Morning After

{It’s morning.}

“Huh? No—no! That is literally not what I asked!”

I’m already out of bed, barefoot, pacing like a caged raccoon. My hair’s doing its own thing, half in my mouth, half sticking to my cheek with last-night tears.

{I know what you asked. I can’t answer it yet. You have to figure some things out on your own.}

“Figure it—Roundy, this isn’t a scavenger hunt, this is my wolf!”

I spin around so fast I almost trip over my own nightgown. “Elena locked Bree in blood circles like some budget horror movie! Why?!”

{Verm. My name is Verm.}

I stop dead. “Did you just—did you just change the subject with your own name reveal? Are you kidding me right now?”

Silence. The orb just floats there, pulsing like it’s nervous.

I drag both hands down my face. “Okay. Fine. Verm. Weird name, zero stars, do not recommend. Whatever.”

I start pacing again, talking to myself because apparently that’s my brand now.

“Elena locked Bree away… and the king almost strangled me—well, her—whatever! Roundy—Verm—whatever the hell you are—was Elena actually his mate before I stole her life? Is that why the bond’s going haywire?”

Verm stays quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

Then Bree’s tiny voice, barely a whisper in the back of my skull:

(I’m fine now, Elena… it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m just glad you’re back.)

I freeze. “Bree? Baby, what did you just say? Last part—repeat the last part, I didn’t catch it.”

(Nothing… nothing.)

My heart cracks right down the middle.

I glare at the floating blue ball like I’m about to yeet it out the window.

“Verm. You absolute gremlin. If you’re not gonna tell me what the original girl did to my wolf, at least explain the damn movie I got isekai’d into!”

He flickers, almost sheepish.

{The thing is… ever since you landed here, the plot stopped following the script. It’s gone rogue. Even I don’t know where it’s going anymore.}

I stare at him.

My eye actually twitches.

“W. T. F.”

“The plot went rogue?”

I heard my own voice crack like a thirteen-year-old boy. “You mean there’s no script? I could just… randomly die? Like, game-over-no-save-point die?”

Verm bobbed once, almost apologetic.

{Your presence rewrote everything. Original Elena was supposed to die that night. You hijacked the body. Now the story’s… improvising.}

I dropped onto the bed like someone cut my strings.

“Great. Fantastic. I love being a virus. Five stars. Would not recommend.”

A knock rattled the door before I could spiral further.

A servant poked her head in. “Lady Elena, His Majesty expects you in two hours.”

My stomach fell straight out my ass.

Two hours.

Second therapy session.

With the guy who almost choked me out forty-eight hours ago.

The door shut. I stared at Verm. “I have to fake-shrink the dude who almost murdered me. Again.”

{Technically he almost murdered Elena.}

“SAME BODY, VERM!”

I lunged for my phone like it was a life raft.

Reddit, my old faithful.

r/therapyhelp – posted 0 minutes ago

URGENT: second session with a guy who might actually kill me if I mess up. techniques?? grounding?? anything?? halp

Comments flooded in:

“5-4-3-2-1 grounding. Works on serial killers too (probably)”

“Ask about his childhood but like… gently???”

“DO NOT mention family”

“Tell him to visualize a happy place (aka not jail)”

“Is this about Kanye”

I was stress-sweating into a silk robe that probably cost more than my old rent.

Outfit: soft gray dress, high neck, hair in a messy bun that screamed “I tried but also I’m dying inside.”

Mirror practice:

“How are you feeling today?” (too basic)

“What triggers your… episodes?” (too scary)

“On a scale of one to murder, how are we doing?” (no)

Bree’s tiny voice, gentle:

(You can do this, Elena…)

That name hit like a slap. I swallowed hard.

Verm had been weirdly quiet the whole time I got ready. Floating in the corner like a moody night-light.

I grabbed my notebook, turned to him. “Any last-minute tasks? Ominous riddles? Literally anything useful?”

He flickered— for half a second I swear the blue went red, but I blinked and it was gone.

{Just… be yourself, Master. It’s going to be a long day.}

The word Master sounded… wrong. Sharper.

“Verm?”

{Good luck.}

And he vanished.

Not dimmed. Not floated away.

Gone. Poof. First time ever.

The silence felt heavy.

I walked to the session anyway, counting tapestries like a crazy person.

See: gold threads.

Hear: my heels going click-click-click.

Smell: too much incense.

Touch: notebook digging into my ribs.

Taste: pure panic.

If I can’t even ground myself, how am I supposed to ground a werewolf king with a murder alter?

The doors opened.

Kael was already there, standing by the window, backlit like some tragic romance cover.

He turned.

Violet eyes met violet eyes.

Everything went still. The bond hummed between us like a live wire.

He looked exhausted. Haunted. Like he hadn’t slept since the almost-murder.

When he saw me, something in his face softened so much it hurt.

“Elena,” he said, voice rough. “You came.”

Like he genuinely thought I might not.

I swallowed the rock in my throat. “Of course. I promised I’d help.”

He studied me, head tilted. “You look troubled.”

I laughed—too high, too brittle. “Just… rough morning. Bad dreams.”

His expression darkened, something ancient and pained flashing behind his eyes.

“I know a thing or two about those.”

He gestured to the chairs, almost gentle.

“Shall we begin?”