Chapter 3

Patricia

I drag my feet forward, intent on dying in my bed as soon as I get home.

Since I'm not rich, I still live with my parents. I'm moving out next year, thank god for that, because my parents aren't supportive of me at all. They are Dior's brainwashed pawns, clueless about the deep hatred I hold for their beloved alpha.

As expected, my mother, Elena, is already waiting by the door as I walk across our garden covered with red and brown oak leaves. She is wearing a white blouse and black pants. An apron is slung over her shoulder, and her glare is intense.

I know without asking that she has discovered the latest rumor that I left the pack to become a rogue. Her expression says it all and does nothing to hide her inner rage.

"Patricia!" Disappointment is radiant on my mother's face, and her nostrils flare with disapproval. With her dark hair and heart-shaped face, we look like clones. "How dare you leave the pack! Do you have any idea what it means to be a rogue? You haven't even found your mate yet! Who will protect you?!"

With bitterness, I walk right past her. I take off my shoes, knowing her eyes are glaring me down. She is taller than me, but I'm not frightened, and I will never apologize for standing up for myself and leaving my omega life behind. I'm done being bullied.

"Patricia, are you ignoring me?!"

I walk into our kitchen, aware of my mother following me. Without a care in the world, I take out a Pepsi from the fridge. I thought I would be a mess after leaving my old pack, but without Dior's voice inside my head, bubbles of joy are soaring up to my throat.

Today will be my rebirth.

And tomorrow, I will be a little stronger.

"PATRICIA!"

I finally turn around, meeting my mother's glare. Her fingernails have turned into claws, and I smile. She has never been good at hiding her anger, which is one of her flaws.

"I heard you the first time."

"Why did you leave the pack?!"

"I'm tired of the werewolf life," I tell my mother fiercely. "We have too many rules, too many rankings, and incredible discrimination among our kind. After I've graduated from upper secondary school, I want to design wedding cakes—not howl at the new moon."

My mother's eyes narrow. "Patricia, you can't run away from what you are, and leaving the pack is the stupidest decision you've ever made! You're no longer protected by the alpha and have turned yourself into a target for witches and vampires seeking a new toy!"

Sorrow wrecks my senses when I peer into my mother's worried eyes. Her anger has been replaced by concern, and I tilt my head, trying to offer her my most reassuring smile.

"I'm not good at being a werewolf." My voice is calm, and my words are the truth. "Unlike all those heroines in the various werewolf books I've read, I'm not secretly a princess sheltering hidden powers. Neither will I hit the mountains to train and become unexplainably strong. I'm only Patricia—please accept me for who I am. My pack couldn't do that, but you're not only a werewolf; you're also my mother."

My mother opens her mouth, then closes it again with a hundred words written on her round face, but her sad expression tells me she won't act upon them.

"I take great pride in my role as the alpha's advisor." Her words break my heart, yet I stand tall. "You know I can't risk everything—I've worked hard for this, Patricia."

"I understand." I fucking don't, but werewolf logic runs deeper than blood, it seems.

"And..." She hesitates, glancing away in shame, and my heart succumbs to nothing before she even utters her sentence because I know what will come out through her mouth. "I can't shelter a rogue, Patricia—you know it's against the rules."

I blink multiple times until I finally break and laugh as a broken record played on repeat. "You're all insane—werewolves are sick in the head, and all these rules are ridiculous!"

"Patricia..."

"No!" I shout, with tears falling down my cheeks. Our bridges are burning down. I can feel it in my bones. Right now, I'm standing in the ashes of our daughter and mother bond. "Don't explain yourself after you chose a stranger instead of your daughter! How could you do this to me? All of you werewolves are nutcases!"

"But you're a werewolf too..."

"Yes, I am! But if you and Dior were hanging from the side of a mountain, waiting to be saved, I would rush to your aid first because you are my family! You're my mother!"

"Patricia..."

My mother is wearing her heart on her sleeve, showing the inner battle against her motherly instincts and the werewolf ones. The latter is winning, though, and my shredded heart bleeds.

"I will take my leave."

Shocks seep into her features when I walk into the hallway. Every part of me is hurting, and every movement is heavy. I'm losing my grasp of reality, and deep inside, I'm hoping this is an awful nightmare.

A headache throws inside my skull as I bend down. I'm busy putting on my shoes when words return to my mother.

"But shouldn't you head upstairs and pack your stuff?" She asks. "You will need clothes and clean underwear."

I glare at her. "No, I want nothing to do with you—keep my stuff. I will figure something out."

My mother shed a single tear, but I'm out through the door before she has time to break me further. I'm too proud to let her see me cry, and she sure as hell doesn't deserve my tears.

I rush between the trees in our backyard, shape-shifting without caring about my clothes. They rip and turn into broken strings, and I shake my fur before darting into the forest.

With my sadness ripping through me like a storm, I let it carry me past trees and rocks I've never seen before. Leaves are hurdling down from the sky, and I jump over sticks and stones.

How could my mother do this to me?

And why is Dior always the cause of my misery?

He is a goddamn curse!

Furiously, I pick up speed and dart past the river. I've never run this far before, and I'm aware this isn't Winterbite territory. The hills from here belong to another pack, yet I'm not afraid.

I keep running, allowing large flakes of snow to land on my nose. I've always been drawn to winter and its light colors. Christmas is my favorite holiday, and I love those cheesy movies about finding true love under the mistletoe.

My heart cracks at realizing it will never happen to me.

In a perfect world, I would be with someone already. I'm nineteen and haven't felt the mate-bond, meaning my mate probably doesn't live in the same town, or they are under the age of eighteen.

Damn, I wish to find them. Hopefully, my mate is sweet as sugar, someone whose smile can light up this entire town. I want to share my cookie dough with a smiling face and build a future with a gentle soul.

All the girls find that floating, sweet and addicting super-love in the romance books—I want that emotion too, but instead of riding the wave, I want to drown and coat my senses with love. I so badly want to experience my insides filled with bubbly, hot chocolate.

And my kind is known for having a unique mate, someone hand-picked only for you by the moon goddess. But considering my luck, mine probably ran into a bus and died.

Loneliness wrecks me until I hear a recognizable howl—Dior is calling for me, but I won't head his way. I will never be his little omega again. It's time I focused on myself.