Chapter 22 – Roots in the Storm

(Ella’s POV)

The morning broke with a thin veil of mist curling between the trees, softening the edges of the world. Ella sat on the edge of her bed, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she watched the pale light seep through the cabin window. Her body begged her for more rest, but her mind refused to take the luxury. Sleep had become a fragile thing, easily disturbed by the heavy weight pressing on her chest each night—the mate bond’s silent pull, the murmur of whispers that never truly left her.

So she reached towards her sketchbook. The pencil scratched faintly against the page, sketching petals and stems with careful strokes. There were wildflowers again, their roots stretching longer than before, they twisted so deep into the soil. Once, Her hand had trembled, but she had manage to keep it steady, pressing harder until the lines were all bold and dark. If she could not control the bond, or Cole, or the cruel mouths of the pack, then this is what she could definitely control, the image of resilience she’s been able to carve for herself on paper.

By the time she closed the book, a fragile calm had settled over her. She dressed in a simple manner, pulling her hair back she stepped out into the cool morning air. The pack compound stirred with rhythms that were familiar: the clang of weapons from the training yard, children chasing each other across the frost-kissed grass, the low murmur of voices drifting from the mess hall.

And then the words finally came. They always came across.

“This is the Alpha’s mistake.”

“She’s just a charity case.”

“A Human girl that doesn’t belong here.”

The voices carried just enough to reach her ears, each word were like a barb that lodged deep beneath her skin. Her stomach twisted, but she managed to keep her gaze forward, she forced her feet into a steady rhythm. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her flinch or seeing her looking casted.

“Ella!”

The call broke through the venom like sunlight. She turned, relief flooding her when she spotted Mia waving from the mess hall steps, Jasper lingering beside her with his usual sharp-eyed stillness.

Mia bounded over, slipping an arm around Ella’s shoulders with a grin that dared anyone to try whispering within earshot. “Today, You look better. It doesn’t look like you were up half the night sketching broody trees again which I know you were.”

Ella laughed softly, the sound catching her off guard. “Wildflowers this time.”

“Even better. Wildflowers are tougher than people actually think.” Mia gave her a squeeze, then lowered her voice. “Ignore whatever they say. All they can do is just to bark, but they can’t bite.”

“Not with you around,” Ella teased.

“Exactly.” Mia winked, flashing her fist. “They know better than to try to test me.”

Jasper stepped closer, slipping a folded note into Ella’s hand. “This is another shortcut,” he murmured.

She raised a brow. “More hallways to avoid Sasha?”

“Until she seeks out a new obsession, then yes.” His smirk was fleeting, but his eyes softened as they met hers. “You’re holding up.”

“I’m trying to.”

And for a moment, with them beside her, it felt like it was possible.

But then the air shifted all around them.

She felt a prickle run down her spine, they felt sharp as claws. She didn’t have to see him to know that Cole was near. The mate bond tugged at her chest, pulling taut like a string. She drew in a deep breath, she braced herself before she dared to glance across the training yard.

There he was.

Cole stood in the center, his posture tense, he was barking commands at a group of younger wolves. His shirt clung damply to his chest, his hair sticking in uneven tufts, and even from here she saw the dark smudges under his eyes. He was again looking angry and Hungover..

His gaze swept across the yard, then snagged on hers.

For just a heartbeat, the world stilled. The bond flared, hot and relentless, making her pulse stumble. His eyes were storm-dark, locked onto hers, and something raw flickered there—resentment, guilt, something she couldn’t give a name to.

Then he looked away, his voice rose sharper as he ordered the trainees into another set of drill.

Ella exhaled slowly, her hands curling into fists.

Why did it still hurt? Why did she still want even it was a fraction of his eyes to soften towards her whenever they found her?

She hated herself for feeling that way.

The rest of the day passed by in fragments. Across the dining hall, Sasha’s smirk stared out at her. When Ella walked past, Whispers grew sharper. Mia’s fire and Jasper’s quiet loyalty were what were anchoring her when the ground felt unsteady.

But Ella had made a promise to herself: she refuse to disappear into Cole’s shadow.

So when a group of children tumbled in from the cold, their cheeks flushed and their shoes muddy, she knelt to help clean them all up, she laughed softly when one little boy smeared dirt across her cheek by accident. Later, when the supply wagon rattled into the courtyard, she stepped forward to help them unload, she ignored the glares from the wolves who muttered that she was in the way. Her arms ached, but she kept on lifting them, she kept stacking boxes until the last crate thudded against the wall.

Small acts. There maybe seem Insignificant. But they were hers. Proof that she also could give, contribute, exist as more than the charity case they had branded her to be.

By evening, exhaustion tugged at her limbs, but it was a good kind—the kind born out of effort, not of despair. She returned to her cabin, closing the door on the world’s noise, and sank onto her bed.

Her gaze drifted to her sketchbook. Slowly, she pulled it free, flipping back to the wildflowers she’d drawn that morning. Their roots spread deep and wide, anchoring them firmly in the soil.

Her throat tightened.

She thought of Cole again—his stormy eyes, the way his bitterness bled through the bond. She hated that she could feel him, even from a distance. She hated it more that some part of her still ached for him, still longed for what he would never give.

“I don’t want any of this,” she whispered into the empty room. Her voice shook, but she didn’t stop. “I didn’t choose any of this. I didn’t choose to be mated to him.”

Her chest burned.

“And if he never chooses me… I refuse to falter, I will still stand my ground.”

The words trembled into the candlelit silence, it was fragile but fierce. With a firm hand, she closed her sketchbook. She tucked it beneath her pillow as though she could seal the vow inside.

For the first time in days, her breath came steady.

She wasn’t strong, at least not fully. But for now she was learning how to plant her roots.

And maybe, just maybe, that would all be enough.