Chapter 3 - Sanctuary of Lies

Jolie POV

Through the haze of pain, I hear the trucker's boots pounding across the parking lot as he runs. Car doors slam as the engine starts. Everyone is fleeing from the crazy girl having some kind of seizure behind the dumpster.

The shift reverses itself slowly, my claws retracting with wet popping sounds that make me gag. When it's finally over, I lie shaking in a puddle of rainwater and my own tears.

My wolf retreats deep inside, whimpering with exhaustion. Whatever just happened drained what little strength I had left.

I try to sit up and immediately throw up the few berries I managed to keep down this morning. The bile burns my throat and adds another layer of stench to the dumpster area.

A car engine approaches, tires crunching on gravel. I panic, thinking the trucker came back with friends, but it's just an old Honda with a Jesus fish bumper sticker.

The driver's door opens and a woman gets out. Maybe fifty years old, gray hair in a practical ponytail, wearing a waitress uniform with a name tag that says "Helen." She looks around nervously before spotting me huddled against the fence.

"Oh honey, what happened to you?"

Her voice is genuinely concerned, not the fake sympathy adults use when they want something. I try to speak but only manage a croak.

"Can you stand?" She approaches slowly, hands visible, like she's dealing with a spooked animal. "I work inside. Saw all the commotion through the window."

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Trouble?" She snorts. "That pig Rick deserved whatever you gave him. Been harassing young girls who stop here for months."

She helps me to my feet, and I'm surprised by how strong she is for someone half my size. My legs barely hold my weight.

"When's the last time you ate?" she asks.

"Three days. Maybe four." The words slip out before I can stop them.

Her expression shifts from concern to determination. "Come on. Let's get some food in you before you collapse completely."

I want to refuse, to maintain what little pride I have left. But when she puts her arm around my shoulders and guides me toward her car, I don't resist.

Helen's kitchen smells like cinnamon. For two days, I've slept on her couch, eaten her homemade soup, and almost forgotten what it feels like to be afraid every waking moment.

She doesn't ask questions. Doesn't push for details about why a twenty-year-old girl was passed out behind a gas station dumpster. Just feed me and let me shower and give me clean clothes that smell so good.

"You're looking better," she says, setting a bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of me. "Got some color back in your cheeks."

I managed a real smile, maybe the first one in years. "Thank you. For everything. I don't know how to repay you."

"You don’t need to repay." She sits across from me with her own bowl. "Sometimes people just need help. No strings attached."

The soup tastes great. Like maybe there are good people in the world who won't hurt me just because they can. My wolf has been quiet since the incident at the gas station.

"She's safe," Ash murmurs contentedly. “First time I don't sense fear or disgust."

"Don't get attached," I warn.

"When she finds out what we are" "Maybe she won't care," Ash says hopefully. "Maybe some humans are different."

"I should probably move on soon," I say reluctantly. "I don't want to overstay my welcome."

Helen waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” she says with a warm smile.

Her kindness hits me like a punch to my gut. I’m not used to people wanting me around, especially when I can’t offer anything in return. My throat tightens with unexpected emotion.

“I mean it though,” I insist, forcing my voice steady. “I could help around the house, or”

“Jolie.” Helen’s voice is firm but gentle as she meets my eyes. “You don’t have to earn your place here. You just exist, and that’s enough.”

You just exist, and that’s enough.

The words pull me deep into memory. I’m eight years old again, curled up in my mother’s lap as she braids my hair.

“Mama, why does Daddy look at me funny?” I’d asked, my small voice trembling with confusion.

“What do you mean, little star?” Her fingers paused, then returned to weaving through my hair strands softly.

“Like he’s waiting for me to do something special. But I don’t know what,” I whispered.

Her hands stilled for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft, almost sad. “Sometimes people expect things from us that we can’t give. But you know what I think?”

“What?” I asked, my breath catching.

“I think you’re perfect exactly as you are,” she murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “You don’t have to be anything more than yourself.”

She paused, searching my eyes. “Promise me something, Jolie. Promise me you’ll never let anyone make you feel like you have to earn love. Real love doesn’t come with conditions.”

I’d promised, but even then, her voice betrayed a desperate edge, like she was trying to convince herself as much as me.

Years later, that promise shattered. The last time I spoke with her, she was distant, her eyes cold and tired. I found her in the garden again, tending to her roses as if they were the only things deserving care. My brother’s harsh words echoed in my mind that I was the worst mistake this family had made.

“Mama,” I whispered, my voice barely steady, desperate for reassurance, “does he really think that? That I’m the worst mistake?”

She didn’t look at me. Instead, she cut a rose stem sharply, her voice cold. “Maybe he’s right.”

I recoiled, the pain sharp in my chest. “But you said I was perfect”

“That was before,” her tone hardened. “Before we knew what you really are.”

I reached out, desperate for any warmth, but she stepped back, eyes burning with disgust.

“You’re a failure, Jolie,” she snapped. “A mistake I’m ashamed of.”

The weight of her words crushed me, etched deep into my soul.

Now, I remember the cold silence when she passed a year ago, her death leaving a void I never learned to fill.

Helen’s voice pulls me back gently. “Are you okay, honey? You went somewhere else for a minute,” she asks, concern softening her words.

Tears spilled down my face. “Sorry, I just remembered,” I admit, voice breaking.

Helen’s arms wrap around me, warm and steady, scented with vanilla. “Bad memory?” she murmurs.