Page 31 of Raven

"You think I don’t understand. You think I’m old, and what would I know, right?"

"Things were different for you. You had it easier."

He raised a brow. "I did? Are you sure about that?"

I hadn’t shaken him off my arm, nor tried to get out. But I hated the way they all did that. Anyone older always claimed we didn’t know how lucky we were. Even when they tried to come to my level, recalling their own teenage years, they didn’t get it. "You were born into Society. You’re a tiger. All of that makes it easier for you. You found your mate and your place. You have everything."

I watched him, saw the tick working along his jaw—a rare display of tension. Malcolm rarely gave anything away, and if he did, it was on purpose, but this didn’t feel so intentional. Maybe a slip. Maybe just trying to show me something. His cool green eyes had the tiger behind them, and they flickered with a hundred thoughts. "But you have freedom."

I wanted to scoff at that. "No. You have freedom. You can do whatever you want." He had the world at his control. He and I were on such different sides of things.

"Being alpha doesn’t mean I can do anything I want. On the contrary, it means I can do less than I want. There are thingsin this world, in our lives, that you will not understand. Maybe one day you will, but for now, no. Being alpha means I have less freedom. Everything I do is watched, every move I make is carefully planned. You think your mother controls you? Try being head of every council there is." I went to speak, and he raised a hand. "I will check on the girl for you. I will deal with it, but you must not go looking for her. All you’ll find is trouble, and you have enough of that. I may be the alpha, but there is only so much bending I can manage when it comes to the rules."

I didn't understand why he was watching over me, and at that moment, I wasn't sure I appreciated it. Perhaps one day, but certainly not now. "Why don't we stand up to them?" I asked, meaning the humans. "Why don't we fight them? We're stronger than they are. We could easily overpower each and every one of them."

Malcolm let out a heavy sigh. "You sound like my son. Remember, for every one of us, there are a hundred of them. Do you think they wouldn't band together to take us down? Haven’t you learned from history? Have you not seen what they did to the witches? It feels like we walk a tightrope with them, and I assure you, I feel it more intensely than you can possibly imagine. Ask yourself, do you truly desire war with them? Do you wish to be the executioner? Because that's the path you're contemplating. We'd slaughter them, and then we would become the very monsters they depict us as."

"It would be better than this," I said.

He shrugged. "Maybe. And perhaps one day, we'll see the other side of this conflict, but for now, this is our reality."

When we reached the flat, my mother was already in the kitchen. She sat at the table, strategically facing the door, her arms crossed over her chest in a display of defiant authority. I didn’t expect anything different from her.

"So?" she said, her voice dripping with venom. "What has he done?" Although she was addressing Malcolm, her piercing gaze cut through me. That look, so intense and sharp, could truly kill if given the chance.

"I haven't done anything," I said.

She stood, her posture rigid with barely contained ire. "I wasn't talking to you."

My upper lip twitched in annoyance, and I exhaled sharply through my nose. The urge to snap back at her was overwhelming, but I managed to grind my jaw, clench my teeth, and ball my fists at my sides instead.

"If you did nothing, then why is Malcolm bringing you home?" She turned her inquisition to him. "How much trouble is he in?" Her tone was acidic when directed at me but softened slightly when she spoke to Malcolm. However, it was a façade because I could feel her rage. Despite all my shields and every mental barrier I could muster, her fury pressed against me, making the air throb with tension. It was stifling. I hadn't witnessed her this incensed since I was about ten years old, when I dared to visit a friend’s house without her permission while she was at work. It had triggered a furious storm in her, a reminder of how well I should have known better. That had been another close call to moving. Actually, it had been the catalyst, I think because move number thirteen came not long after, in the middle of the night with all my things in one bag and everything else be damned.

He didn't tell her the whole truth. My heart lodged firmly in my throat. I wasn't scared of my mother, but I disliked provoking her. Her decisions when angry were irrational and invariably disrupted my life. But Malcolm didn’t reveal everything. He simply described it as me having a minor conflict with some human boys and that he had intervened to prevent further trouble.

"Why did they attack you?" she demanded. "What did you do?"

"Sure. It's always my fault," I muttered under my breath.

She folded her arms tighter across her chest. I shook my head and nodded at Malcolm. "Thank you," I said sincerely. I refused to engage further with her, not even granting her a glance. Instead, I walked away and retreated to my room.

I braced myself for her to follow, to explode into a tirade about the sacrifices she'd made for me, about all that I supposedly didn't deserve. I'd heard it so often I could probably recite her speech from memory. If I hadn't been so mentally torn over Tia and trying to connect with her, maybe I could have delved deeper into why my mother’s mood had soured so drastically. She had always been overprotective, a constant throughout my life. When I was younger, more manageable, it was simpler for her to exert control. Typically, our moves were reactionary, based on misunderstood glances or whispered words, but this level of conflict was new.

I needed to get out, to see Tia and ensure she was safe. The turmoil at home could wait. Right then, Tia was my priority. I just had to figure how to get past my mother and to her.

When I was little, she had been the perfect mother. She taught me to read and write, kept me home, and I learnt everything from her. Maybe it was just that I'd grown up, but back then, I didn't care what it was. All I knew was that I wanted a life of my own, and she was hell-bent on not letting me have one.

I think I fell asleep because when I opened my eyes, a throbbing ache pounded in my head and hunger roiled in my belly, urging me to shift and hunt. Darkness had replaced the sunlight that had been streaming through my window.

I sat up and listened for any sign of my mother, but the flat was silent. I let down my shields; silence didn’t mean she wasn’tthere—she could be reading, sleeping, or simply being quiet. But there was nothing. No emotions, no anger.

Rubbing my eyes, I shifted to the side and checked the time. "Shit." It was just after one in the morning. Had I slept that long? I wasn’t even sure what time Malcolm had brought me back.

Slipping out of bed, I eased the door open, cautious, in case my senses were betraying me. The place was shrouded in darkness. There was no note on the table, nothing to indicate where she might have gone. Work, probably, but then my eyes landed on two familiar bags on the small sofa. I knew without checking what was inside. Our things. My heart thumped wildly. No, not again. I wasn’t fucking moving again. Peering into the bag, I ground my jaw."I’m not going with you."

She was planning to run again, to take us away again. But there was nowhere for us to go, and I liked it there. We had what we needed. It wasn’t much, and we weren’t rich, but I had some semblance of a life that she let me have.

Going back into my room, I searched for my keys, which I usually threw onto the side. They weren’t there. I checked my pockets, not there either. Not in my jacket or in the lounge. "No ..." I exhaled deeply. She had taken them. She had locked me in and taken them.

---