An hour later, Rosie walked alongside Clark, feeling more like herself than she had in weeks.

  Clean, refreshed, and clothed in a loose, comfortable dress—its fabric adorned with small flowers that had delighted her the moment she saw it—she almost felt normal. Almost. A quiet, fleeting moment of warmth.

  But it didn't last. The stares were a good reminder.

  Her recovery impressed her. There was soreness when she moved, and earlier, when she had accidentally knocked her stomach while dressing, a sharp pain had shot through her. But compared to what she had expected, it was nothing short of miraculous.

  Clark led her deeper into the heart of the pack's territory, her two silent bodyguards trailed close behind—never far, never relaxed. The Beta had disappeared while she was bathing, and she didn't regret his absence.

  The pack house was their destination. Food first, then the Alpha.

  Rosie remained quiet, taking in her surroundings without slowing her pace. The pack was structured like a small town, modest cabins scattered around the woods. A large field sprawled in the distance, where werewolves sparred, some in human form, others on four legs. Not far from it stood a small building, children running and laughing in its yard.

  But it was the people that drew Rosie's attention. They watched her. Not outright hostile, but not friendly either. She felt their eyes on her before she even looked their way. The weight of them—curious, guarded, assessing. She wasn't welcome. She wasn't a guest.

  She was a rogue in their home.

  Clark must have noticed the tension, because his voice broke the silence. "It's a beautiful pack," he remarked lightly, as if that would distract her from the unspoken wariness surrounding them.

  Rosie's lips parted slightly, debating a response.

  Her eyes flickered to a woman across the path. The stranger's gaze was sharp, a quiet, restrained disapproval. Rosie met it without hesitation.

  The woman turned away first.

  Rosie exhaled as tension coiled deep in her stomach. She knew how packs viewed rogues—didn't mean it didn't sting. Still, she forced a small, neutral smile. "It is," she said, her voice even.

  Clark chuckled, oblivious—or pretending to be. "As much as I appreciate the compliment," he said, smiling warmly, "I'm not the one you should be telling."

  She glanced at him, brow arching slightly. His smile held something else now. Amusement.

  Before she could question it, he added, "Save it for the Alpha."

  Rosie offered no answer. Instead, her focus dropped to a little girl standing nearby. She wasn't staring like the others. Just watching, a hesitant curiousness written in the blinks of her lids. When Rosie met her gaze, the child lifted a hand, a tiny, cautious wave. Rosie hesitated—then lifted her own. The girl beamed.

  Her mother, standing behind her, yanked her away.

  Rosie's breath stilled for half a second. Then she exhaled, shifting her focus forward.

  She knew better than to be naive. Packs didn't like rogues. But perhaps her petite form, her lack of aggression, made her seem harmless enough for them to tolerate. Female rogues weren't as feared as males, they weren't as unpredictable or dangerous, just unfortunate things of the wild.

  Maybe—just maybe—her habit of softly greeting anyone who met her gaze helped too.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The doctor entered first. Rosie took a deep breath before following, feeling Broad's presence close behind her.

  Inside, the space surprised her. She had expected something cold, something meant to intimidate. Instead, the common area was lived in. Worn couches, small tables, shelves filled with books and board games.

  The moment she stepped in, conversation stilled. She felt the shift, the way shoulders tensed and glances flickered toward her—brief, but weighted. The lingering stares that made her itch under her skin. Some of them recovered quickly, a few even offered polite nods. But none of them truly smiled.

  Clark didn't slow. He steered her toward an open doorway leading into a spacious kitchen.

  The scent of food filled the air. Long wooden dining tables stretched across the room, clearly meant for large gatherings. A boy and two girls sat at one of them. The moment Rosie entered—they stopped talking. Their expressions didn't shift to hostility, exactly. But there was a pause. A silent moment of processing, of deciding how to react.

  Her guards lingered near the door. As silent as ever.

  "Welcome to our common kitchen," Clark said with a smile. "Technically, it's only used by those who live in the pack house."

  "Technically?" Rosie asked, scanning the space. It was charming—wooden cabinets, ample counter space, and even a bar tucked into the back corner. She hadn't been in a proper kitchen since she was a teenager. The thought left a strange taste in her mouth.

  Clark smirked. "Let's just say the young ones treat it like their personal hangout—snacks, drinks, parties."

  He gave her a look that somehow said I was young too, once.

  Rosie didn't respond. She could feel the three wolves at the table still watching her.

  He then pointed to the tables. "Why don't you go sit and I'll bring you something to eat, yes?"

  She nodded, watching as he rummaged through the fridge.

  And then—without hesitation, without waiting for an invitation, she walked straight toward the trio at the table. She caught the way they tensed and did all she could to ignored it.

  She extended her hand.

  "Rosie."

  A beat.

  Then—the redhead took it first. "Sadia." She tilted her head, eyes flickering with curiosity. "That's Mila," she motioned to the quiet brunette beside her, "and Rafe."

  The boy offered a small nod.

  Sadia's gaze sharpened. "You're the rogue," she said bluntly.

  Rosie heard Mila suck in a breath, but Rosie merely raised an eyebrow. Sadia hummed in response, but before she could elaborate, Clark appeared, setting a plate in front of Rosie. A simple sandwich with fresh vegetables.

  "Sorry I didn't whip up something more extravagant," Clark teased.

  "It's perfect. Thank you."

  Clark gave an approving nod. "I'll be bcak, I'll inform the Alpha we're coming."

  Rosie nodded, and just like that, he was gone. She took a bite of her sandwich—it was good. Then, she turned back to the others.

  "So," she prompted, "what have you heard?"

  "You shouldn't worry about it," Rafe said quickly, but Sadia was less inclined to hold back.

  "They say you're running from some monstrous rogue," she said bluntly, "who literally disemboweled you."

  Mila recoiled at the words.

  Rosie swallowed her bite. The story had spread, then, and the whole pack must have some version of it by now. No surprise there. She had arrived half-dead, and two weeks of rumors would only make the tale wilder.

  She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I wasn't at my best."

  Sadia leaned in, scrutinizing her. Sadia wasn't satisfied; she was fishing. "They also say he was your mate."

  Mila groaned. "Sadia!"

  "What? Nothing wrong with a little curiosity."

  Rosie's mind reeled, blood draining from her face. Sadia smirked, her gaze unnerving Rosie; her fish had risen to the bait. Before she could say another word, a hand landed on Rosie's shoulder.

  Clark.

  "Sorry I took so long," he said smoothly, but his gaze was locked on Sadia, sharp with silent reprimand. "Are you ready?"

  Rosie didn't hesitate. She stood, ignoring the half-eaten sandwich, ignoring the way her fingers trembled slightly as she pushed back from the table.

  She walked briskly from the kitchen, Clark falling into step beside her, her guards never far, wordless. She had no idea where she was going, but she needed to move, to shake the word from her mind.

  "I'm terribly sorry about them," Clark said, sighing. "Young wolves tend to lack tact."

  Rosie barely registered his words. She only realized she was walking too fast when Clark cleared his throat, struggling to keep pace.

  She forced herself to slow. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

  Clark pursed his lips. "You know," he said carefully, "we'll have to ask you some questions, too."

  She didn't respond. They could ask, but she couldn't promise answers.

  They neared a door. Voices murmured on the other side. Rosie caught the tail end of a conversation.

  "—may not feel it. Prepare yours—"

  The voice stopped as they reached the threshold.

  Clark placed a hand on the door handle. Her guards took position on either side.

  Then—she smiled. A small, practiced thing. A survivor's reflex.

  And just like that, she stepped forward.

  Straight into the lion's den.