Page 30 of The Careless Alpha

The tears came then, silent and relentless, as the bus carried me away from everything I'd ever known.

The journey to Maine took three days and two nights, with stops in cities I'd only read about in books. Salt Lake City, Denver, Chicago—each one a blur of bus stations and vending machine meals and trying to find safe places to sleep during layovers.

I kept to myself mostly, though other passengers occasionally tried to strike up conversations. An elderly woman in Chicago offered me homemade cookies and asked if I wasvisiting family in Maine. A college student in Denver shared his phone charger and told me about the classes he was taking.

Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that the exhausted-looking girl in the back of the bus was a rejected wolf shifter carrying an unwanted child.

They're kind,Sapphire observed after the third person had offered to help me with something.Humans can be kind without expecting anything in return.

It was a revelation that surprised me. In the pack, kindness always came with obligations, with hierarchy and expectations. These strangers helped me simply because I looked like I needed help.

By the second night, I was running dangerously low on money. I bought a package of crackers and a bottle of water for dinner, rationing what little I had left. The morning sickness wasn't helping—what little food I managed to eat often came back up within an hour, leaving me weak and dizzy.

"You okay, hon?" asked the bus driver during a rest stop outside Boston. He was a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a Boston accent. "You look a little green around the gills."

"Just tired," I said, not wanting to explain about the pregnancy. "How much further to Crescent Bay?"

"About two hours once we get back on the road," he said. "You got family waiting for you there?"

I shook my head. "Looking for work."

He studied my face for a moment, taking in my pale complexion and the duffel bag that held my entire life. "Rita's Diner is always looking for good help," he said finally. "Right on Main Street when you get off the bus. Tell her Frank sent you."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it more than he could know.

Two hours later, the bus pulled into Crescent Bay. The town was smaller than I'd expected, with weathered buildings that looked like they'd been fighting the salt air for decades. Theharbor was visible from the bus station, filled with fishing boats and seagulls calling to each other over the water.

It was nothing like the forested mountains of home, but something about the wild, untamed feeling of the ocean called to my wolf. This was a place where we could disappear, where we could start fresh.

A new start,Sapphire said with the first hint of hope I'd felt from her since the rejection.

I shouldered my duffel bag and walked down Main Street, looking for Rita's Diner. The town was quiet in the late afternoon, with only a few people walking the sidewalks and the occasional car passing by. Everyone I saw looked like they belonged here, like they had roots that went deep into the rocky Maine soil.

I found the diner easily enough—a small building with cheerful blue shutters and a hand-painted sign that had seen better days. Through the windows, I could see mismatched tables and chairs, and a woman with graying hair pulling coffee orders behind the counter.

Are you ready for this?Sapphire asked.

"No," I said honestly. "But we don't have a choice."

I pushed open the door, causing a small bell to chime overhead. The woman behind the counter looked up, her sharp blue eyes taking in my appearance with the practiced assessment of someone who'd seen all kinds of people pass through her establishment.

"Help you, hon?" she asked.

"Are you Rita?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"That's me. Rita O'Brien, owner and operator of this fine establishment." Her voice carried a hint of Irish accent that softened the edges of her words. "What can I do for you?"

"Frank, the bus driver, said you might be looking for help," I said. "I'm looking for work."

Rita set down the coffee pot she'd been holding and studied me more carefully. I could see her taking in my pale face, my too-thin frame, the duffel bag that held everything I owned.

"You got experience waiting tables?" she asked.

"Not exactly," I admitted. "But I'm a hard worker, and I learn fast."

"Where you from?"

"Washington State."