Chapter 10
Skye’s POV
My phone’s navigation guided me steadily south.
As the landscape transformed from Alaska’s snowy wilderness to warmer climes, my heartache and depression gradually faded, diluted by the parade of new experiences.
This was, in all honesty, my first solo journey.
Despite werewolves‘ natural strength, our numbers are minuscule compared to humans, and in Frostshadow Pack, wolves who hadn’t shifted were never allowed to travel alone.
The red contpact car Dad had given me for my birthday became my only companion. Each mile that stretched between me and the pack felt both terrifying and liberating. Sometimes I would pull over just to scream or cry, releasing emotions that threatened to consume me from within.
Other times, I’d drive in silence for hours, watching the world change through my windshield.
I encountered birds I’d never seen before, inhaled the scent of unknown flowers, and met countless ordinary humans with their own fascinating stories.
The southern girls especially intrigued me, with their fashion choices I couldn’t begin to comprehend–crop tops in weather I’d consider freezing, footwear that seemed designed for looks rather than function.
“Where did you get your hair done?” a girl at a gas station in Montana asked, her eyes wide with admiration. “It’s like, so anime! The silver is perfect.”
When I explained it was my natural color, her jaw dropped. “No way! That’s insane, My stylist would kill to know how to get that shade.”
I hadn’t anticipated this. What had marked me as different in the pack–my unusual silver hair–was apparently enviable in the human world.
“You should totally model,” another girl told me at a diner in Colorado. “Shampoo Co
would pay thousands for hair like that.”
The attention was flattering but dangerous. I couldn’t risk being remembered or, worse, photographed.
What if Leon or Ethan came across my image while searching?
So in a motel bathroom in Utah, I dyed my distinctive silver locks a golden blonde–not unlike Leon’s shade, though I tried not to dwell on that painful
coincidence.
The journey wasn’t always filled with fascination and discovery. Supporting myself as a human girl proved far more challenging than I’d anticipated.
I’d left the pack with only a thousand dollars, and money vanished quickly.
Before finding steady work, I slept in my car most nights, parked in well–lit areas of Walmart parking lots or rest stops.
I learned to arrange my backpack and jacket into a makeshift pillow, to brush my teeth using bottled water, and to change clothes in the cramped backseat without exposing myself to potential onlookers.
One night in Wyoming, I woke to the sound of glass shattering. A disheveled man with wild eyes and alcohol–soured breath was reaching through my newly broken window.
Without thinking, I grabbed Tink–the dagger my father had given me–from beneath my makeshift pillow and slashed at the intruder’s arm.
He howled in pain, blood streaming from a shallow cut across his forearm. “Crazy bitch!” he screamed, staggering backward. “I just wanted some cash!”
I scrambled into the driver’s seat, hand shaking as I jammed the key into the ignition.
I should go back, I thought in panic. Dad or Leon would have done more than just cut him. They would have protected others from him.
1/2
Chapter 10
But I kept driving, tears streaming down my face. That night, I seriously considered turning around, driving back to Alaska, begging for forgiveness. Surely enduring Maya’s smugness and Leon’s cold indifference would be better than this vulnerability, this constant fear…
Instead, I found a 24–hour diner, ordered coffee I couldn’t afford, and formulated a new plan.
The next day, I used some of my dwindling funds to purchase pepper spray, a baseball bat, and heavy duty tape to temporarily repair my window. I also swapped my sleeping schedule, driving at night when most potential threats were visible and sleeping during daylight hours in busier locations.
Over the next three years, I became an expert at temporary employment.
In Arizona, I worked as a summer camp counselor, supervising human children on ‘wilderness excursions that barely qualified as nature walks by werewolf standards.
When one ten–year–old boy tearfully confessed he was scared of the woods at night, I showed him how to identify constellations and told him stories about how the stars would always guide him home–stories my father had once told me.
“You’re not scared of anything, are you, Miss Skye?” he asked, wide–eyed with admiration.
I thought of the grizzly bear, of Leon’s rejection, of nights spent alone in my car.
“Everyone’s scared of something, I told him gently. “The trick is doing what you need to do anyway.”
But most often, I worked as a waitress.
These jobs paid just enough to survive and rarely required extensive background checks or commitment.
When I felt I’d stayed too long, when coworkers started asking too many personal questions or showing genuine interest in friendship, I’d move on.
Three years passed this way, a blur of different jobs, different towns, different faces–none becoming friends, none becoming home.
I was Skye Anderson on my hastily obtained fake human ID, but I was no one, really.
After this year’s New Moon Festival, I arrived in a small Texas town called Boring.
