Was everything a lie? D
id he never love our pack? And more than that did he ever love me?
It's as if the shock of it all always wakes me up. My fingers clutch the blanket. I'm still on the sofa, and the tea on the table beside me the mug is now broken.
The room is cold, but I'm on fire—every nerve raw, every breath ragged, like I've been screaming into a void. I'm soaked inmyscent—thick and sticky with heat, panic, and grief. I haven't smelled myself like this in years.
My scent has changed too, because it has aged, deepened, frayed at the edges like old fabric stretched too thin. I sit up slowly, every muscle trembling.
"Shit," I whisper.
I press my palms into my face, trying to scrub the memory away, but it clings—like it happened only yesterday. If only itwere a dream. If only none of it had ever been true. It’s a trauma that, no matter how hard I try to suppress it, remains fresh in my mind.
I rush to the bathroom, certain I'm about to be sick—but nothing comes. I brace my hands against the sink, breathing through the nausea until it passes.
Then I flip on the light and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look a mess. My hair clings in damp, tangled waves, my cheeks are flushed, and my eyes are glassy with everything I've been holding in.
"Get it together," I whisper, gripping the edges of the sink a little tighter. My scent still lingers in the air—thick with heat, panic, and old grief—calling for someone who isn't here.
I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face. The shock cuts through the haze, grounding me. This isn't just another bad night—it's a warning. My suppression is slipping. My body remembers what my mind keeps trying to forget. I won’t be able to hold it off much longer. Next time, I might not wake up alone.
The thought doesn’t scare me like it used to.
I leave the bathroom and head to my bedroom—where I should’ve been sleeping all along. The couch is for reading, for setting me up for bed, not tobemy bed through the night. I peel off my soaked shirt and toss it in the laundry basket. Wrapping a blanket around myself, I pace the room—once, twice, a third time—before finally lying down on the bed.
That’s when something catches my eye. It must have been there before I came home. Someone’s been in my cottage, and I didn’t even notice.
I rush to it, pick it up, and see my name written at the top. There’s only one person who writes like that—and who has access to the cottage.
My landlord.
My hands shake as I tear it open, even though the contents of the letter, aren’t going to be a surprise.
Notice of Eviction. Thirty days to vacate the premises.
I flop back onto the bed, the letter trembling in my grip. Of course this would happen now, when everything else is falling apart. The cottage I've called home for five years, gone. Just like that.
But as I stare at the legal notice, something shifts inside me. Maybe this isn't a disaster. I told Rebecca I'd go to the mountains. At the time, I said it thinking that I wouldn’t have to go, but it was clear from the time. My publisher canceled the contract, that the maybe would turn into a definite. The snowstorm isn’t as bad as they said it would be, so traveling won’t be an issue.
I stand up, suddenly feeling energized, so I pull my suitcase from the closet. If I'm going to leave, I might as well leave now instead of waiting thirty days. First thing in the morning, I'll pack up my car and drive to the mountains. No more waiting for inspiration to strike. No more hiding behind suppressants and old wounds.
Maybe something’s calling me forward, and leaving here will mean that I can write more than just one chapter or maybe just head to Millbrook and see if this new pack could give me something new. I know one thing for sure, I'm not a shattered mug with cold tea. I'm still here. And I'm not done yet.
KAEL
The snow slams against the windows of our cabin. There's a snowstorm coming, which may last at least three months. Three months of isolation, and no work. The breath I let out is a puff of white air, a visible manifestation of the dread pooling in my gut.
“Three months?” I grumble, pacing the small living room, my mind spinning with the implications. Usually, we shut down for a month or so during the off-season, but three months feels like a prison sentence. “What the hell are we going to do for three months in this damn cabin? We can’t just sit around and stare at each other!”
The others linger nearby, Fen, sits quietly, eyes trained on the snow as if he has the power to make it go away. Rhys, shoots me a teasing grin, the corners of his mouth curling as he leans against the counter, looking far too relaxed for my liking.
“Well, I hear it’s supposed to be terribly romantic,” Rhys says. “Maybe we should get an omega to keep us warm.”
My brow furrows, and I shoot him a sharp glance. “That wouldn’t be a bad idea, actually,” Fen adds with a straight face, surprising me.
"Seriously? What are you two thinking? We're supposed to be in hiding!" I snap, shoving away from the kitchen table where financial reports are scattered like confetti. My chair scrapes against the rough-hewn floorboards as I stand. "The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. We have a business to run, damn it."
Our "hideout" is a joke—a rustic cabin that's probably charming in the tourism brochures but feels like a wooden prison when you're six-foot-four and built like a linebacker. The ceiling beams are so low that Rhys has to duck every time he walks through the doorway, and the stone fireplace takes up half the main room, leaving us crammed together like sardines.
