smirks are warnings, and his very existence is a bad joke that the universe refuses to end.

My chest burns as I slow down, gasping for air. My ribs throb, my legs feel like jelly, and for what? I can’t escape him. I can run until my legs fall off, but Nick’s shadow is always looming.

Then, my phone buzzes. The sound nearly makes me throw it into the trees. I pull it out, squinting at the screen. It’s Mom.

Oh, great. She calls so rarely it’s like she’s allergic to me. Bracing myself for whatever new way she’s found to ruin my day, I answer.

“Hello?” My voice is hoarse from running and, you know, screaming internally.

“Agatha,” Mom says, her tone colder than the weather. “Come home. Now.”

I blink, processing the audacity. “Why?”

“Your sister is getting married,” she says, as if this is common knowledge. “To the new Alpha of the Vanderwilson pack. Be here by noon.”

I stand there, mouth hanging open like an idiot. Lilly Winterhill . My sister. The opposite of me. The golden child who left me behind six years ago without so much as a backward glance. Now she’s getting married to an Alpha, and I’m just finding out?

“Wait, Lilly’s getting married?” I ask, my voice rising with disbelief.

Mom doesn’t even bother responding. The line goes dead. Classic Mom move.

I stare at my phone, torn between laughing hysterically and throwing it at the nearest tree. Lilly. Getting married. To an Alpha. And no one thought to tell me until now?

Let me paint you a picture of Lilly: tall, blonde, gorgeous, perfect Lycan. She shifted on her 19st birthday, hugged me goodbye, and peaced out to university like her name wasn’t tied to mine. Since then, it’s been radio silence. I’m happy for her—I guess. But she left me. She knew what Nick was like, and she still left me.

The estate looms ahead as I drag myself back, the first rays of sunlight breaking through the trees. Golden light filters through the bare branches, mocking me with its warmth. By the time I reach the house, the pit in my stomach has turned into a full-blown chasm.

The house is too quiet, which is never a good sign. Nick thrives in silence—it’s his hunting ground. I tread lightly, each creak of the floorboards feeling like a death sentence. My heart pounds as I make it up the stairs and into my room, locking the door behind me like it’s Fort Knox.

Sliding down the door, I exhale shakily. My mother’s words ring in my ears: Be here by noon.

Fine. I’ll go. I’ll smile and wave and act like the perfect little sister at Lilly’s wedding. But I won’t forget. Not the bruises, not the nights I cried myself to sleep, not the fact that my family left me to rot with Nick while they moved on with their lives and most of all not my dad’s death.

I open my closet and start throwing clothes into a bag, my movements jerky and rushed. Each item I pack feels like a tiny rebellion, a way of saying, “Screw this place.” My reflection catches my eye, and I pause. The girl staring back looks tired. Defeated. But her eyes… her eyes hold something new.

Determination.