The drive out of the packlands was quiet, the early morning sun barely cutting through the dense pine canopy of Pinecreek. The Beast was parked back at the house—for a trip like this, we needed the discretion of a regular vehicle, so we took one of the pack’s spacious SUVs. GG sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the winding road ahead, while Amara was securely buckled into her new car seat in the back, quietly clutching a small plush cat we’d grabbed from the mall.
We stopped at the hospital first to discharge Rachael. When she walked out of the sliding doors accompanied by a nurse, my heart did a painful roll. She was a tall woman, her bleached-blonde hair a frizzy, tangled halo around a face that carried the heavy toll of survival. She looked bad—real bad—the skin beneath her eyes bruised a dark, hollow purple, and her hands shaking slightly from the early stages of detox. Yet, looking at the sharp structure of her cheekbones and the depth of her eyes, you could almost see the vibrant beauty she would have been without the crushing weight of addiction and fear.
The atmosphere inside the SUV was thick as we made the drive toward the regional airport. No one spoke much. Rachael stared out the window at the passing Minnesota fields, her long fingers twitching against her threadbare jeans, while Amara kept her eyes glued to her lap, her little body stiff. The silence wasn’t cold, but it was weighted with the absolute gravity of what was about to happen.
Once we parked at the terminal and found a quiet corner near the security checkpoint, I pulled Rachael aside. GGstayed a few paces back, keeping Amara engaged by pointing out the airplanes taxiing on the tarmac outside the giant glass windows.
I slipped my hand into the pocket of my charcoal hoodie and pulled out a thick, white envelope, pressing it into Rachael’s trembling palm. “This is for you,” I said softly, ensuring my voice didn’t carry across the terminal. “There’s a couple thousand dollars in there. Use it for clothes, toiletries, or souvenirs when you’re feeling better. Whatever you need to start fresh.”
Rachael stared down at the envelope, her cracked lips parting in absolute shock. A tear threatened to spill over her gaunt cheek, but she swallowed it down, shaking her head.
“Veronica… Luna… I don’t… I can’t take this from you. You’ve already paid for the bed. You’re keeping my baby safe for me.”
“Take it,” I insisted, the no nonsense edge returning to my tone, steady and unyielding. “It’s not a gift, Rachael. It’s an investment in the woman Amara needs you to be when you come home.”
Rachael’s jaw trembled, and instead of pocketing the envelope immediately, she reached into her faded canvas bag. She pulled out a legal-sized document, the edges slightly crinkled, and handed it to me. “I was going to give you this at the hospital, but I wanted to wait until I knew we were safe from anyone’s prying eyes.”
I unfolded the paper. It was a certified letter, legally stamped and signed, giving me—Veronica Lane—full custodial rights to Amara Ka’Alani Newsome. Attached to it was a sworn, notarized statement detailing the horrifing reality of her past, explicitly naming the biological father, Jackson J. Jenson, as an abusive man heavily involved in human trafficking and the sale of narcotics as well as other illegal endeavors.
“These should keep her safe with you,” Rachael whispered, her eyes darting around the sterile airport lobby as if Jackson’s wolves might materialize from the shadows. “If he ever tracks her here… if he tries to use the law or his pack to take her… this proves he has no right to her. The human courts will back you, and Stormy will back the rest.”
I looked down at the document, the name Jackson J. Jenson burning into my memory. My inklings didn’t just prickle; they roared, a dark, heavy premonition settling deep into my bones that this man wasn’t just a ghost from Rachael’s past—he was a storm brewing on our horizon. But looking at the little girl watching the planes, the rage inside me turned into a concrete vow.
“I promise you, Rachael,” I said, my voice thick but iron-clad. “I will care for Amara like she was my own blood. No one is touching this little girl. Not Jackson, not his pack, not anyone.”
Rachael let out a ragged sob and dropped to her knees, pulling Amara into a fierce, desperate embrace. “Mara, baby… Mommy has to go away on a big silver bird for a little while. I’m going to get strong. But you stay with Luna Veronica and Alpha Storm, okay? Luna Veronica is going to keep you perfectly safe until Mommy gets back home… healthy and happy.”
“Okay, Mommy,” Amara squeaked, her tiny arms wrapping around her mother’s neck for a brief, heartbreaking second before she stepped back, her small hand immediately reaching out to find mine.
We watched Rachael walk through the security line, her tall, frizzy-blonde figure looking incredibly small as she disappeared into the crowd.
The second we got back into the SUV and pulled out of the airport lot, the heavy silence broke. Amara, now buckled securely into her car seat, began to chatter on, her little voice filling the cabin with a casual, devastating commentary that only a child raised in chaos could possess.
“Mommy didn’t have the black eyes this time,” Amara muttered, petting the soft fur on her toy cat. “Usually, when mommy goes to ‘da hopital,’ her face is all purple an her arm is in a white sling ‘cuz of da bad man. And maybe da house not smell like the burnt rocks anymore.”
In the front seat, GG’s hand flew to her mouth, a soft gasp escaping her lips as she looked out the passenger window to hide her tears. My own throat closed up, the jagged frog returning with a vengeance. Hearing a four-year-old talk about domestic abuse and narcotics as if they were as mundane as the weather was enough to break even the toughest armor.
I looked in the rearview mirror, seeing the pale, thin face of the little girl who had survived so much. From an early age, back in my own turbulent household, I had learned a specific survival mechanism—when the world got too loud and the feelings got too big, you ate your feelings. Food was safety; food was comfort. And when I saw a Little hurting, my immediate, instinctual reaction was to feed them until the sadness went away.
“Hey, flower girl,” I said, my voice forced into a bright, cheerful register as I spotted a retro neon sign ahead. “All this airport business has made my stomach growl. Who wants to stop and get the biggest, thickest milkshakes in Minnesota?”
Amara’s eyes went wide, the dark shadows of her past temporarily banished by the mention of sugar. “Me! Cans I get stawberry?”
“You can get whatever flavor your heart desires, baby,” I promised, pulling the SUV into the diner lot. GG caught my eye from the passenger seat, giving me a tight, grateful nod as she wiped a stray tear from her cheek. We were heading back to the packlands soon, back to the ceremony and the leadership, but for the next thirty minutes, we were just two women protecting a little girl with the only shields we had—chocolate, strawberry, vanilla and a lot of love.