Chapter 4 – A Fleeting Kindness

The sun hung low, painting the streets in a dull orange glow as Michelle made her way down the familiar path leading to the town center. The air was thick with the smell of pine and exhaust from the few old vehicles that still ran in the Range Pack territory. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but she kept walking, her posture straight, her face blank. She had learned how to hide pain, how to wear silence like armor.

She was still lost in thought when a small figure darted out from behind a shop corner.

A child, a tiny girl, barely three, ran straight into her legs. The impact was soft but enough to jolt Michelle out of her haze. She instinctively bent down, steadying the child before she could fall.

“Hey, are you alright, little one?” Michelle asked gently, crouching to the child’s level. Her voice softened automatically, instinctively, she had always been good with children.

The little girl looked up with wide brown eyes that mirrored innocence and fear in equal measure. Her tiny fists clenched at her sides, her lips quivering as she nodded quickly, almost mechanically.

Michelle’s heart twisted. That fear wasn’t because of the collision, it was because of her. The girl’s mother had probably warned her, like everyone else had been warned, about the former alpha’s daughter.

That was what they called her now. Not Luna. Not Alpha. Just the daughter of the man who used to rule.

She reached out slowly so as not to startle the child. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze flicked to Michelle’s face, then to the faint mark at her neck, Patrick’s mark. Something about it made her step back slightly, and Michelle felt that familiar ache, the one that came from being seen yet unseen.

Then, out of nowhere, the little girl lifted her hand and brushed her tiny thumb across Michelle’s cheek, wiping away one of the tears that had escaped.

“You’re cwa-yin?” the girl said softly, mispronouncing the word crying.

For a moment, the world stilled.

Michelle exhaled, a broken laugh tumbling out of her chest. It was such a small thing, such a fragile act of kindness, and yet it hit her harder than anything had in years.

“Not anymore, little one. Not anymore,” she whispered, and her voice trembled.

She leaned forward and kissed the child’s small hand. “Go to your mommy now, okay?”

The girl hesitated, then surprised her again by leaning in and kissing Michelle’s cheek, quick, innocent, and pure. Then she turned and ran toward her mother, who had been watching from a distance, uncertain whether to interfere.

Michelle stayed crouched long after the child had gone. She touched the spot where the girl’s lips had grazed her skin and smiled faintly, tears filling her eyes again.

It was ridiculous, maybe, to cry over something so small, but it was the first genuine affection she’d felt in two years.

For a brief, beautiful moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to have a little girl of her own. A child with bright eyes and a fearless laugh. Someone to protect, someone to love.

But the thought faded just as quickly as it came. Patrick would have been a terrible father.

She rose to her feet, brushed off her dress, and continued walking, her steps a little lighter.

The supermarket was only a few blocks away. The bright fluorescent lights stung her eyes as she entered, the sudden noise and color contrasting sharply with the quiet numbness she carried inside.

She moved quickly through the aisles, grabbing what she needed, cold cuts, sliced turkey, a loaf of bread, and a few ready-made meals from the deli. Her movements were efficient, practiced. Every action was driven by the same desperate goal: avoid another outburst when she got home.

At the counter, the store attendant, a young man around her age, maybe twenty-four, smiled politely as he rang up her items.

“Evening, ma’am,” he greeted. His voice was kind, genuinely kind, and it caught her off guard.

Michelle hesitated before returning the smile. “Evening.”

He packed her items neatly into a paper bag and handed them over. “Hope your day’s been good.”

She almost laughed. Good? Not in years. But she simply nodded. “Thank you.”

He smiled again, an easy, friendly expression that made her heart ache. She reached into her purse and handed him an extra note. “Keep the change,” she said softly. “For your kindness.”

He looked surprised but accepted it with a grateful nod.

Michelle found herself staring at him for a moment, at the open, unguarded way he looked at her. He didn’t seem to recognize her or, if he did, didn’t care who she was supposed to be.

It was… refreshing.

But she knew better. Word would spread. Someone would tell Patrick she’d spoken to another man.

By tomorrow, the same clerk who had smiled so kindly at her would look away in fear or disgust.

She sighed and left the store, clutching the bag close to her chest.

By the time she got back home, the sky had darkened. The house loomed large and cold, its lights glowing faintly through the windows. She paused on the porch, steadying her breath before opening the door.

Inside, Patrick and Jason were seated in the living room, speaking in low tones. The sound of their conversation stopped as soon as she entered.

She didn’t say a word.

She simply crossed the room, placed the cold cuts in the fridge, and unpacked the ready meals from the bag. Her movements were quiet, deliberate. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, not when Patrick seemed in good spirits.

She set the meals in the microwave, heating them one by one, then laid out plates and cutlery. She decided to make sandwiches with the sliced turkey. If she did everything perfectly, maybe the night would end without incident.

In less than thirty minutes, the dining table was set.

She wiped her hands on a napkin, inhaled deeply, and said, “Alpha Patrick, the food is ready.”

She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, her tone formal, distant. She wasn’t allowed to use any term of affection. No “love,” no “dear,” not even “husband.”

She referred to him as everyone else did, Alpha Patrick.

The title that made him powerful, not the man who had destroyed her peace.

Jason glanced up at her, and for a fleeting moment, something soft crossed his expression. Pity. Maybe even admiration.

Michelle looked away. Pity was a dangerous thing in Patrick’s house.

Patrick and Jason rose from the couch and walked toward the table. Jason lingered slightly behind, his expression careful. He knew better than to interfere.

Patrick picked up a sandwich, studied it, and took a bite.

It happened in a blink.

He spat it out, his face twisting in disgust, and hurled the bread across the table. It hit her shoulder, then fell to the floor, scattering crumbs across the rug.

“Cold cuts don’t mean you serve them ice cold,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to slice through her.

Michelle froze, her breath catching.

It took her a second to realize what she’d done wrong. She hadn’t warmed the turkey slices. The sandwiches were cold.

Stupid mistake. Stupid, stupid mistake.

She immediately bent down, gathering the pieces from the floor, her hands trembling. “I’m sorry, Alpha,” she murmured, blinking back tears. “I’ll fix it, ”

Jason shifted slightly in his seat, his jaw tightening. He’d seen this before, too many times.

Michelle reached for the plate nearest him, intending to take his sandwich and warm it, but his hand shot out, resting gently over hers.

The contact startled her.

His touch was warm, steady, and in that brief moment, she felt the strangest thing, safety.

He spoke quietly, not looking at her, his voice measured. “I love cold sandwiches, Luna.”

The words were soft but deliberate. A shield, subtle yet powerful.

Michelle froze, her heart thudding. She understood what he was doing, protecting her, just enough to calm Patrick without defying him.

She nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Of course, Beta,” she said.

Jason withdrew his hand, the moment between them dissolving as quickly as it had come. Patrick’s attention was already shifting back to his conversation, the outburst forgotten.

Michelle exhaled slowly and turned to clean the mess.

She dropped to her knees, picking up crumbs and bits of bread, her movements mechanical. She reached for a napkin and began scrubbing at the mayonnaise that had splattered onto the rug.

Her fingers worked in silence, the faint smell of vinegar from the condiment mixing with the sterile scent of lemon polish. The low murmur of the men’s voices filled the background, but she didn’t listen.

This was her life now.

The Luna of the Range Pack, kneeling on the floor, scrubbing stains from a rug while her Alpha discussed business over dinner.

She focused on the motion of her hands, the repetitive rhythm of cleaning, because it was the only thing that kept her from breaking down completely.

And somewhere, beneath all the numbness, a thought flickered.

Maybe someday, she wouldn’t have to do this anymore.

But for now, she scrubbed the mayonnaise that stained the rug.