As for those memories with Jaxson Harper, of course, I still remember them.
But now, they feel like watching a stranger’s life unfold—detached, distant, and entirely devoid of emotion.
My first encounter with Jaxson was as cliché as the plot of a cheap romance novel. As a young werewolf, I was often scolded by my mother, Harmoni Castro, the Luna, during pack training. I would hide behind the pack’s training grounds, tears streaming down my face, when Jaxson appeared.
He was the gentlest soul I had ever met. When I cried, he would softly wipe away my tears and whisper comforting words, telling me not to cry—that tears were for the weak. He said I was the bravest little girl he knew, and brave girls didn’t shed tears.
In a world where warmth was a rarity, Jaxson was like a beacon of light, and I was helplessly drawn to him.
Jaxson was a skilled fighter, his movements fluid and precise. When he trained, it was like watching a storm—controlled yet devastating. He often took the time to teach me combat techniques, patiently guiding my claws and correcting my stance. Even when I struggled to master the basics, he never lost his temper. Instead, he repeated the drills with me, over and over, until I got it right.
I trained tirelessly, not wanting to disappoint him. Late into the night, I would practice alone in the pack’s training grounds, determined to prove myself worthy of his patience and kindness. When I accidentally nicked myself with my claws or stumbled during a pack run, I bit back my tears.
Because Jaxson had told me I was brave. And brave girls didn’t cry.
But then, everything changed.
When he saw Monroe Lewis, his mate, in tears, his composure shattered. I heard his voice, soft and trembling with concern, as he comforted her. “Monroe, it’s okay to cry. I’m here for you.”
The words struck me like a blow. That same tenderness, that same reassurance, was no longer mine. It belonged to her now.
And in that moment, I realized something I had been too young to understand before—Jaxson’s kindness wasn’t unique to me. It was just who he was.
But by then, it was too late. I had already built my world around him, and when he walked away, it crumbled.
I didn’t cry. Not then. Because brave girls didn’t cry.
Even when it hurt.
Even when it still does.
