Page 11 of Lycan Prey
Together, we shuffle across the room, her steps tentative against the creaking wooden floor. Granny’s eyes are fixed on an old cupboard, its varnish cracked and peeling. She pulls open a drawer.
She searches fervently, her fingers dancing over forgotten trinkets and dusty keepsakes. Then, as if by chance, a photo slips free, a paper ghost caught in a draft. It dances its way to the floor, and I lunge for it, catching it before it can touch the ground.
Holding the photo, my breath catches—stutters—in my throat. There we are, me and my sister, our smiles as wide as the summer sky above Granny’s house. We sat astride our bikes, hers was bubblegum pink, mine cobalt blue, both gleaming beneath the sun. That same bike became the instrument of unspeakable loss on the day she never came home.
A deep sorrow washes over me, so fierce it threatens to pull me under. The memory of that day is a wound that time refuses to heal, the edges raw and sharp in my mind. My fingers tremble as they trace the contours of our youthful faces, the innocence there now a chasm within me.
“Remember this day?” Granny’s voice, roughened by years, slices through my reverie.
I nod, unable to summon words to bridge the gap between past and present. The image before me is a stark reminder of all that was stolen, not just from me, from Granny, too. She didn’t just lose her granddaughter that day but her daughter, my mother blaming her.
She opens another drawer and pulls out papers.
“Ah, found it!” Granny’s voice cuts through the thick silence, pulling me back from the edge of my own turbulent thoughts. The determined gleam in her eyes guides me away from the abyss of memory that threatens to swallow me whole.
She turns to me, extending a trembling hand that holds a single, worn document. Instinctively, my fingers reach out, taking it from her.
It’s a birth certificate—my sister’s.
The official seal and faded ink declare an identity lost to time and tragedy. I stare at the name, at the date, at the reality of a life abbreviated. “What am I to do with this?” My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears, confusion lacing each word.
“We’ll register you as Brielle,” she declares, the words slicing through the fog of my shock, presenting a path I had not dared consider. “She was only a year younger than you.”
The air in the room grows thick, heavy with the weight of her suggestion. I swallow hard. To disguise myself as my own sister—it feels disrespectful, a betrayal to her memory. Yet, desperation claws at my insides, urging me to latch onto any lifeline thrown my way.
“Granny, they’ll find out,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. My stomach churns, revolting against the idea. “What if they want to know why I don’t already have an ID?”
The lines etched deeply into Granny’s face seem to deepen, carved by a lifetime of hardship and loss, however, her gaze never wavers from mine. She understands the risks better than anyone—the dangers of deceit, the price of protection.
Her next statement is a balm to my frayed nerves, a reassurance that steadies the trembling of my hands.
Granny’s head moves in a firm shake as she catches my gaze, her eyes alight with something fierce and unwavering. “No, they won’t,” she insists, the words cutting through the haze ofmy terror. “You’re a rogue; it’s not uncommon for rogues to not have ID. Most are sovereign, avoiding getting caught up in pack politics.”
She’s right; rogues often skirt the fringes of society, unseen and undocumented. It’s how they’ve managed to survive—how I will have to survive. But as I stand here, with the weight of my sister’s birth certificate in my hand, survival takes on a new form.
The risks flash before my eyes like lightning in a stormy sky. The Lycan King’s rule over our kind is absolute, his laws shaping the world we live in and the risk to Granny would mean death for helping me.
I glance around Granny’s quaint living room, the walls adorned with faded wallpaper and memories that seem to mock my predicament.
“Rhett won’t stop,” I murmur, voicing the dread coiling in my gut.
“And just me being here, Granny… if you’re caught lying to protect me—”
“Then we won’t let them catch us,” Granny interjects, a steel edge to her tone that brooks no argument.
The birth certificate feels heavy in my hand, heavier than the flimsy paper has any right to be. The plan is risky, dangerously so, but it offers a sliver of hope. The Lycan King rules over werewolves, creates our laws, and governs us. Knowing one is close while Rhett is hunting me is not a good thing because if there is a bounty on me, that means he’ll notify authorities soon.
And another thought nags me, the next full moon, my wolf may try to seek Rhett out; what will I do without suppressants? I may be rogue, but I’m also Alpha blood and Alpha blood is strong, and so is my wolf.
I glance down at the paper in my hand, it is my only hope until I figure something out. Assuming my sister’s identity can shield me from Rhett and his dealings with King Soren—at least for a while. It could work. The name I gave the king was Bree, which would fit for Aubrey or Brielle if I was unlucky enough to run into him again.
Chapter 6
• Aubrey •
A few days later
I’m abruptly awoken by the sound of coughing. The sound of violent hacks rips me from my slumber, and I lurch upright, as I peek through the window, paranoia gnawing at me.Is Rhett here? Has he found me?After a few seconds, I recognize the hacking as my grandmother’s. Relief washes over me, and I clutch my chest.
