Goodbye Ohio

Chapter 4

Goodbye, Ohio

POV: Adelina McKenna

There’s a strange kind of silence that follows the truth.

It’s not peaceful. It’s not comforting.

It’s the kind of silence that hums in your bones and makes you feel like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, barefoot, wind howling around you, and someone just whispered: Jump.

After my mother’s confession, everything felt surreal.

She didn’t say much the next morning. I didn’t either. We moved around each other like ghosts quiet, cautious, not sure if the wrong word would break the thin layer of control we were both holding onto.

I packed like I was going on vacation, even though I knew better. Jeans. Hoodies. My one black dress. Toothbrush. Two pairs of beat-up shoes. My sketchpad and pencils, which I hadn’t touched in months. The pendant my mother had kept hidden from me my inheritance, apparently tucked into the pocket of my duffel.

That was it.

Twenty-five years of life distilled into a single worn-out bag.

I couldn’t bring myself to pack anything sentimental. Every time I looked at the framed photos or the chipped coffee mugs or the stack of handwritten birthday cards my mom had saved, my chest squeezed too tight to breathe.

I wasn’t just leaving my home.

I was leaving her.

And worse I didn’t know if I’d ever come back.

We sat on the porch together, sharing a cup of coffee in the pale light of morning.

She was quiet, watching the cars roll down the highway like each one carried a possible future I hadn’t chosen.

Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the mug. I wanted to believe it was just the chill. But I knew better.

“Do you hate me?” she asked.

The question hit harder than I expected.

I blinked. “No.”

She looked at me. “You should. I kept something sacred from you. I made decisions for you. Lied to you.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “You did.”

She flinched.

“But I also know why.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she looked away.

“You were scared,” I added. “And I get it. You were trying to protect me. You didn’t ask for any of this either.”

“I didn’t,” she whispered. “But I would’ve given anything to keep you safe.”

I reached across the table and took her hand.

“I’m still here,” I said. “Still me. Just… more.”

She squeezed my fingers like she was afraid I’d vanish if she let go.

“You’re stronger than I ever was, Addie,” she whispered. “Whatever you find in Aspen whatever they try to make you believe you remember who you are.”

“Adelina McKenna,” I murmured.

She smiled through her tears. “My daughter. A storm in quiet skin.”

The driver arrived at exactly 7:00 a.m.

Same black SUV. Same suited man with mirrored sunglasses.

He didn’t speak when he stepped out just nodded at me, then turned to open the rear door.

My mother stood up, brushing her hands on her jeans like she could scrub away the grief.

“This is it, huh?” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Yeah.”

I hugged her tightly.

She smelled like rosemary and the garden soil she always kept under her fingernails. Like lavender oil and warm cotton and something else I couldn’t name something I wouldn’t realize until later was home.

“You call me,” she said fiercely. “I don’t care if they say no devices or secured lines or encrypted crap you find a way. I want to hear your voice.”

“I will.”

“Every day.”

“I promise.”

She looked at me, really looked at me, and I saw the terror in her eyes.

Not because she didn’t trust me but because she didn’t trust them.

“I love you, baby,” she said, pulling back. “More than the moon. More than blood.”

I kissed her cheek, trying not to cry.

Then I climbed into the SUV and didn’t look back until we hit the freeway.

The car ride was long.

Too long.

I stared out the window most of the way, watching cornfields become highways, highways become forests, forests become mountains.

I didn’t ask questions.

The driver didn’t offer answers.

At one point, I dozed off. When I woke, we were climbing into snow-capped ridges, and the air had shifted.

Not in temperature.

In energy.

Something about the land felt alive.

Not friendly. Not hostile. Just ancient.

As if the trees knew I didn’t belong.

By the time we reached the edge of Aspen, the sun was dipping behind the peaks, casting everything in gold.

I’d seen pictures of the town before ski lodges, celebrity cabins, sprawling estates but none of them did it justice. The roads were so clean they gleamed. The houses looked like boutique hotels. The air smelled like pine and money.

Then we passed a long, winding road framed by stone wolves, and I knew we were somewhere else entirely.

The Silver Fang Estate wasn’t just rich.

It was untouchable.

We passed through two security gates and up a private road that twisted around cliffs and waterfalls. The estate itself was carved into the mountain like it had grown there wood, stone, glass, and elegance all woven into one impossibly beautiful fortress.

The SUV stopped in front of an arched entryway guarded by two men in black uniforms.

The driver turned to me, finally breaking his silence.

“You’ll be escorted to your quarters. The Alpha will make contact when appropriate.”

Then he stepped out, opened my door, and gestured.

This was it.

No grand welcome.

No ceremony.

Just a girl with a duffel bag and a thousand questions.

A woman met me at the front of the estate.

Her hair was slicked back. Her posture military. She wore the same black uniform as the guards, but hers was tailored sharper.

“Maren,” she said by way of introd

uction. “You’ll be in the East Wing.”

Her eyes didn’t linger. Her tone didn’t soften. She didn’t see me as anything other than an obligation.

Maybe even a threat.