Chapter 4

The scent of yeast and cinnamon filled the bakery long before dawn.

Evelyn stood at the counter, her hands deep in a bowl of warm dough. Her fingers worked methodically—press, turn, knead, repeat—until the rhythm numbed her thoughts.

This was her world now.

A tiny, crooked kitchen. Burned bread crusts. Racks of cooling loaves. And a room above the ovens where she slept alone.

It wasn’t peace.

But it was quiet.

And after everything, that was enough.

It had been nearly a month since Aleta dragged her from the forest. Nearly a month since Sophia had died, nearly a month since she missed her chance to kill Adrian.

Her body had healed—mostly. The long scars down her ribs were still red and angry, but the bone had knit back together. The limp was manageable. Her breath came easier now.

But inside… something was still broken.

She hadn’t spoken Sophia’s name in days. Couldn’t. Not aloud. It sat like a stone in her chest—too heavy to lift, too sacred to expose. Something for only her to know and remember.

She still dreamed of her.

Some nights, she’d hear a laugh and bolt upright, gasping, drenched in sweat. Longing to hold her in her arms once more.

Other nights, she’d find herself crying into the quilt before she even woke.

But the grief didn’t howl anymore. And neither did her wolf.

It just… whispered. Constantly. Like wind under a locked door. Silent. Stalking.

The bakery kept her sane, most of the time.

Tomas was kind but quiet. He didn’t ask questions. She liked that about him. He had helped her when she first arrived and ordered her clothes to work in. He was a gentle soul, one who would help anyone if they needed it. He would bring her food he had prepared and offer her coffee when the bakery closed.

In exchange for the attic room and food, she worked. She swept. She baked. She kept the fires going. Her hands were always busy, even when her mind wandered.

The dough didn’t ask if she missed her daughter.

The bread didn’t care that she was once a Luna.

They just rose, no matter how broken she was.

She never gave her real name.

To the village, she was just Eva, a silent girl from “far south” who didn’t talk about her past. A stray lost amongst the rough, just willing herself to survive the harsh world surrounding her.

And in time, the villagers stopped asking. She eventually blended in with the rest of them.

They came in for loaves, for pies, for the sweet honey twists she had once made for Sophia on her birthday.

They smiled at her.

She did not smile back.

But she listened. Always.

They gossiped while they waited in line.

“Adrian’s pack is opening a new route north—past the high pass. He’s preparing checkpoints all the way from the north to the south.”

“He’s putting guards there, too. Says they’re hunting some rogue bitch who tried to kill his mistress. Not surprised though, what I heard was he killed her and his daughter after she did it.”

“She’s definitely dead. No one could survive his pack, they are ruthless. Not as ruthless as Damon but still…”

“Shame. She sounded like a badass. Apparently the wolf who killed her was his chosen Luna once.”

Evelyn’s fingers dug harder into the dough, but her face remained calm.

She’d learned how to do that, how to let the rage burn low without spilling over. Aleta had taught her that. How to bide her time. How to keep a watchful eye on the people around her.

Aleta visited every few days, bringing herbs and cryptic mutterings.

Sometimes she left bones on the doorstep. Sometimes feathers. And would occasionally some and cleanse the bakery with burning herbs

Sometimes she just sat by the fire and stared at Evelyn like she could see every secret tucked behind her ribcage.

“She’s still with you,” Aleta said one night, while Evelyn stirred batter in silence.

Evelyn didn’t look up.

“I know.”

“Your grief is useful,” the old woman added. “But your silence will kill you if you let it.”

Evelyn licked honey off her thumb.

“I’m not ready.”

Aleta didn’t argue.

One day there was a child in the village.

A little girl named Sera who came every morning with her father to collect bread.

She had wild curls and a loud laugh and always pointed at the sugar rolls like they were magic.

One day, Sera tripped and fell while running toward the counter. She scraped her knee and burst into tears.

Without thinking, Evelyn dropped her flour-covered towel and rushed around the counter.

She crouched beside her, heart racing.

But it wasn’t Sophia.

And Sera was fine.

Just a scraped knee.

Still, Evelyn’s hands shook for the rest of the day as she relived the night Sophia died over and over again in her head.

Then that night, she went upstairs, pressed her face into the quilt, and finally wept until her throat burned.

Weeks had passed with the same consistent rhythms and routines.

One morning, Tomas handed her a folded piece of parchment with an uneasy look on his face.

“Guard passed this to me,” he said. “Thought you’d want to see.”

Evelyn unfolded it.

It was a list of trade deliveries. Caravan dates. Schedules.

And a stamp—Adrian’s seal.

Her blood went cold.

“They’re coming closer,” she murmured.

Tomas didn’t hear her.

But her wolf did.

And it growled.

She stood outside the bakery that night, watching the moon rise.

Her arms were dusted in flour. Her apron stained.

But her eyes… her eyes burned like coals.

They had no idea she was still breathing.

They had no idea she was waiting.

She’d tear his kingdom down crumb by crumb.

In the distance, the forest rustled.

A wind brushed past her skin—cold and ancient.

And her wolf lifted its head, alert.

Something was coming.