Chapter 35: Ghosts At The Table

Kalmin didn’t know how long he sat there, chest tight, hands aching from the way he’d clenched them. The porch had gone quiet behind him. The music in the yard kept thumping, but it felt like it belonged to a different world.

He stood too fast. The booze made the ground sway. He blinked it off and went after her.

She wasn’t in the yard. Not in the kitchen where the drinks were, or by the fire where people were dancing. He caught sight of Matteo in the hallway, deep in conversation with some girl Kalmin didn’t recognize.

“Have you seen Nuri?” Kalmin asked, his voice sharper than he meant it to be.

Matteo blinked, took in Kalmin’s flushed face and blown-out pupils, and jerked his chin toward the street. “Stormed off that way ten minutes ago. Didn’t look great.”

Kalmin didn’t thank him. Just pushed past the crowd and headed toward the sidewalk.

It was late. Cold. The street lamps flickered like they were debating staying awake. Kalmin turned in a slow circle, scanning the neighborhood until he caught movement down the block—someone walking fast, unsteady, arms wrapped around themselves.

“Nuri!” he called.

She didn’t stop.

He jogged to catch up, grabbing her arm before she could disappear down a side street.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, out of breath and furious.

She yanked away. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re about to get lost and do something stupid.”

“Oh, like kiss you?” she bit out. “Already checked that off.”

“Let’s go home, Nuri.” Kalmin said, trying to ignore the way she was looking up at him. Like she wanted him to kiss her.

“You think that’s your call to make now?” she asked, voice sharp, but under it—hurt. Raw. Her arms tightened around herself like a vice.

Kalmin stepped closer. Not too close, just enough to keep her in his sight, to keep her from vanishing again. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Why not? It’s not like anyone here is stupid enough to do anything to me. I’m the alpha’s mate. The revered Alpha Kalmin!” Nuri said, waving her hands in fake awe to illuminate her point.

“That’s not the point, Nuri.”

“Then what is the point? That you get to do whatever you want, to whoever you want, whenever you want?” She snapped, then rolled her eyes, looking over his shoulder as a couple walked past. “Unless I initiate it, then there’s a problem.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. He swallowed, jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. “You kissed me.”

“And you kissed me back.”

The street was too quiet now. Just the buzz of a nearby transformer and the distant bass of the party they’d both tried to escape. Her breath clouded in front of her face, uneven, like her temper.

“You’re drunk,” he said finally, softer this time.

“So are you.”

“That’s exactly why we should go home.”

Nuri stared at him like she didn’t trust him to mean it. Like she didn’t trust herself to believe it. But her shiver betrayed her first, sharp and involuntary.

Kalmin sighed and peeled off his jacket, holding it out. “Please.”

She hesitated. Just long enough for the cold to catch up to her pride. Then she snatched the jacket from his hand and turned without a word, walking back toward the house.

He followed, a step behind. Not close enough to catch her. Just close enough to make sure she didn’t fall.

Nuri didn’t say another word to him on the walk home. She kept her back to him as they walked home, annoyed by how close he stayed. Like a personal bodyguard she never asked for.

Once they were inside, Nuri let his jacket fall to the floor without a glance. “I’m taking a shower,” she muttered, already heading upstairs.

He didn’t follow. Just stood there in the entryway, watching the space where she’d just been. The door clicked shut behind her a second later, and the sound of water started not long after.

Kalmin rubbed his hands over his face and sat down heavily on the arm of the couch. His whole body ached—not from the walk, not from the alcohol—but from her. From the sharp edges of her voice, the way she looked at him like she didn’t know whether to hit him or kiss him.

He stared at the ceiling like it might offer some sort of answer. It didn’t.

The water shut off upstairs.

He thought about getting up and going to his room. Just letting the night end here, in this strange, heavy silence. But when he heard her door open, he looked up.

She stood at the top of the stairs, barefoot, damp hair clinging to her neck, an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. She held onto the railing like the ground still wasn’t steady.

“You staying down here?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Thought I’d crash on the couch.”

She hesitated, gaze dropping to the floor for a beat, then lifted again to meet his. Her voice dropped, low and rough: “Will you come lie down with me?”

Kalmin froze.

She crossed her arms, defensive even now. “Just sleep. I’m not… asking for anything else.”

He stood slowly, uncertain. “You sure?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But I’m tired. And cold. And I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

That cracked something in him.

“All right,” he said quietly.

She turned and padded back to her room. Didn’t wait for him to follow.

Kalmin moved like his bones had aged a decade. Quiet steps, slow and deliberate. By the time he reached her room, she was already curled on the far side of the bed, back to him, the blankets bunched at her waist.

He slid in on the other side. Left a stretch of space between them. Enough to feel the heat from her skin. Enough to smell the shampoo in her hair.

They didn’t speak.

But right before her breathing evened out, she whispered, “Closer.”

His heart stuttered. He shifted, slow and careful, until he was close enough that her presence hummed through every part of him. He didn’t touch her. He wouldn’t. Not like this.

She fell asleep a few minutes later. He didn’t.

He stared at the ceiling in the dark, every breath aching.

She still hated him. He knew that. And maybe she had every right to.

But she’d asked for him tonight. And that had to mean something. Even if it was only that she didn’t want to be alone.

Kalmin closed his eyes, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

Maybe it wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But maybe it was the start of something that could be.

∞∞∞

Nuri woke to the heavy ache of a hangover pounding against her skull, her brain pulsing like it was too big for her bones. It was a sharp, merciless thing—earned and, strangely, welcome. She didn’t regret the drinks, the laughter, or the burning relief that had pushed her through the night. She’d earned that celebration. She’d carved it out of everything that tried to break her.

The space beside her was empty. Cold.

She reached for it anyway, fingertips brushing the shallow dip in the mattress where Kalmin had lain hours before. Her hand lingered there, palm flattening against the wrinkled sheet like she could soak up the ghost of his warmth. But it was long gone. So was he.

Her chest ached—quietly at first, then louder as reality settled over her shoulders like lead.

It shouldn’t have mattered. He was the one who’d hurt her. The one she couldn’t forgive.

And yet, she missed him. Missed the steady thrum of his breath. Missed the scent of pine and home.

With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and reached for his shirt where it hung on the corner of the dresser, discarded and soft. It still held the scent of him—cedarwood, forest wind, and the faint tang of alcohol. She shoved her arms through the sleeves and tugged the fabric down over her thighs, breathing him in like it would settle the storm gathering behind her eyes.

The stairs creaked beneath her bare feet as she descended, one hand on the banister for balance. She expected quiet. Maybe the low hum of Kalmin in the kitchen, maybe the hush of an empty house.

She didn’t expect them.

At the bottom of the steps, the air stilled around her like it knew what she was about to see.

Two people sat at the kitchen table.

Her mother. Her father.

She stopped mid-step, heart lurching sideways in her chest.

No. No, this couldn’t be real.

They were ghosts—figments pulled from the ruins of memory and grief. Her mother, human, skin pale beneath the kitchen light. Her father, the disgraced omega who once stood tall as a beta, now looked smaller than she remembered. Dimmer.

No human was allowed on pack grounds. And definitely not inside the Alpha’s home.

And yet there they were. Real. Solid. Sitting like they belonged in a place they had no right to be.

Her mother stood slowly, eyes glassy, as if every movement required permission. Like she was approaching a wild animal with a wound she didn’t know how to treat.

“Nuri…” her voice cracked like dry earth, soft around the edges of her name.

That did something to her. That tone. That look. Like Nuri was fragile—something fractured, something precious and sharp-edged.

She didn’t move. Her arms wrapped tighter around her stomach, like she could hold herself together if she just pressed hard enough.

“You let him take me,” she said. The words slipped out before she could stop them, whispered and raw.

Bella flinched like she'd been struck, her chin trembling as her mouth folded in on itself.

Alvin stepped forward instinctively, then caught himself, feet freezing halfway across the room.

“You let him take me,” Nuri said again, louder this time. Her voice cracked open like bones snapping out of place.

Her mother nodded—not in agreement. In guilt. In grief. In that desperate, helpless way only a parent could wear when they knew they'd failed.

“He said he’d keep you safe,” Bella whispered.

“So you handed me over like I was nothing.” Her throat tightened around the word, bitter and burned into her tongue. Nothing. Like all the years she’d spent trying to be enough had been meaningless.

Her father’s voice, when it came, was hoarse and slow, like it had aged in her absence. “We didn’t know what else to do, Nuri.”

“You could’ve fought.”

“We did.” His words snapped like dry branches, sharp and sudden. “You just didn’t see it.”

Silence dropped like a stone between them.

She stared at them—these people who once tucked her into bed, who once laughed in the kitchen on Sunday mornings. Now strangers in a house she had made her own. They looked smaller than she remembered. Older. Softer in all the wrong places.

“I missed you,” she said, the words barely more than breath.

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears, lips trembling like she wanted to speak but couldn’t.

“I still don’t forgive you,” Nuri added, voice steady now. She had to say it before it festered.

“You don’t have to,” Alvin murmured, eyes shining. “We’re just glad you’re alive.”

That undid something in her.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t move toward them. But her arms loosened from around her middle, just enough to let breath in again.

Behind her, the soft creak of stairs sounded.

She didn’t need to turn. She felt Kalmin’s presence like gravity—quiet, controlled. Watching.

Bella’s eyes darted past her shoulder and her expression shifted. Tightened.

Of course they hated him. They had to. Not after what happened. Not after what he did.

Not after what they let him do.

Nuri inhaled slowly, stepped back—not forward, not into their arms, but enough to say I’m still here. I haven’t run yet.

Kalmin stepped into the kitchen, his presence filling the space like a winter wind. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” Nuri said, eyes still on her parents. Her voice was low, slicing through the hush like a blade. “You don’t get to bring them here and expect it to fix me.”

“I didn’t bring them to fix you,” Kalmin replied, voice calm, grounded.

Her breath caught. That was somehow worse.

“I brought them here to celebrate their daughter,” he said. “Because you deserve the choice. To see them. To hate them. To forgive them. Or not.”

She closed her eyes for half a heartbeat. The ache behind them sharpened. He had taken the choice from her once—about her life, her home, her future. But this he left in her hands. Like it was some gift. Like it didn’t tear something inside her wide open.

Her gaze snapped back to her father.

“You handed me over,” she said, voice thick. “Like I was a burden to be traded off.”

Alvin winced, every word carving guilt deeper into the lines of his face. “I thought you’d be safe,” he whispered. “And you were. Look at what you’ve done.”

“Yes,” she said, voice shaking now. “Look at what I’ve done—without you. Look at what I did despite you.”

Bella stepped forward, tentative and slow, hands twitching like she didn’t know what to do with them.

“Nuri…” she breathed, her voice lined with tears.

“No.” Nuri backed away again, chest rising and falling fast now. “What? You thought I’d forgive you just because I did something big? Because I survived?” Her throat closed around the words. “You packed my things. You let me disappear. And now you want to celebrate?”

Her voice broke. But she didn’t cry.

Not in front of them. Not in front of Kalmin. Not while she still needed the walls to hold her up.

She turned her head just slightly, enough to meet Kalmin’s gaze.

There was no apology in his eyes. No attempt to explain. Just understanding. Steady. Quiet.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to brace herself against someone else’s choices.

This time, it was hers. Her voice. Her power. Her turn.

‘You have to know they didn’t do it to hurt you, Nuri,’ Tempest said softly, her voice steady but gentle, trying to anchor the storm of anger swirling inside Nuri’s chest. She could feel every pulse of fury radiating from her—sharp and raw, like a live wire beneath the skin.

Nuri’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms, but Tempest wasn’t blind to the turmoil beneath. Far from it. She knew Nuri well enough to recognize that this rage was tangled up with pain, heartbreak — and something deeper.

Far be it from Nuri to think Tempest wasn’t angry, too. She could feel it, simmering under the surface like a slow-burning ember. But part of why Tempest’s anger was so fierce was because she was still raw—still aching—over what had happened to Peter. That wound, barely closed, made every new hurt cut sharper, more jagged.

Tempest’s voice softened even more, threaded with a sadness that mirrored Nuri’s own. ‘They didn’t mean to break you. They were scared. And sometimes fear makes people do things that don’t make sense... even to themselves.’

Nuri’s throat tightened. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to let them in. But gods, her chest ached with how badly she wanted to. The longing pressed against her ribs like something alive—something that had been buried for too long and was finally clawing its way back to the surface.

'They don’t deserve this,' she thought bitterly. But even as the words came, they rang hollow. Because maybe they didn’t. And maybe she still needed them anyway.

Her arms loosened from around her middle. Her jaw unclenched. She wasn’t ready to forgive them. She didn’t even know if she’d ever be. But she was tired of holding the pain like a shield.

She glanced at her mother—at Bella’s trembling hands, at the way her eyes brimmed with tears she was too afraid to let fall. Her father looked older than she remembered. Worn down, weathered, like time had punished him for the choice he made.

“I’m not ready to forget,” Nuri said, voice rough. “And I’m not ready to talk about everything.”

Bella nodded, swallowing back the sob that caught in her throat. “Okay. You don’t have to.”

“But you can stay,” Nuri added quietly, eyes flicking between them. “Just… for a little while.”

Her mother covered her mouth with one hand, overcome. Her father blinked, shoulders sagging with something like relief. Neither of them moved closer—not until Nuri did.

She didn’t run into their arms. She didn’t collapse. But she stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and let her mother brush her fingers against hers.

Tempest exhaled a little inside her mind, the tension unwinding from both of them in one breath.

Kalmin stayed quiet in the corner, letting the moment unfold untouched. He wasn’t the hero in this story. He wasn’t trying to be. But Nuri turned her head just enough to meet his eyes—just enough to let him know she saw him, that she understood what he’d done by bringing them here.

Later, she’d thank him.

But for now, she sat with her parents at the table, let her mother ask about the academy, let her father smile when she talked about her wolf. The joy in both of them when she told them that her wolf had chosen a name. She let the conversation wash over her like warm water, not healing—but softening.

It wasn’t peace. Not yet. But it was a beginning.