The Lost Alphas Daughter
If there really are rogues out there.
The clothes are rough, unwashed, but I grab the least offensive ones—a t-shirt, hoodie, and joggers. They’re too big, but I roll the waistband and cinch it tight with a belt. The smell is unpleasant, but it masks my scent. That alone is a small blessing. I grab one more t-shirt stuffing it into the bag, once the air drops in the night I will want all the layers I can get.
My heart hammers as I work. One step at a time. I shove a worn throw blanket into the bag and head downstairs, keeping my movements as quiet as possible.
Bab Populer