Four

Chapter Four

Mirabel’s POV

By the time the bus finally screeched to a stop near the outer district, the sky had darkened into a dull bruised purple, the kind that always settled over this part of Moonshade Bay long before night fully arrived. The streetlights flickered on one by one, casting weak yellow pools of light over cracked pavement and weathered storefronts, and I stepped off the bus with my bag clutched tightly against my chest as if it were the only thing anchoring me to the ground.

Every part of my body felt heavy, not just with exhaustion but with the weight of everything I was carrying inside me, grief layered over shock, humiliation tangled with fear, and beneath it all a deep aching sense of loss that refused to loosen its grip. I walked the familiar route toward my mother’s apartment, passing neighbors I had known my entire life, keeping my head down so I would not have to answer questions or return sympathetic smiles that would only break what little composure I had left.

The building stood exactly as it always had, a squat concrete structure with peeling paint and narrow balconies cluttered with laundry and potted plants. It was not beautiful, but it was home, and as I climbed the stairs to the third floor my chest tightened with a longing so sharp it nearly brought me to my knees. I had not realized how desperately I needed this place until now.

My hand shook as I knocked on the door.

It opened almost immediately, as if my mother had been waiting just on the other side, and the moment she saw my face her expression shifted from surprise to concern.

“Mirabel,” she said softly. “What happened?”

I tried to answer her, truly I did, but the words caught somewhere in my throat and refused to come out. Instead, the tears I had been holding back all day finally spilled over, hot and unstoppable, and before I could stop myself I stepped forward and collapsed into her arms like a child.

She did not ask anything else. She simply wrapped her arms around me and held me, her familiar scent of soap and herbs surrounding me, grounding me in a way nothing else could. She guided me inside and closed the door behind us, murmuring gentle reassurances as she led me to the small couch and sat beside me, pulling me close while I cried into her shoulder.

It took a long time before the storm inside me quieted enough for me to breathe properly again. When I finally pulled back, my face felt swollen and raw, my head throbbing from the effort of holding myself together for so long.

She brushed my hair back from my face, her eyes studying me with a mix of worry and understanding. “You look like someone has taken your world and turned it upside down,” she said quietly.

“I think they did,” I whispered.

She waited, giving me the space to find my words, the way she always had when I was younger and came home from school after a bad day. That patience undid me almost as much as her kindness.

“James is gone,” I said finally. “His mother called me last night. He has been taken under the protection of a werewolf family. They want him to marry into their circle.”

Her jaw tightened slightly, but she did not look surprised. “I always feared this would happen,” she admitted. “The moment he started working closer to their world.”

“He did not even call me himself,” I continued, my voice trembling despite my efforts. “She told me to end things so he would not have to. Like I was something embarrassing they needed to get rid of quietly.”

My mother’s hand curled into a fist, then relaxed as she took a steady breath. “You deserved better than that,” she said firmly. “From him and from his family.”

“I loved him,” I said, the words tearing out of me. “I thought we were building something real.”

She pulled me into her arms again, and I let my head rest against her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. “Sometimes loving someone is not enough to protect you from the choices they make,” she said. “Especially in this city.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable, filled with things neither of us knew how to say. Eventually she stood and went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of water which she pressed into my hands.

“Drink,” she instructed gently. “You look like you have not taken care of yourself at all.”

I obeyed, the cool water soothing my dry throat. As I set the glass down, her eyes lingered on me, sharp in that quiet way she had when she sensed there was more beneath the surface.

“That is not all,” she said.

It was not a question.

My fingers twisted together in my lap, nails biting into skin. The words I had sworn I would never say out loud pressed against my chest, heavy and suffocating, but I could not bring myself to speak them. Not yet. Not like this.

“There was a mistake at the festival,” I said instead, choosing the safest truth I could manage. “Something happened that should not have happened.”

She did not interrupt, though I saw the concern deepen in her eyes.

“I ended up in the wrong hotel room,” I continued, my voice barely audible. “Everything after that is… complicated.”

My mother studied me for a long moment, then reached out and took my hands in hers. Her grip was warm and steady. “Mirabel,” she said softly. “Whatever it is, you do not have to carry it alone. You never have.”

The lump in my throat swelled until it hurt. “I am scared,” I admitted. “I feel like my life split in two overnight, and I do not know which part I am supposed to live in anymore.”

She squeezed my hands. “Then you stay here for now,” she said without hesitation. “You rest. You breathe. You figure out your next step when you are ready. The world will not end if you slow down.”

I nodded, though the anxiety twisting in my stomach refused to ease. The image of amber eyes flashed through my mind, unbidden and unwelcome, followed by the memory of his voice, calm and controlled as he told me that night did not exist.

Maxwell Mackenzie.

The Alpha of Moonshade Bay.

My boss.

The man whose presence seemed to linger on my skin no matter how hard I tried to scrub it away.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom, locking the door behind me as if I needed protection even there. I turned on the light and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face looked different somehow, paler, sharper around the eyes, as if the person staring back at me had aged years in a single night.

I placed a hand on my stomach without thinking, then froze.

It was too soon for anything to change, too soon for there to be any sign at all, and yet a strange unease curled low in my abdomen, subtle but persistent, like a whisper my body was trying to make me hear. I shook my head and turned away from the mirror, telling myself I was imagining things, that stress could do strange things to a person.

Still, the feeling did not leave me.

That night, lying in my old bed with its familiar creak and thin blankets, sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes, memories crowded in, James’s smile, his promises, the way he used to talk about escaping the limitations placed on us, followed by the harsh reality of his mother’s words and the ease with which he had been pulled into a world that would never truly accept me.

And then there was Maxwell, his towering presence, the authority in his voice, the way his eyes had glowed in the dim light of the hotel room, not with tenderness but with something far more dangerous and unreadable. I hated that my body still remembered him, hated that a part of me reacted to the memory despite everything.

Morning came too quickly. I dragged myself through the routine of getting ready for work, my mother watching me with quiet concern but saying nothing. The bus ride back into the city felt longer than ever, each mile pulling me further away from the fragile sense of safety I had found the night before.

Mackenzie Group rose from the heart of Moonshade Bay like a monument to power, all glass and steel and cold efficiency. As I stepped inside, the familiar tension settled over me, the unspoken rules of hierarchy pressing down on my shoulders. Humans moved quickly and quietly through the lobby, while werewolves occupied the space with easy confidence, laughter ringing out as if they owned not just the building but everything inside it.

I kept my eyes on the floor as I made my way to the elevators, praying silently that I would not run into him.

The doors slid open, and my heart nearly stopped.

Maxwell Mackenzie stood inside, alone, his suit immaculate, his expression as controlled and unreadable as ever. His amber eyes lifted to meet mine, and for a split second something flickered there, recognition sharp and undeniable.

The doors closed behind me, trapping us together in the small enclosed space, the air suddenly thick and heavy.

Neither of us spoke.

I could feel his attention on me like a physical weight, my skin prickling under the intensity of it. My pulse thundered in my ears as the elevator ascended, each second stretching painfully long.

When the doors finally opened at his floor, he stepped out, then paused.

“Miss Smith,” he said quietly, his voice as steady as if nothing had happened between us at all. “We will need to talk.”

The words sent a chill down my spine.

“Yes, sir,” I replied automatically, my voice barely steady.

His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and the unsettling certainty that whatever I was trying to run from was far from over.

Some nights were meant to change everything.

And some consequences refused to be ignored.