Page 2 of Real

“Is there any way I could make money?” Dorian certainly wasn’t going to give me money to sleep with him, even if that was something he wanted, and it definitely wasn’t. He’d made that clear plenty of times.

“Someday,” Candlewick said.

That was the word that always ended the conversations about escape. Candlewick’s plans were a nebulous, far-off thing. Not something we’d do next week or next month. Just someday.

It took me several years to realize that “someday” was just like me.

It wasn’t real.

1

H

The red wolf sanctuary is different at night. The light of day offers hope to the children who live here. We fill their mornings and afternoons with art projects, trips to the on-site playground, and all the cuddles they could ever want.

But when they go to bed, the nightmares come for them. There, I can’t chase away the terrors of their past with silly jokes or fill the ache of their loneliness with hugs. They’re all alone in their dreams.

I know what it’s like to have demons that come for you in the dark—demons no one else can fight. It’s why I work here. I want these children to have an adult who understands what they’re going through.

As I walk down the halls of the sanctuary, I hear the sobs and intermittent screams. I have to remind myself that waking the kids makes things worse for them, but it’s hard to not rush to a crying child. It feels callous, unnatural even. Children shouldn’t have a reason to scream like that.

I get to the end of the hall and open the door of the intake room. Steppe called me an hour ago and asked how fast I could get to the sanctuary. He said he had an unusual patient named Buddy who needed our help, and he wanted me to take care of him personally.

It was two o’clock in the morning. That’s not out of the ordinary. Human trafficking victims are rescued at all hours. But Steppe has never called a patient unusual. Not even the ones who come from particularly horrific circumstances. It makes me wonder what to expect.

The intake room is full of couches and toys. Normally, when new kids come here, we let them roam freely unless it isn’t safe for them to do so. I like to sit on one of the couches and let them come to me when they’re ready. For some, it takes hours before they have the courage to even glance at me. Others latch onto me right away. That’s not necessarily a good sign. If a small child latches onto a stranger, it often means the strangers in their life have been better to them than the people who were supposed to take care of them.

I sit down on my regular couch in the corner and try to sort through what Steppe told me about our new patient.

Buddy is involved in an active police investigation of a robbery, and we’ve been entrusted with him until the case is resolved.”

At first, I thought he was the suspect in the robbery, but Steppe said he wasn’t.

Technically, he’s what was stolen. The police are still trying to sort it all out.

If Steppe wasn’t the liaison for Lost Wolves Sanctuary—the place where displaced red wolf shifters come to heal when they have nowhere else to go—I’d assume he was simply using the wrong terminology when he said the word “robbery” instead of “human trafficking.”

But Steppe knows the difference. That’s what I don’t understand.

Buddy might be a shifter who won’t take his human form. We’ve had red wolf pups come to the shelter who refused to shift before. It takes a few days for the police to process a blood test that can ensure a shifter’s humanity. Maybe Buddy’s just a scared pup who’s test results haven’t come back yet. I’m not sure. Steppe had to get off the phone and couldn’t tell me the rest of the story.

The doorknob twists open and Steppe enters the room first. He’s everything I’m not—tall, fit, confident. We’re both thirty-two, but people often think I’m much older. He’s the face of our operation, working with the powerful people who have to greenlight our efforts, and he’s very good at it.

I’ve always done better with the kids. I’m unintimidating and soft. Adult omegas don’t like that, but to all the scared children who come through here, I look safe.

A tall, skinny boy walks in next. Unlike Steppe, who is dressed in a nice pair of slacks and a button-up shirt that shows off his big biceps, this boy is drowning in a huge hoodie and hunched over so the hood covers his face. Even his hands are tucked into the sleeves. I can’t see an inch of his skin.

“Buddy, take off your hood,” Steppe says to the young man.

Buddy outstretches his hands past the sleeves of the hoodie. Or what I assume are his hands until I get a proper look at them. They’re shaped like hands, and the same pale tone of my skin, but they’re made of what seems like plastic or silicone.

The silicone bends around the fabric of his hood to pull it back. His face is made of the same silicone as his hands. His dark, straight hair seems real enough, and so do his eyes, but there’s a line around the top of his neck, as if his head is attached through some kind of ball-and-joint socket. Likea doll.

He stares back at me with wide eyes, his body almost motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest.

“H, this is Buddy. Buddy, this is my friend H. He works here at the sanctuary, and he wants to help you.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Buddy was one of those realistic robots or maybe even a sophisticated sex doll.

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