Lucienne's Point of View
The morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains as I made my way to the pack house dining room. My conversation with Marc and Cole last night had settled some of my nerves, but the weight of everything I’d endured still pressed heavily on my chest. I tried to push it aside, to focus on the warmth of their steady presence beside me, but my thoughts kept circling back to the same point: I couldn’t keep bottling everything up.
I needed to talk to my mother. As a child, there were times when only a mother’s hug and gentle words would fix everything. I found her sitting on a reading bench in the main room.
“Lucienne,” she said, her voice warm yet carrying the natural authority she wielded effortlessly. She gestured for me to sit across from her. “I was just about to have some coffee. Would you care to join me?”
I settled into the seat beside her, the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting from her cup. “Coffee sounds good,” I replied, though my voice
