Beneath the Alpha’s Nose, Chapter 4

The air feels wrong, heavy with change. Like the room already knows it’s losing me, as if I’ve already slipped through the world I know to somewhere I don’t belong. Maybe this is what dying feels like. It doesn’t seem possible that only a week ago I laid out the plan for Leila, but it’s here; it’s time. Moonlight spills across all the pieces of my life—the books I fought through, clothes I wore until threadbare, little keepsakes from the edges of memory, all Ariana Delacroix and nothing else. By sunup I have to leave it; no room for hesitation.

I glide to the washbasin, strike a candle, and watch the flame eat the darkness. I work lose the floorboard beneath my bed in silence, sliding the wooden box out. I’d kept many things in there over the years. Trinkets of childhood, a love letter from a servant boy who disappeared one day, and now the means of my escape. No one’s ever found it, not even the most obsessive housekeeper. Inside, I uncover my stash, lifting a small cloth to reveal a stolen set of sharp kitchen shears, rolls of binding cloth lifted from the infirmary, fragments of plain, practical clothing pinched from the endless churn of laundry (courtesy of Leila). Each item is a step toward Ari—the name I’ve chosen to go by as a boy. Close enough for me to know it as me, but masculine enough to avoid suspicion—I hope.

I lay everything on the bed in a careful line, the neatness softening the edge of my nerves. It’s been weeks of thinking ahead, collecting what I’d need, but actually doing it makes me shake. I lift the shears, gripping them tight; they’re heavier than they look.

I make myself look in the wardrobe mirror. There she is: Ariana Delacroix, Pack Leader Eliza’s daughter, proper and put-together, the kind of girl who sits motionless in meeting halls. My hair falls dark and long and perfect past my shoulders; blue eyes shadowed in the candle’s half-light, knowing exactly what’s at stake if I fail. I gather the hair in my fist. Feels heavier than it should. I remember my mother’s careful hands, my sister’s laughter braiding it with wildflowers, even my father’s approval at how it set off the Delacroix name. The old self is woven in every strand.

“For survival.” I say softly. Part of me will miss it, but another part of me is exhilarated at the thought of cutting it. What will I look like? Hopefully I will be convincing enough as a boy.

I pull a clump of it away from my head, eyes fixed on the reflection.

Every strand that falls is another thread pulled from the life my father decided for me. Part of me wants to cry, but I can’t afford to grieve what would’ve caged me.

I hold up the shears.

The blades crunch through and something inside me gives way. A lock falls into my palm and I have to force my fingers to open, dropping it onto the stone. The next comes easier, then the third, and suddenly I’m a machine, methodical, pieces falling like leaves in a storm. With each handful on the floor, I feel lighter, less visible, less expected. The shears tick against themselves, relentless. A heartbeat in the dark.

When I put them down, hair falls rough and uneven around my ears. It’s not perfect. But, I suppose it’s not supposed to be. Most boys don’t care enough for that and if I’m an orphan I wouldn’t have a professional cutting my hair.

I nod to myself in the mirror; the mess is a disguise in itself. I rake my fingers through it, shuddering at the unfamiliar feeling.

Binding is worse. I peel off my nightshirt, bare in the cold. The mirror throws back the shape that won’t let me pass as a boy: soft curves I have to erase. I grab the binding and wrap, and wrap, cinching it hard. My breath shortens. There’s no comfort here, just pressure, the reminder that survival is the only thing that matters.

Clothes go on next—the shirt, the trousers, the boots that used to belong to someone else.

Do my hips seem to wide?

I watch the way I move in the mirror; still not right.

This body has always spoken too loudly, told the world exactly what to take from me. Let it whisper now. Let it lie if lying keeps me alive.

I drop my voice, testing. “My name is Ari.”

Too gentle. Too soft. Too careful. How do they do it? Speak like their voices were never questioned? Maybe the trick is to stop asking permission.

I clear my throat, and again; harder, less breathy. “My name is Ari.”

Getting there.

I think of the boys in town: how they walk like they’re claiming ground, how they gesture big, interrupt each other, fill a room and take up space without asking. I plant my feet wider, throw my shoulders back, chin up—a dare in every move. I practice, sitting on the edge of the bed with knees apart, arms loose. I make the postures mine, let them settle under the skin. I speak again and this time it sounds like someone new, someone people might believe. That’s all I need.

Last is the bag: everything I can risk taking. Two extra binding clothes. The coins I’ve saved, small and heavy. An old map from Uncle Mat of the route to Silverpaw Academy. The knife, freshly whetted, wrapped in linen tight. Nothing else.

I wish to myself that I could have gotten my hands on another set of boy’s clothes, but the timing had never been quite right. Better to get something later and not risk anyone learning of my plan before I’m long gone.

My hand finds the pendant Leila gave me. I debate putting it on. It’s too feminine, too easy to mark me as Ariana if someone cares to look. But leaving it twists something deep in my chest, sharper than the bindings. I tuck it beneath my shirt where no one will see.

“That will have to do.”

Everything else I own is dead weight; the books, the dresses, the dolls I used to collect. Those are Ariana’s, not Ari’s. There’s nothing left I can carry—not if I want to disappear completely.

I face the mirror for the last time. The shock of it rocks me. I don’t look like her at all—not anymore. The angles of my face look different with short hair and plain clothes, features harder, more ambiguous. The old self clings at the edges, but the rest is gone. I’m a stranger now, and that’s the point.

It should hurt more, watching her disappear. Maybe it will later, when the danger’s done. Right now, I can’t afford nostalgia. The world won’t miss Ariana Delacroix, Father already made that clear. And maybe that’s my gift to her—a clean death and a name without chains.

I scoop up the hair and cram it deep in the fireplace, smashing it into the cold ashes. If they come looking, there can’t be a single clue of my new identity.

“Goodbye, Ariana.” I whisper. Then lower, almost unfamiliar to myself already: “Hello, Ari.”

I blow out the candle, and darkness falls, complete as forgetting.

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