Chapter 19
Nineteen
ANYA
Istare at my mom in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat.
Her eyes widen in shock as recognition dawns across her face. The dress she’s holding in her hands falls to the floor.
I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even process what I’m seeing.
“Anya?” Her voice is the same. The gentle cadence I’ve tried so hard to forget. “Oh, my god.”
Standing beside her is the bastard who kidnapped me. Bruce, or whatever his name is, looks between us with confusion etched across his face.
“I’ll get her ready,” my mother says suddenly, her voice taking on a brisk, professional tone. She places a hand on his chest, pushing him back into the hallway. “Go tell Keith we’re starting. She needs time to process.”
Bruce hesitates, shooting me a suspicious glance, but finally nods and steps back. My mother closes the door with a definitive click, then turns the lock with trembling fingers. For a long moment, she just stares at me, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
I find my voice at last. “You’re working with them?” The words burst from my lips, sharp with disbelief. “You left me for these criminals? Or are they your new family?”
Her face crumples, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Anya, baby…”
“Don’t you dare call me that!” I whisper, surging to my feet. “You have no right! You abandoned me! For years, I wondered what I did wrong, why you didn’t love me enough to stay, and all this time you were fucking a bunch of criminals.”
My mother, Amanda, flinches, swiping tears from her eyes. “I’m going to help you get out of here,” she says, her voice steadier now. “But first, you need to put on the dress and let me do your makeup.”
I bark out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Are you fucking serious? You think I’m going to play dress-up while those men plan to sell me off to the highest bidder? Who do you think I am?”
“Anya, please,” she pleads, bending to pick up the dress from the floor. “I know how this looks, but you have to trust me. We don’t have much time.”
“You expect me to trust you?” I snarl, backing away from her. “After leaving me with a father who never looked at me and a stepmother who made sure I knew I wasn’t wanted? You expect me to do whatever you say?”
Pain flashes across her face, but she holds the dress out to me with stubborn determination. “Yes. Because I’m your mother, and I’m trying to save your life.”
The white fabric gleams under the harsh overhead light—some kind of silk or satin, with lace trim and a ridiculous amount of sequins and beads. It looks like a wedding dress, but cheaper, flashier, like something from a discount bridal shop.
“No,” I say firmly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not putting that on. Either you help me escape now, or I’ll find a way out myself.”
“We need to hurry,” she insists, stepping closer. “Please, Anya.”
Something in her voice convinces me that she’s really scared. She doesn’t want to see me hurt, so I quickly comply and shove the dress on.
A whiff of her familiar vanilla scent overwhelms me, and a barrage of memories hits me.
Bedtime stories with different voices for each character.
Her arms around me when I fell off my bike, her voice telling me I’m brave.
The way she’d brush my hair every night, and her fingers so gentle against my scalp.
I fall to my knees, the dress clutched to my chest, sobs tearing from my throat. It’s too much seeing her here, finding out she’s working for these monsters, feeling her scent again after so long.
The emotions crash through me unexpectedly, breaking down the walls I’ve built to protect myself.
“Oh, Anya,” my mother whispers, and then she’s on her knees too, her arms around me, pulling me against her chest. I fight for a moment, pushing against her shoulders, but she holds firm, one hand cradling the back of my head as she used to when I was small. “I’m so, so sorry.”
We cry together, her tears mixing with mine, her body shaking with each sob. I’m vaguely aware that I should be angry, that I should push her away, demand answers, but all I can think about is how much I’ve missed her.
When the worst of the crying subsides, she pulls back just enough to cup my face in her hands, her thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I had to leave,” she says, her voice raw. “To protect you.”
“Protect me from what?” I ask, my voice thick with tears.
She shakes her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “From him. From Keith.”
“What does he have to do with anything?”
“Years ago, Keith was my boss at a hospital before I met your dad,” she begins. “And he…he took me by force.”
I freeze, the words hitting me like a physical blow. “What?”
“I got pregnant,” she continues, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “That’s you. He has no idea you exist. I quit the hospital job before you were born. I thought I was safe.”
The room seems to tilt around me, the walls closing in. Is Keith my father? The thought makes my stomach heave.
“But he found me,” my mother continues, turning me around to face her. “Six years later. He showed up at our house one day with two of his pack members. Said if I didn’t come with him willingly, he’d kill you and your father both.”
“Oh my god,” I whisper, my hand flying to my mouth. “That’s why you left?”
She nods, tears streaming down her face again. “He gave me twenty minutes to pack a bag and say goodbye. I couldn’t even tell you the truth because you were too young to understand, and I was afraid that if you knew, you might say something that would put you in danger.”
All these years, I thought she left having fun gallivanting around with a new man. This was way worse and sadder than I imagined.
“That’s so horrible,” I say, tears rolling down my face. “You suffered to keep me safe. So it’s true then that I’m some type of omega?”
“Yes, I’m one too,” she says, smiling through her own tears. “I believe you’ve found out already through a pack?”
“I found a pack,” I say, the word ‘pack’ still feeling strange on my tongue. “But I left them.”
“Oh no,” she says with a grim expression. “You need them for protection. At least for now. I’ve thought about you every day. Wondered how you were doing and if you were happy.”
“It’s okay. You did what you had to do.”
She pulls back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “We need to finish getting you ready. It’s almost time.”
I nod, suddenly exhausted, my emotions wrung dry. My mother leads me to the bathroom, where a small vanity is set up with makeup and hair products. I sit on the stool, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are red and puffy, my cheeks blotchy from crying. I barely recognize myself.
“I need to wash my face,” I say, reaching for the washcloth on the sink.
My mother nods, busying herself with organizing the makeup.
As I splash cold water on my face, I can’t stop stealing glances at her reflection in the mirror.
She’s thinner than I remember, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth that weren’t there before, but she’s still beautiful and still my mom.
After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I dry my face with a towel, peeking around the door to make sure she’s still there, that this isn’t some cruel dream I’m about to wake up from.
“What do you do here exactly?”
She picks up a foundation brush, her expression carefully neutral. “I have to make sure the omegas are clean, dressed nicely, presentable.”
“And you’re okay with that?” I can’t keep the judgment from my voice.
Her hand stills, the brush hovering near my cheek.
“No,” she says quietly. “I’m not okay with it. How did you end up here?”
I close my eyes, letting her work. “I answered an ad for a housekeeping position. Had no idea what omegas and alphas even were. My friend tried to warn me, but I was desperate for money.”
“Your friend was right to be concerned,” she says, her voice gentle. “This place is dangerous. Wolf Isle is safe for the humans but not for us.”
“No kidding,” I mutter.
She works in silence for a few minutes, applying blush to my cheeks, shadow to my eyes, mascara to my lashes. Her movements are sure and confident, transforming my tear-stained face into something polished and pretty.
After she’s done, my skin glows with a subtle shimmer, my eyes look bigger and brighter, my lips full and pink. My mother has twisted my hair into an elaborate updo, with tendrils framing my face in soft curls.
“You look beautiful,” she says, her voice catching.
I stare at my reflection, at the stranger in the wedding dress with the perfect makeup. I look like a bride. A depressed one.
“I’m scared,” I admit, my voice small.
My mother’s arms come around me from behind, her reflection joining mine in the mirror. “I know you’re scared, honey. But I promise I’ll get you out of here.”