The apartment was still steeped in shadow when I arrived, its silence stretched so thin it felt brittle, like it might crack under the weight of one more memory. No lights had been left on. No warmth lingered in the walls. Only the staleness of undisturbed air and the faint, sour scent of something decaying in the kitchen sink—like even the home had started to rot from within in my absence.
I didn’t bother flipping the switch.
I dropped my bag just inside the doorway, the echo of it hitting the floor louder than it should’ve been, and kicked the door shut behind me with more force than necessary, as if slamming it might keep the past from crawling in behind me. The only sound was the quiet thud of my soaked hoodie dripping onto the tile.
I didn’t change out of the hospital gown—not because I forgot, but because I didn’t care. The thin, papery fabric scratched beneath my hoodie, clung to my bandages, and chilled my skin. Still, I collapsed onto the couch, face-first, arms dangling like dead weight, my body folding like something boneless and broken. The fabric burned where it pressed against fresh stitches, but exhaustion was stronger than pain.
Sleep came, but it was not merciful.
Not when your dreams know the truth before your mouth ever dares to speak it aloud.
It was hours before I stirred again, groggy and sore and disoriented, blinking into the thick dark that clung to the corners of the apartment like a predator watching from just out of reach. I shifted, every muscle in my body aching from something deeper than the wounds. That was when I heard it.
Clattering.
A sharp, rhythmic noise from the kitchen—metal against metal, the soft hum of the stove, the scrape of movement where no one should’ve been.
I moved slowly, my breath shallow, my feet bare against the cold floor, each step slow and deliberate as if I were stalking something or being stalked myself. I thought maybe it was a thief. Maybe a ghost. Maybe the echo of some half-formed nightmare still bleeding into the waking world.
But when I turned the corner, I saw them.
Alpha Damon. Beta Malric.
Standing side by side, just like they always did when pretending to be something they weren’t.
Damon was at the stove, flipping a slab of meat in a cast iron pan, the scent of searing flesh filling the room—a scent that made something in my chest twist, something ancient and hungry that didn’t understand betrayal, only instinct. Malric stood at the counter with a knife in hand, slicing vegetables with too much precision, like each cut was a ritual, a preparation for something neither of them dared name.
The table was already set.
Plates. Cutlery. Water glasses. Cloth napkins folded like offerings. A strange echo of a family that never truly existed.
They both looked up when I entered, their gazes cautious, calculating.
Alpha Damon spoke first, his voice carefully casual. “We thought you were at your aunt’s. Didn’t want to disturb you.”
Malric, always quieter, always following his lead, glanced at the knife in his hand and then down to the floor before meeting my eyes. “We didn’t know you were in the hospital,” he murmured, the words hollow in the air between us.
I said nothing.
Instead, I walked forward and sat at the table, the chair legs creaking beneath me. I didn’t touch the food. I just sat there, letting the heat from the cooked meat curl around me like a lie I refused to swallow.
Alpha Damon frowned, reaching to turn off the burner. “You have to eat,” he said, as if that made everything better. “You just got discharged.”
I looked at him, long and cold and clear. “You didn’t check on me for a week.”
The silence that followed was so dense it felt like the air itself had frozen. The room seemed to shrink inward, thick with the scent of cooked meat, scorched trust, and unspoken apologies that would never come. No one moved. No one breathed.
Then the doorbell rang.
A sharp, deliberate chime.
Damon and Malric both turned, as if pulled by the same invisible string, and without speaking, Malric moved to open it.
And of course—there she was.
Nina Frost.
Fragile. Pale. Porcelain in pastel silk.
Her wrists were wrapped in fresh white bandages, barely visible beneath the lacy sleeves of her blouse. Her lips were tinted pink, but her eyes were ringed with the kind of sorrow that performed well in candlelight. She looked like a doll that had been shattered once, glued back together, and now pretended not to remember the fall.
The moment they saw her, they moved.
Alpha Damon rushed to her like she was made of glass and flame, scooping her into his arms without hesitation. He laid her gently onto the couch like she might vanish if she hit the cushions too hard.
“You shouldn’t be out,” he murmured, brushing her hair back, his voice full of concern that had never once been directed at me. “What if something happened to you?”
“I was alone,” she whispered, looking up at him with eyes wide as moons. “I kept thinking… what if I never woke up again? What if no one was there when I did? I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
He melted instantly.
Malric stood behind him like a sentinel, like the Beta trailing after his Alpha’s chosen Luna. “We’ll take you back to the hospital later,” he said gently. “After we check on Lyra.”
I didn’t speak.
I picked up my fork.
The steak was dry—burned at the edges, still pink in the middle, and tasted like dust and memory. I chewed it anyway, like it was penance, like it was a lie I needed to swallow just to stay upright.
He made steak.
My least favorite.
He didn’t even remember.
I let out a laugh—sharp and bitter, quiet enough to pass for a cough—and washed it down with water that tasted like steel. Across the table, Damon and Malric were already helping her into a chair, already encouraging her to eat, already tending to her every movement like she was royalty wrapped in gauze.
She ate daintily. Delicately. Every now and then, her eyes flicked to mine, and when they did, she smiled faintly.
A smile that said you lost.
That was when my phone buzzed.
I glanced down and saw the name: Mom.
She had sent over a dozen images of wedding dresses—lace and satin and beadwork that looked like frost spun into cloth. Each gown was more extravagant than the last. I paused on the third one: off-shoulder, structured bodice, silk cascading like a river of ivory.
I tapped the call button before I could stop myself.
She answered on the third ring, her voice warm with the kind of excitement that didn’t know pain. “Lyra! Did you get the dresses? I think the third one’s best. Classic, timeless. But if your fiancé prefers white—”
“I love the third,” I interrupted quickly, my voice light, almost too light. “It’s perfect. I can already see it. I’m really… excited.”
There was a pause, brief, but enough to suggest she heard something strange in my tone. “Oh, sweetheart, I knew you’d love it. You’ve always had an eye for the classics.”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. I think it’s going to be beautiful. I’m really looking forward to the wedding.”
Across the room, something shifted.
Something subtle. Instinctual.
I didn’t look up—but I felt it.
“How much longer do you need over there?” she asked. “Just a week. I’ll finish up and be home.” “Good. Everything here’s almost ready.”
I hung up and set the phone down on the table, and that’s when I felt it—that silence that isn’t empty, but heavy. Like breath being held.
The energy twisted.
Alpha Damon stepped forward first, slow, cautious, voice low and clipped. “Wedding?”
Beta Malric followed, his jaw tense, brows furrowed like storm clouds gathering behind his eyes. “What wedding?”
And even Nina—Nina, with her trembling fork and her angel’s mouth, froze with it suspended midair.
The room smelled different now. Not just of steak and rain.
But of jealousy. Of a challenge. Of blood waiting to be spilled.
The pack was shifting.
They just didn’t know it yet.
