Rejected by the Beta, Claimed by the Alpha

Chapter 163: Worse Things Than Those Inside

LUCAS POV:

I went to the waiting room, trying to breathe. Trying to think. My thoughts were spiraling—panic scratching behind my eyes like rats in a box.

So much for my fucking escape.

But then it hit me—what if I didn’t fly out? What if I could cross the border by bus, and then take a flight from the next country over? Maybe there was a crack in their perfect little trap. Maybe the bastards hadn’t locked down the land routes yet. The hope burned in me like a lit match in a gas-filled room.

Hope flickered. Not a flame, but a spark. And in a place like this, even a spark was blinding.

I got up fast—too fast. My legs were still sore, my muscles tight and bruised. But I didn’t care. As long as I got out.

Out. Out. Out.

This time, I hailed a taxi. The city was waking up around me, a cold sun rising over buildings that felt too still, too quiet—like a stage set, waiting for the actors to return. It didn’t take long to find another cab. The cab that stopped was driven by a woman—slim, maybe in her mid-twenties, with dark circles under her eyes like bruises. Her skin was pale, but not unnaturally so. Still, there was something off. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and she moved like her bones ached from something far deeper than fatigue.

"Where to, champ?" she asked, a tired smirk on her lips.

"Any bus traveler’s agency that runs cross-border," I said quickly, shoving myself into the back seat.

She snorted. "So the plane was canceled, huh?"

"Yeah. All outbound flights. Apparently." I didn’t like where this was going.

That earned a dry, mocking laugh. It wasn’t amusement—it was bitterness soaked in something darker. "And you still think you can get out of here, huh?"

There was something behind her words. Like she knew something I didn’t.

"Yeah..." I replied, wary.

"Well," she said, shifting into drive, "better start praying then."

Her voice was calm, almost amused—but bitter. Too bitter for someone just giving rides.

I looked at her again. Really looked. She was young, maybe twenty-five. But her eyes were older. Exhausted. Her body was thin, bones peeking where they shouldn’t. A dark patch peeked from under her shirt collar—something circular. A bite mark? A tattoo? Hard to tell. But she was definitely trying to hide it.

"Is this your home country?" I asked.

She sighed. "No."

Figures. She didn’t look like the locals. Not the impossibly perfect ones with porcelain skin and unnerving smiles. She looked real. Human.

"Have you ever gone back?" I asked.

the wheel tighter. Her knuckles went pale, and for a second I thought she’d snap—tell me to shut up and mind my

But then:

I did. Once. To

ask any more questions. I didn’t need to. The silence that followed was heavy—grief and trauma thick enough to choke on. But part of me

beat me to

thinking," she said softly, eyes fixed on the road. "And the

My throat tightened.

they kill the person you tell. And not quickly."

A country ruled by creatures of the night? Vampires, werewolves, things with no faces? They’d lock us in a psych ward before they listened. And I... I couldn’t risk

Her voice

was either me, or my mom and little sister. I was the one

single tear slipped from her eye, and she wiped it away before it fell to her

here we are," she said, pulling up

building—so normal. So mundane. But dread sat

humans are the bottom of the chain. Pets for sex. Cattle for feeding.

No.

No.

NO.

not going to live like a reared

I didn’t say that. I just nodded, paid her,

rolled the window down just

make sure the sun doesn’t set with you still outside. There are worse things than what you saw at the university. The ones out here... they don’t play by rules. They don’t feed to survive. They feed

Then she drove off.

words bouncing around in my skull like wasps

Than

bred monsters with human faces? That used students like chew toys and bedwarmers?

the safe

to

She had to be.

...Right?

******

slip through the cracks of whatever cursed trap Memoville had become. Even after the warnings, even after both

what I

still praying for a miracle—that some rickety old vehicle was warming up, ready to take passengers across the border. That some loophole, some oversight, had left a backdoor open in this place’s suffocating

that buzzed overhead like flies. A long, scratched-up bench sat against one wall, and an old vending machine

woman at the

might’ve been a smile—or maybe an apology. Her eyes were

ticket. Cross-border. Anywhere," I said. My voice cracked halfway through, but I didn’t care. "Please,"

glance at

gently. "All outbound routes are closed. The highways have