It’s Time: Lora’s Perspective

I push the peas around my plate, watching James cut his meat with mechanical precision while Sophia stares at her untouched dinner. We're playing house, the three of us, pretending this is just another family meal when we all know it might be our last. Tomorrow is my daughter's twenty-first birthday, if she makes it that far. The clock on our kitchen wall ticks toward seven-thirty, each sound like a hammer hitting the final nails in our family's coffin. I reach for my water glass with fingers that don't quite shake, a small victory.

"More potatoes, Sophia?" I ask, my voice too bright, too normal.

My daughter looks up, those hazel eyes, so much like my own, clouded with fear she's trying desperately to hide. "No, thanks, Mum."

James clears his throat. "The roast turned out well, Lora."

"I used rosemary this time," I reply, as if we're discussing recipes rather than sitting through what might be our final meal together.

We've been preparing for this night for years, but nothing could truly ready us for the weight of these moments, the way time seems both frozen and rushing forward.

I study my daughter across the table, her delicate features, the auburn hair she twisted into a braid this morning, the gentle slope of her shoulders. All the parts of her that make her my Sophia, not just some prize broodmare for an alpha with enough money to buy her.

James takes a sip of water, his eyes never leaving the window that faces our front yard. He's been alternating between watching the road and checking his watch since we sat down. My mate of twenty-five years, the steadfast Beta who's served our pack loyally until the moment our daughter's future hung in the balance. Now we're prepared to throw it all away, our positions, our home, possibly our lives, for her freedom.

"Remember when you were seven," I say suddenly, unable to bear the silence, "and you insisted on making pancakes by yourself?"

Sophia's lips quirk up slightly. "I covered the entire kitchen in flour."

"Your father walked in and thought it had snowed indoors."

A genuine smile breaks through, brief but precious. "Dad sneezed for ten minutes straight."

James chuckles, the sound rusty with disuse. We haven't had much to laugh about these past five days.

I reach across the table and squeeze Sophia's hand. Her skin is cool against mine, her fingers tightening around my own.

How many more times will I get to hold my daughter's hand?

To see her smile?

To hear her laugh?

The doorbell rings.

All three of us freeze, the sound cutting through our home like a blade. Our forks hover mid-air, the fake normalcy of our dinner shattered in an instant. Sophia's face drains of colour. James's jaw tightens as he sets down his knife with deliberate control.

"Stay here," he says, his voice steady despite the wild flare of panic in his eyes.

I watch my mate rise from the table, straightening his shoulders as he moves toward the front door. Through our bond, I feel his fear, his rage, his fierce determination. Twenty-five years together has made our connection strong, unbreakable even in this moment of crisis.

'Two SUVs,' he sends through our mind link. 'Elder Nora Stone herself, with at least two guards.'

My blood turns to ice. Not just any Council representative, but Elder Stone, the architect of the modern Omega Directive herself. She wouldn't come personally unless...

'Sophia must have tested extraordinarily high,' I reply, my mental voice trembling where my physical one cannot afford to. 'Get her talking. I'll get Sophia out.'

I turn to our daughter, whose eyes are fixed on the hallway where her father disappeared. "Sophia," I whisper, urgent but gentle. "It's time. We need to go. Now."

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by resistance. "But Dad…"

"Is buying us time." I stand, pulling her up with me. "We've prepared for this. You promised."

Her lower lip trembles, but she nods. I guide her toward the kitchen's back door, my arm around her shoulders. We move silently, years of preparation guiding our steps. Through the window, I catch glimpses of black-suited figures positioning themselves around our property. My heart hammers against my ribs, but my hands remain steady as I unlock the door.

From the front of the house, I hear James's deep voice, the formal greeting of a Beta welcoming a Council Elder. He's playing his part perfectly, the respectful pack official who has no idea why such an esteemed visitor would grace his humble home.

"I can't leave you and Dad," Sophia whispers, tears spilling onto her cheeks. "They'll kill you both."

I cup her face between my palms, memorising every detail, the constellation of freckles across her nose, the tiny scar above her eyebrow from falling out of a tree at nine, the stubborn set of her chin that's all her father.

"Listen to me," I say fiercely. "Your father and I have lived. We've made our choices. But you, you deserve freedom. Not to be some alpha's property, not to be bred like livestock. You deserve to choose your own path."

"Mum—"

"I need you to shift and run. Head south like we planned. Don't look back, don't hesitate."

Her tears fall faster now, silent but devastating. I pull her into my arms one last time, breathing in her scent, wildflowers and pine, with the distinctive sweet undertone that marks her as a true omega. My precious girl, my miracle child.

"I love you," I whisper against her hair. "More than my own life. Now go. Be free. Live."

I push her gently toward the door. Sophia steps outside, her feet bare against the cool grass. She looks back at me once, her face a portrait of anguish, before closing her eyes and letting the shift take her. Her human form blurs, bones and muscles rearranging in that magical, painful transformation that still fascinates me even after all these years.

Where my daughter stood moments before, Nyx emerges—sleek black fur with those striking silver-grey eyes. Larger than most omega wolves, her form powerful despite her designation. The silver crescent marking on her chest gleams in the moonlight.

"Run," I whisper. "Don't stop for anything."

Nyx, my daughter in her wolf form, stares at me for one heartbeat, two. Then she turns and bolts toward the tree-line at the edge of our property, a shadow moving through shadows.