Page 86 of My Shy Alpha

“Girl, you really are a damn wolf - a feral one, at that. Get out of my sight.” She pushes me down before I can chase after her, and I yank her back into the grass with a tackle. That’s about all we have energy for, groaning in each other’s arms in the grass with weary limbs.

We gather our things, trekking out of the forest full of smiles and laughter like we’ve had for each other our whole lives.

But as I approach Noah’s cabin for the night, my stomach churns at the waxing gibbous moon - nearly full and shining bright against the baby blue sky.

Shit, I only have a few days left to practice before the next welcoming ceremony. I’m not sure what’s holding me back from wolfing out beyond my intrusive thoughts, but I don’t want to disappoint Noah.

When my shirt catches on a nearby branch, I hear a sharp rip. My focus zips to the massive tree that has me in its clutches. I can’t pull my shirt off its branch. All I have to do is untangle it, but this is too familiar. I just keep tugging. Afraid someone will find me stuck here - catch me all alone in the forest.

This perfect combination of sights, smells, and urgency flips my brain on itself like an hourglass, catapulting me back in time.

I fall through my memories until they’re not memories anymore. They’re now.

32

“Disappoint me? Sweetheart, why would you even think that?” Mom’s agonized expression only worsens the tears pouring down my four-year-old cheeks.

I grip her shirt, rippling the bright, primary-colored pattern between my fingertips, but that’s not right either. I smooth it down, crushed by guilt for ruining yet another thing. “Mommy, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my poor girl,” Mom whispers, squeezing me tight to her chest. “I’m not mad, I just got scared to find you all tied up on a branch like that. You’re not supposed to go into the forest without Mommy. It’s too dangerous.”

Her arms are so big, encompassing my whole torso, but they’re not enough to repair my heart.

I don’t understand. How could they lie to me like this? Mom hates when I wander too far into the backyard, but today, she’s soothing my guilty tears. Why can’t they stick with one story, telling me what they really think about me? They hurt my feelings, but they love me too. It makes no sense.

I’m so scared I’m missing something big. That the answer is out there, and I’m too small to see it over everyone’s heads. Are my parents good, or are they bad? Do they love me, or do they secretly hate me? I don’t know what’s right.

I’m four, but then I’m twenty-four, sobbing even though no one will answer my pleas for help. I don’t know what’s right.

Now I’m eight.

I got in trouble at school today. My heart hammers so hard that it hurts to breathe, but I’m afraid to show it. I don’t want to hurt Mom and Dad more than I already have to, coming home with this ugly, neon-red slip in my hands.

I can already tell Mom hasn’t checked her voicemail; she’s waiting at the bus stop in her work clothes with a cheery smile. I’m about to erase that smile, and it makes me want to throw up.

I wring my hands, unable to walk down the bus aisle. But when the bus driver turns to glare, I scurry past the rows as fast as I can.

As I step off the bus on shaky legs, the first thing Mom sees are the tears crusted to my brown, summer-tanned cheeks.

Then she sees my scraped-up knees. I try to hide them with my skirt, forgetting it’s tattered too.

Mom gasps, flipping my heart. “Aliya, what happened?!”

“I– I fell,” I mumble.

“What?” Mom guides me by the shoulder down the path home, too worried to wave goodbye to the bus driver. “Sweetheart, you have to stop falling like this. Did someone push you? One of those boys?”

I shake my head no, my chin gluing itself to my chest.

But Mom stops walking. I have no choice but to stop with her.

“Aliya, tell me the truth. Are you sure one of those boys didn’t push you?”

I readjust my clammy grip on my skirt, swallowing hard. But the force of Mom’s suggestion wins over my fear of telling her. The truth spills from my mouth as my eyes squeeze shut.

“I climbed a tree,” I mutter. “I got– I got–”

“You got, what?”

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