Chapter 4

I woke up stiff on that couch, every muscle aching, sunlight cutting weak and gray through curtains thick with dust. For a second I didn't remember where I was. Then it all came rushing back, and I lay there a moment longer before forcing myself up. No time to wallow. There was a whole apartment full of neglect waiting, and a baby depending on me to get moving.

I spent the morning going room to room, sleeves pushed up, sneezing from the dust I kept stirring loose, sweeping cobwebs down from corners with a broom that had seen better decades. It felt good, actually. Simple. My hands knew what to do even when nothing else in my life did.

I was scrubbing the kitchen counter when the knock came.

I froze completely, rag in hand, heart slamming so hard I could feel it in my throat. For one irrational second I thought *Ethan*, which made no sense — he didn't know where I was, wouldn't care enough to find out even if he did — but grief doesn't listen to logic. I made myself move, crossed the room, and opened the door to find my father standing there, two heavy bags at his feet, rain still clinging to his shoulders.

"Dad." The relief nearly buckled my knees.

He pulled me into a hug before I could say anything else. I let myself sink into it. "How did you sleep," he asked, pulling back to study my face the way he always did, checking for cracks.

"Not great." No point lying to him. "But I'm okay."

"You don't look okay."

"Dad—"

"I'm not trying to fight with you." He held up a hand, gentle but firm. "I'm just saying it like I see it. You look like you haven't slept properly in days, and this apartment—" he glanced around at the water stains, the dust still settling in the light "—isn't where I pictured my daughter ending up."

"It's where I chose to end up." My voice came out sharper than I meant it to, but I didn't take it back. "I needed somewhere that was mine. Somewhere he doesn't know about."

That stopped him. He looked at me a long moment, and something in his expression softened. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. I hear you."

He didn't push after that. He got to work instead, going through the bags he'd brought, and within twenty minutes he had something cooking on the old stove, moving through that kitchen like he still remembered exactly where everything was — because he did.

My father wasn't pack anymore. He'd lost his wolf years ago, some sickness of the spirit the healers never could explain, and it was part of why my mother left — she said she couldn't build a life around a man who'd lost the thing that made him what he was. He never spoke a bad word about her for it. He just kept showing up. For me.

"Eat," he said, sliding a plate toward me.

I did, and when I was finished, he pulled out his card. Black, plain, the kind he'd worked twenty years to carry without flinching.

"I can't accept that, Dad." I pushed his hand back. "It's too much."

"You will." His voice went firm. "I'm not asking, Elena."

"I don't want to depend on you for everything. I'm not a child."

"I never said you were." He set the card down on the table between us anyway, deliberate. "But you're carrying my grandchild in an apartment with no working heat, and my pride isn't worth more to me than making sure you both eat properly. Take the card."

"And then what? I just live off you forever?"

"For now. Yes." He didn't blink. "Until you're steady."

"I'm going to find a job," I said, lifting my chin. "I don't need to be rescued, Dad. I need to stand on my own."

He studied me, and for a moment I thought he'd argue. Instead something in his face gentled. "Find a job, then," he said. "But not yet. Not this week. Right now your only job is resting and taking care of what's growing inside you. The rest can come later — and it will, because I know my daughter, and I know you're not going to sit still for long."

I felt my eyes go hot, and this time I let him see it. "Thank you," I said, smaller than I meant it to sound.

He squeezed my hand. "That's what fathers are for."

---

Back at the pack house, the great hall had filled shoulder to shoulder, candle smoke thick in the air, the old magic already stirring before the rite had even begun.

Ethan sat at the head of the hall, spine straight, watching the witch draw her circle with slow, deliberate movements. Camille stood beside him in white, chin lifted, radiating the certainty of someone who believed the outcome was already hers.

The witch began to chant, and the candles rose and guttered in answer. Ethan felt the pull of it settle into his chest, old and heavy, waiting on him.

Camille's hand found his. He let her take it, though his jaw stayed tight.

"You're quiet," she murmured under the chanting, barely moving her lips.

"I'm concentrating."

"You've been quiet for days, Ethan." Her eyes stayed forward, but her voice had an edge now. "Since she left."

"This isn't the time."

"It's never the time with you." A flash of something raw crossed her face before she smoothed it back down. "I just need to know I'm not standing up here for nothing."

He didn't answer her. The chanting built, the air grew heavy enough that the younger wolves near the back shifted on their feet, and the moment stretched taut, waiting for the words that would make it irreversible.

Ethan stood.

The hall went silent except for the crackle of candlelight. He looked out over his pack — elders, warriors, omegas gathered near the walls — and for one fractured second an image surfaced behind his eyes, unbidden: Elena in the garden, watering can in hand, humming to herself in early light.

He shut it out, hard.

"She is your Luna," Ethan said, voice tearing loud across the hall, leaving no room for question. "Camille stands beside me. Camille carries my line. From this day, you will honor her as you honored none before her."

The hall erupted — some in approval, some in low, stunned murmurs. The witch's chant rose to a final piercing note as the circle flared gold, then dark.

Camille turned to him, radiant, her fingers tightening around his. "Thank you," she whispered.

Ethan didn't look at her. He was staring past her, out over the heads of his pack, toward the doors at the far end of the hall — the same doors Elena had walked through for the last time only days ago — and something in his chest, something he still refused to name, sat there like a stone he couldn't put down.