The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 263

“Because I don’t want you walking blind.”

I tell them the paths that avoid known conflict zones. I mark them on a rough map, fold it carefully, and hand it to the father. I give them supplies anyway. Food. Water. A med kit.

“If you change your mind,” I add, “this is where you can find us.”

The daughter watches me like she’s memorizing my face, like she wants to know if regret will find me later.

“Good luck,” I say, and mean it.

They leave before noon.

The day moves on. That’s the cruelty of it. There’s always something else to handle.

“Savannah, we’re short on space near the west line,” someone tells me.

“Shift the overflow closer to the creek,” I reply. “Keep families together.”

More logistics. More quiet conversations. More decisions stacked on top of each other until they blur.

The message comes after dark.

Not official. Not formal. A fragment passed hand to hand until it reaches me stripped of anything unnecessary.

“They didn’t make it far,” the runner says quietly, eyes down. “The family you spoke to.”

My chest tightens. “Alive?”

“Some of them. Not all.”

That detail is supposed to be comfort. Survivors only. No confirmation beyond that. No names attached yet.

“Thank you,” I say. “You can go.”

I stand there alone long enough for the world to tilt.

I make it back to my room on muscle memory. Close the door. Lock it. Slide down until I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around myself.

I don’t cry.

Not at first.

I stare at the wall. At the baseboard that needs repainting. At a small crack I hadn’t noticed before.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Slow. Controlled. Like I’m managing an injury instead of grief.

My wolf presses close, not frantic, not wild. She’s heavy inside me, solid and aching. She remembers the girl’s eyes.

The breakdown comes quietly.

No sobs. No sounds at all. Just breath hitching once, then again.

“No,” I whisper, though there’s no one to hear it.

Tears spill without ceremony, hot and relentless. My shoulders shake, but I keep it contained, palms pressed hard into my thighs like I can anchor myself by force.

Silence again.

Leadership includes choosing who you fail.

The truth lands fully formed, heavy and undeniable.

“I hate that this is part of it,” I whisper.

Ben’s voice stays steady. “You don’t have to like it for it to be true.”

The knowledge doesn’t harden me.

It sinks deeper than that, settling somewhere vulnerable and alive. It adds weight to every future decision, not armor.

“I don’t want to stop feeling this,” I say.

“I know,” he replies. “And you won’t.”

He shifts closer, his arm resting against mine, solid and real. He doesn’t say it’ll be okay. He doesn’t tell me I did the right thing.

He just stays while I sit with the truth of it.

And when I finally straighten, wiping my face with the back of my hand, breathing steady again, I know this will follow me into every room, every meeting, every choice.

Not as fear.

As depth.