Page 2 of Healed in the Alpha's Embrace
George had never made a move towards Ro before, but this time, when our son had talked back at him, he’d raised his hand. I’d managed to take the hit meant for Ro—this time. What if George went for my son when I wasn’t in the room? The veryidea of Roland suffering an injury at the hands of his father made me ill. George was a monster.
And I could no longer delude myself into thinking I could protect Roland from the truth. My guts churned with guilt as I considered the damaging example I was setting for my son, exposing him to the horrifying proof of his father’s abuse.
“Why does Dad get so mad?” Roland asked against my shoulder.
I stroked his hair, the black strands slipping through my fingers. “I don’t know, baby. I wish I did.”
“Is it because of me?” His voice came out small and fearful.
“Never,” I said fiercely, pulling back to look him in the eye. “This is not your fault. You hear me? None of this is your fault.”
He nodded slightly, his shoulders slumping under the burden of our world. This kid was too smart, too observant for his own good. He asked questions I couldn’t answer. I was afraid that if we stayed, the growing storm inside him would one day meet the hurricane that was his father.
“Come on,” I said, gritting my teeth against the pain as I stood. “Let’s find something to take your mind off all this.”
“Okay,” Roland said, taking my hand. His trust in me was unwavering, as always, and guilt clenched my heart for raising him in this environment.
Stepping into Roland’s room was like entering a sanctuary. The gentle glow of his nightlight illuminated his collection of model airplanes, creating a soothing atmosphere. But tonight, the darkness that seeped in from the world outside its walls had tainted even this safe space.
“I hate him,” Roland spat.
“Roland—” I began, but he cut me off.
“I want to make him stop,” he said, his face screwed up in anger. “I won’t let him hurt you again. I’ll stop him.”
My heart froze. It had come to this. I couldn’t ignore it any longer. My eight-year-old son deserved a carefree childhood away from his father’s abuse. I refused to let George’s actions taint my son’s innocence any further. Every muscle in my body stiffened at the idea of my little boy defying his father. George would see it as a threat to his control and wouldn’t hesitate to respond with aggression, even though our son was just a child.
This had to stop. Now.
“You’re not going to do that,” I said firmly. “We’re going to leave, Roland. We’re going to get away from here.”
“But how?” His voice wavered. “Dad watches everything.”
“Trust me, Ro,” I said as a plan formed in my desperate mind. “I’ll find a way.” I had to. I was under no illusion anymore that my life depended on it. Every time George lost control of his temper, he hurt me worse than the last time. My human body didn’t stand a chance against his shifter strength.
The next morning, I waited for my moment. George had left instructions for heightened security—his paranoia always peaked after his outbursts. To my relief, Lucas was on patrol. The young guard occasionally showed me a kindness that seemed out of place within these walls. He did nothing particularly noteworthy that would warrant the other men informing George, but I could tell from the way he looked at my injuries that he was not as immune to the abuse as the older staff. After a particularly brutal beating, he’d risked George’s disapproval when he secretly handed me some much-needed pain medication. According to George, pain meds were beneath him, which meant he didn’t keep them in the house. Just another form of his absolute control.
I slipped into the kitchen, my heart hammering against my ribs—ribs that ached with every panicked beat. Lucas was there, alone, his back to me as he looked for something in the pantry.I closed the door with a soft click and leaned against it, my breathing shallow.
“Lucas?” Oh my God, I was so scared.
He turned sharply, surprise etched on his face. “Mrs. James? Is everything okay?”
“Lucas, I...” Could I risk asking this of him? But desperation left no room for doubt. “I need your help.”
He frowned and wiped his hands on his apron, visibly wary. “With what?”
“Please, I need... I need something to communicate with my family.” My words tumbled out in a rush. “A phone, a laptop, anything George doesn’t have access to.”
“Mrs. James, you know I can’t?—”
“Lucas, please.” I stepped toward him, twisting my hands together. “You’ve seen what he does. It’s getting worse. If I don’t get out, if we don’t leave, he’ll—” I couldn’t finish the sentence, afraid to give voice to the grim reality that awaited me.
He looked at me, really looked, and saw the bruised woman standing before him. His jaw clenched, and a battle raged behind his eyes.
“Okay,” he said after an eternity. “I’ll find something. But we have to be careful.”
“Thank you,” I said, sagging in relief. “Thank you so much.”
