Beneath the Alpha’s Nose, Chapter 6

The streets of Pinehaven are all but abandoned by the time true night settles in. I keep to the deepest pockets of shadow, and even with my hair lopped short, the bristling at my nape won’t let me forget how exposed I am. Every new noise stabs sharp, and the press of my sister’s pendant against my chest is a reminder with every step that I am gambling more than just my name. Leaving home behind, stepping into new skin. But it’s still better than waking up as Isaac Banes’s property.

I’ve walked Pinehaven’s winding streets with my father dozens of times, but that was always under the sun, always as Ariana Delacroix. Pack leader’s daughter. Surrounded, protected, visible. Never alone in the dark, never masquerading as a boy clutching for a future built on counterfeit and lies.

Every step feels wrong, like my skin doesn’t fit. The stones know Ariana Delacroix; they’ve carried her laughter, her father’s shadow. But they don’t know me—not this name, not this heartbeat. I wonder if that’s what freedom feels like: untethered and aching.

Three blocks from the wharf, and every step tightens the nerves along my spine until I’m sure something has to snap. It’s so quiet, every footfall echoing like a drop in a bucket, and then—a scrape. Too deliberate for a rat, too jerky for some drunken sailor, and before I can even process what I’ve heard, my hand’s already at the hilt of my dagger, blade half out, body twisted, ready.

And I’m looming over her. Not a guard, not even muscle sent by my father, but a woman so gnarled and bent she hardly seems human. She’s more wrinkle than skin, boney, misaligned joints poking odd angles through her battered shawl. The fog of her pipe smoke hits me first. Then her eyes; bright, sharp, and dangerous, and for an instant I’m convinced she sees everything. Who I am. What I’m running from. The smallest tremor of her mouth and I brace for her to shout for help. Or worse, just whisper my mother’s name and watch me fall to pieces.

She cocks her head, gaze flicking over my cropped hair, and lets that not-quite-smile tug at the ruined corner of her mouth. “Ariana Delacroix,” she says, and the words are gravel dragged over glass, a voice that seems somehow familiar. “But the hair’s new…oh, I see. Playing runaway boy tonight?”

My hands go cold and I take in the empty street, measuring every alley, every shadow. One wrong move and it’s over. “You’re mistaken,” I grind out, dropping my voice like it’ll anchor me there, even though I can hear the edge of fear. She only laughs—a thin, parched sound, almost gentle.

She shuffles closer on her delicate ankles, looking at me like she can tease meaning from the lines on my face. “That chin? Your mother’s, no doubt. And you stand with your sister’s stubbornness.” Her attention darts down to my chest, bound and flat where there should be more. “They say Delacroix girls are clever. Seems the stories don’t lie.”

Her voice cuts years away, down to the bone of childhood—the times Leila and I went with Father to meet the witch by the wharf. Back then I thought she dealt in potions. Now, I see she trades in secrets. Not even half a day’s run from home and I’ve already been identified.

If she says one word… If anyone learns I’m here, Father will have me by dawn. And once they do, there’s only one future: locked in Isaac Banes’ grip, stripped of everything. The panic claws up my arms, and I have three options: threaten her, beg, or run.

But before I can choose, she surprises me, leaning in until her smokey breath curls behind my ear, the scent of pipe and brine almost overwhelming, and whispers, “If it was me running away, pretending to be a wolf boy instead of a wolf girl… Me? I’d want something to hide my scent.” Then she’s drawing away, eyes glinting with something that’s almost warmth. Her wrinkled hand disappears into her shawl, then comes back with a tiny vial. “Take it, pup. Don’t look at me like that. Your father’s not the only one who knows how to keep a secret.”

I take the vial and she totters off into the darkness, humming to herself, and for a moment I just stand there, the relief almost splitting me open. I wait until the last little trace of her disappears into the maze of alleys, then scrub shaking fingers through my short hair and double my pace, leaving the smell of pipe smoke behind and hoping she isn’t lying about keeping secrets.

By the time I get close to the harbor, the smell nearly floors me—a mess of salt, fish, old tar, sweat, booze, and the rot of old planks. It’s a wall, and my nose sorts through it before I can catch myself. Can’t risk that. Stillskin boys don’t go scenting every shift in the wind like wolves. They don’t track passersby by the trace of their footsteps. And they sure as hell don’t growl when things get tense.

Up ahead, a pack of sailors erupts from a tavern, their laughter echoing through the night. Instinct has me ducking into an alley, back smashed against crumbling brick, heart drumming so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t draw attention. The binding around my ribs clamps down, each breath coming up short and sharp. I force my eyes shut, replaying Uncle’s lessons.

Control your body, or it gives you away.

I wait until the group moves on, then slip back out. Every muscle tries to remember what it’s like to move small. I have to teach them otherwise.

Shoulders back, stride long. I make myself look like I belong, just another boy out late. Nothing worth noticing. I walk like I own the place. Boys don’t think about being seen. They assume everyone is watching them, all the time.

The walk to the docks is quick, panic boxed away by sheer determination. I stop in the shelter of a warehouse, scoping out the scene. Five ships at anchor, masts jutting like wolf claws against the sky. Lanterns swinging, pools of gold rolling across the planks.

The smallest vessel stands out—not for flash, but for the battered look of it. The Mermaid’s Folly. Paint flaking, sails badly patched. But the way her crew moves, fast and clean, I know she’s almost ready to leave. And what’s better is that the cargo bears an open-paw mark in silver. It’s for the Academy.

No time to hesitate. I walk up to the gangplank, aiming for the right mix of bravado and invisibility. The man in charge is solidly built, hair graying at the edges, head down in a ledger. I don’t know what I expected, but he’s not impressed.

“Ship doesn’t take passengers, boy. Move it.”

I pull in a breath, drop my voice, chew off the smoothness that marks me as educated—or female—or Delacroix. “Need a ride to Spiritwild.”

He finally glances at me, sizing me up. Lantern glow and all, there’s no way I’ll let him see my eyes. Wolves shine. Humans don’t.

“Spiritwild?” He looks unimpressed, almost amused. “Nothing out there but mist and the fancy academy. You don’t look like you belong at the academy.”

Grip tightening on my satchel, I meet his challenge. “I’ve got business. Out there.”

That gets me a step closer, but not much. “Business? What business does a runt like you have on Spiritwild?” He gets in my space. He reeks of sweat and greed, the kind of man Father could have crushed with a word.

I want to bare my teeth, make him back down. But I force the wolf inside back down. Someone who has been on shore leave at least a few days and hasn’t bathed… Maybe money was the answer to this confrontation.

I reach into my satchel and palm three silver coins, holding them out to him loosely, like I have a lot more where that came from. The silver burns my skin, but I don’t flinch. “That’s my business. Is this ship going?”

His look changes, suspicion melting straight into greed. “Captain doesn’t take passengers,” he says, but it’s softer now. “Especially not for Spiritwild. They’ve got rules out there. More than most places, you know?”

I pull out a fourth coin with my other hand. My fingers are raw, heat searing skin. Why won’t he just take them?

He rubs his chin. “I suppose if you wasn’t actually a passenger…” he muses. He checks over his shoulder, then leans in. “Ship leaves with the tide. If the Captain finds you stowed away, I didn’t see you. Last of the cargo’s going on now. Academy crates, mostly. Tough ones, for books. Hide in one and stay out of sight.”

His hand swallows the coins, and not a moment too soon. It will take most of the ride for those blisters to heal. But, I keep my face tight, nodding once—a wolf nod, but trimmed short to suit a boy. Masculine, minimal.

“Stay hidden,” he mutters, already back to his list. “If you’re caught, I’ll deny everything.”

I hang back. No one’s watching me. I drift to the cargo, circle the crates, find my chance. One of the big ones has enough room. I wedge myself in just in time. Two burly sailors they lift the crate and haul it up the ramp, shifting my stomach into my throat until we’re below deck.

I climb out of the crate. The hold is an assault of mold and brine, tar and sweat, thick enough to burn my nostrils. Before I can really take much in, two more sailors enter. I crouch down, clamping my hand over my face to stifle sound and huddling behind barrels while they tie everything down. When the last of the crew leaves and the hatch clangs shut, I finally exhale. Around me, the scents are different than home. Wine, old paper, preserved fish. But to me, the stink is pure freedom.

I slump against a barrel, fingers digging for Leila’s pendant at my throat. Above, boots clang on wood, calls echo. Sails snap loud, timbers groan, and the Mermaid’s Folly splits the water, running for open sea with me locked in her hold.

Relief and terror come fast and layered. There’s no undoing it now; I’ve left everything behind: family, name, pack, and even my hair. In the dark, surrounded by stillskin smells, I let myself feel the fear. Just for a heartbeat.

Then, like Uncle taught me, I push it down. Name it, own it, set it aside. Fear can’t help me now.

I force a smile.

Somewhere above and behind me, the sea devours the shore that named me. For the first time, no one knows what I am—not wolf, not daughter, not prey. Just a lie drifting toward possibility. Maybe that’s what living really is.

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