I hadn't meant to stay.That's what I kept telling myself in those first raw, scraping days — that this was temporary, that I was simply passing through, that the Black Thorn pack and its careful silences and its too-observant Alpha were nothing more than a waystation between the life I was running from and whatever hollow thing came after. I had packed nothing when I fled because I owned nothing worth carrying. I left in the dark, in the rain, mud on my bare feet and a sound in my throat that never quite became a scream.I needed no roots.Roots, I had learned, only made it easier for someone to find you. They held you in place when you needed to run. Roots were for people who believed the ground beneath them was safe, and I had stopped believing that a long time ago — so long ago that I could no longer remember what safety had felt like in my body, only that it had existed once, dimly, like a word in a language I used to speak.But days passed. One, then three, then seven. Then more
Magbasa pa
Mag-log in
