Chapter Four

** This chapter contains content of self-harm**

Chapter Four

The streets were nearly empty at this hour, just a few early risers blinking through their routines and delivery trucks humming softly past shuttered storefronts. Celeste pulled her coat tighter around her body, the weight of the early morning chill settling into her bones like something she deserved.

She walked in silence, each step echoing in her ears louder than it should. The city hadn’t fully woken yet—still caught in that gray space between night and day, where shadows stretched longer and everything felt quieter than it really was.

But her thoughts were anything but quiet.

She kept thinking about him.

The man Victoria had called her brother. The one she’d brushed past on her way out of the diner.

There’d been something about the moment their shoulders touched—a ripple, barely there, but enough to stir the air around her. And then the pause. She hadn’t turned around, hadn’t dared look back, but she’d felt it: his eyes lingering, his stillness holding her in place even as she walked away.

She’d just whispered sorry, like it was nothing. Like she didn’t feel the air shift.

But something about him…

She shook her head, trying to shake it off. He was just a man. Probably a little more intimidating than most, with that silent strength in his stare and the kind of presence that didn’t need words to fill a room. But it didn’t mean anything.

Still, she hadn’t felt that unsettled in a long time. Not since—

No.

She shoved the thought away.

It’s just exhaustion, she told herself. You’ve barely slept. You’ve barely eaten. Everything feels heavier when your body’s barely keeping up.

But it wasn’t just her body.

It was her heart.

It was the way her chest ached in a strange, uncertain way she didn’t have words for. Not grief. Not fear. Just… something hollow, stirred loose by the look of a man she’d never met.

I don’t want to be seen, she thought bitterly, pulling her coat tighter. I don’t want to feel like this. Not again.

Her apartment came into view—a small, quiet walk-up tucked between a shuttered tailor’s shop and a crumbling law office. She climbed the steps slowly, hands trembling as she reached for her keys.

By the time she closed the door behind her, she already felt the tears forming. Not sharp ones. Just tired. Slow. Heavy. She leaned back against the door and exhaled shakily.

Something had shifted.

She didn’t know what.

But the way that man had looked at her—like she was a page half-remembered from a story he couldn’t quite recall—left her feeling dangerously close to being known.

And that was the one thing she couldn’t afford.

**

The apartment was still. Too still.

Celeste sat cross-legged on her bed, eyes closed, hands resting gently on her knees as she focused on her breathing. The room was dark, lit only by the faint flicker of city lights outside her window. She’d done this hundreds of times before—reach inward, listen, feel for her. But lately, all she found was silence.

“Verena,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please…”

No answer.

Not even a stir in the back of her mind. Not a flicker of warmth. Not the low, familiar hum of her presence.

Just emptiness.

She tried harder. Reached deeper.

“I’m still here. I’m still trying. Please talk to me…”

But her wolf didn’t answer.

Hadn’t in months.

Verena wasn’t gone—Celeste knew that much. But she was silent. Hibernating somewhere deep within, curled around old wounds and refusing to come forward. She had gone quiet after that day. The day everything shattered. The day he chose someone else.

Celeste’s heart twisted, and her hands curled into fists.

Verena had been hurting too. The betrayal hadn’t only broken Celeste’s heart—it had gutted her wolf. And now… she was just gone. Locked away. Healing, maybe. Hiding.

But the silence hurt worse than anything.

Celeste opened her eyes, blinking away the sting. The hollowness inside her pressed in like a vice. A sick kind of ache that grew heavier every day.

She stood, numb, and walked to the bathroom.

The shower ran hot, steam rising in a haze as she stripped off her clothes. The water hit her skin like heat on frost—harsh, jarring. She leaned against the wall, eyes closed, lips trembling.

The sob started in her chest and came out as a gasp.

She sank to the floor of the tub, arms around her knees, crying into the stream of water like it could drown the sound. Her shoulders shook with each ragged breath.

“I just wanted to feel like I mattered,” she whispered. “I just wanted to be enough for someone…”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the water. The pain was too quiet, too vast. She felt like she was unraveling from the inside—one thread at a time.

And then—something darker surfaced.

She stood again, hands trembling as she stepped out of the shower, leaving trails of water behind her. She opened the drawer in the vanity, pulled out the small silver knife she’d kept hidden there. Tucked behind old razors and unused lipstick tubes.

She’d told herself she kept it for protection.

But now…

Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, and she sat on the closed toilet lid, still wet, still shaking.

“I know I shouldn’t,” she said aloud, voice quivering, “but at least this—I can choose this. This pain—I can control this.”

The silver bit into her skin before she even realized how hard she was pressing. Not deep. Just enough to burn. Just enough to break the surface.

The sting was immediate. Bright. Focused. Real.

She gasped softly—not from shock, but from relief.

It was a sick kind of comfort. Not healing. Not safety.

But clarity.

She didn’t want to die.

Not truly.

But she needed to feel something that matched the storm inside her. Something sharp. Something honest. Something she could point to and say here it is—this is where it hurts.

Her hand trembled.

She dropped the knife onto the floor with a sharp clatter and buried her face in her hands, sobbing again. Sobbing harder.

This time, there was no steam, no water to hide the sound.

Just her.

And the silence.

And the absence of the voice she needed most.