Alpha Dom and His Human Surrogate

Chapter 160 — Refugees

Ella

I’d known it wasn’t going to be easy. I was prepared to hear from grieving widows, wounded warriors, and heartbroken families. I was prepared to see their gruesome injuries and desolate faces, to hold their hands while they wept. I was not prepared for the orphans… or for the parents who lost their children.

When we first walked into the main tent, the refugees had been too caught up in their own worlds to notice us, but that quickly changed. As soon as they realized that not only the Vanaran King, but myself, Henry and Roger were present, they were on their feet, gathering around us in eager throngs. I’m not sure why it surprises me, but they seem even more thrilled to see me than the others, and soon a pink blush is covering my cheeks as they cry out my name. “It’s Ella! It’s our Luna!” More than one wolf throws their arms around me, and despite everything these people have been through, they only express worry for me and Sinclair. “We’re so glad you’re all right. Is Alpha Dominic—”

“He’s safe.” I promise. “He’s in the capital trying to build the war effort.” I share, raising my voice so I can be heard over the melee. “

He would have come along to see you but he’s spending all his time planning and trying to make alliances. He’s determined to take back the continent from Damon before anyone else can be harmed … but it’s slow going.”

Murmurs of understanding move through the crowd, and I’m ushered in to sit at the heart of the group. A hollow-eyed woman moves all the clothing and personal items from her cot so that I can sit down, ignoring my protests. Soon I’m seated in a large circle, with shifters gathered around on the floor or other cots. The people seem to want to hear the story of our escape, but I can’t allow this.

“Dominic and I got out very early, because the Royal Army was on our doorstep. We don’t know what’s been going on at home except for the few videos people have managed to get out past the media blockade. What we need most is to hear from you, we need to know how the pack is doing, we need to know what we can do to help you feel at home here. And your stories can help us understand the situation on the ground so we can fight back where it counts.”

The refugees exchange a few mournful glances, before they start speaking one by one. Over the next few hours I hear so many stories of tragic loss, violations and abuse, that it’s all I can do not to fall to pieces. I listen with all my attention, trying not to steal focus by making a scene and crying like a baby, no matter how badly I want to. I thank the people for sharing their experiences, giving hugs and making notes for myself so I can work with Gabriel on finding places for all these people to stay. I’m actually proud of how well I manage to keep it together, until we visit the tent where the orphans and unaccompanied children are staying. My first thought when I enter is that it’s much, much too quiet. I believe any place where children reside should be loud and messy, chaotic with the energy and playfulness of little ones.

room full of pups who have aged well beyond their years in the last few

teenagers here, though the group seems to skew younger overall. However, unlike the adults, the children don’t seem to care that they have visitors, or even notice that we’re here. There are neglected toys sitting

a couple of dolls and staging my own small-scale production of a popular fairy tale. I’m sure I seem like I’ve lost my mind as I begin speaking in silly high pitched voices and ridiculous dialogue, but soon enough a small herd of hesitant pups have gathered around me. I pretend not to see them at first, then pause, “If only I had someone to play the witch.” I muse aloud, tapping my finger to my

voice murmurs beside me, holding out a third

pleasure and pretending like this is no big deal. “But I only have two hands…

girl balks slightly.

up our own story.Sometimes that’s the best thing to do when things don’t go as

in my hand over to her, pointing it in the direction of the offered doll. “Hmm, are

voice to it’s lower octave and says, “I’m a bad witch of

my doll’s hands so that they’re raised in the air above it’s head. “Aaaahhhhh, it’s a witch, it’s a

the other children join into our game of make believe, until they’re enjoying themselves so much that I’m able to back away

her own. I’m so caught up in my wrathful fantasies, that I almost don’t notice a pale woman near the edge of the play area. She’s

your name?” I

surprise, then drop to my round belly almost as quickly. Something inside her hardens, and she barely

we’re meeting in these circumstances, Isabel.” I reply softly. “I’m

know who you are.” She answers,