Chapter 4-The Kindness He Wanted Me to Believe

Yara’s Perspective

Judy reacted first. The moment I said Daniel’s name, her whole body stiffened. She looked at me like a child caught stealing. Her eyes darted to Daniel, then back to me, and her voice came out too fast.

“Daniel is not here,” she said. Her tone was high and shaky, like she was trying to look calm but could not control her fear. “You must have heard wrong.”

I kept my eyes soft and unfocused. Daniel was barefoot. Tip towing out, he didn’t see the glass shards.

I had dropped the glass earlier on purpose. I knew the shards were small and clear. They would hide against the wood floor. But I also knew a bare foot would feel everything.

Daniel took another careful step.

His heel came down on a shard.

His body jerked and the pain hit him fast, but he tried to smother it. His face twisted for a brief second before he forced it straight again.

I tilted my head toward him, widening my eyes just a bit. “Daniel? You’re here?”

My voice sounded confused and soft, the same tone he always expected from me. His eyes snapped to me in shock, and he froze like a child who had been caught sneaking out.

“I…” Daniel tried to stand straight, pretending nothing had happened. “I heard your voice and came over.”

His voice shook at the edges. He tried to hide it by clearing his throat.

Judy watched him, wide-eyed, as if she couldn’t believe he was still holding onto the lie.

I gave a small, worried laugh. “I wanted to tell you something earlier. I accidentally broke a cup today, and some glass pieces fell on the floor. But it should be fine. Nobody walks barefoot in the house except when sleeping, right?”

Daniel nodded quickly. “Right. But you can’t see them.” His voice held forced concern. “I was worried you might get hurt.”

He tried to move toward me, but every step pushed more glass into his skin. He hid the pain behind tight breaths and stiff shoulders.

Blood began to appear under his foot, tiny dark marks on the floor.

He still kept walking.

When he reached me, he took my hand gently, as if he still wanted to play his role of the loving mate.

“Come on,” he said. “You need to rest. Let me take you back to our room.”

He said this while the glass cut him deeper. and Judy sat on the bed, holding the sheet to her chest. I let him hold my hand and lead me away.

I leaned into him slightly, the way I always used to. “Daniel,” I whispered. “You and Judy are so kind to me.”

The sentence made him flinch. His body tensed for a second before he forced himself to relax. He let out a shaky laugh, as if he didn’t know whether I meant the words or not.

He still didn’t know that I could see every detail, he didn’t know that I knew everything.

Daniel cleared his throat and said, “I told you, I would always be good to you.”

Hearing that sentence hit me harder than walking in on them in bed. His voice had the same gentle tone he used years ago. The same tone he used when he pulled me through the darkness after the fire.

Hearing those old echoes brought back memories like sharp stones.

Before everything fell apart, I had already clashed with my parents once.

That same day, the fire broke out.

By the time the flames were put out, my parents had been severely injured. Not long after they recovered from the ordeal, they severed all ties with me without a shred of hesitation.

Daniel and I then weathered the brutal wars that followed. It was I who stood by his side through every trial, helped him build our pack from the ground up, and guided him step by step to become the new Alpha candidate.

The Pack was left in ruins. I never got the chance to leave. I never got the chance to make peace with them.

After the disaster, Judy continued to take care of me. She acted like family. And Daniel stepped forward when I was grieving and broken. 

He proposed after the fire. Back then, I believed it was fate.

I remembered one afternoon in the kitchen. I had dropped a bowl on the floor. The sound was sharp and sudden. I froze where I stood, afraid I had done something wrong again.

Daniel came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You didn’t see it. I’ll clean it up. You don’t need to worry about small accidents.”

I had believed him then. I had believed he cared for me.

Another time,when I almost stepped off the curb outside the Pack house. I misjudged the distance. A speeding car turned the corner. 

Daniel pulled me back with so much force it knocked the breath out of me. He hugged me tight and said, “I won’t let anything happen to you. As long as I am here, you’re safe.”

I had cried into his chest that day. I thought his promise was true.

Now, walking beside him, leaning on him, I felt that same promise again, but this time it tasted bitter. His words meant nothing now. They were the same warm sentences he used to control me. 

The next day, my body told me something was wrong long before my mind was willing to listen.

I noticed it while brushing my hair. The bristles snagged, and when I pulled the brush away, strands clung to it, more than they should. I stared at them for a moment, my fingers tightening slowly around the handle.

Werewolves did not lose hair like this.

I tried to reach for my wolf without thinking, the way I always had. The instinct was automatic. The response was not.

There was nothing.

No warmth. No quiet presence curled in my chest. Just an empty, muffled stillness that made my breath hitch. I tried again, more deliberately this time, focusing harder.

Still nothing.

Later, when Daniel passed through the room, I mentioned it in an offhand way, as if it were nothing more than a strange mood.

“I feel a little off today,” I said. “I can’t really sense my wolf.”

He paused, just briefly, then smoothed his expression.

“You’ve been anxious,” he said. “That kind of stress messes with your perception.”

Perception.

I nodded and let it drop.

The medicine Judy had sent sat on the counter, already prepared in a small bowl. I picked it up, then hesitated. I could see now. Missing one dose would not matter. I turned, meaning to set it aside, and my elbow knocked into the bowl.

The liquid spilled across the floor.

I sighed softly. Cleaning it up could wait.

Miso padded over at once.

She always did. Ever since she was a kitten, she followed spills like it was her responsibility, licking at whatever hit the floor before anyone could stop her. I barely noticed her at first.

Then I heard the sound.

A dull thump.

I turned around.

Miso lay on her side, her body slack, her breathing slow and unnaturally deep, as if she had been dropped into a sudden, heavy sleep. I knelt beside her, touching her fur, calling her name softly.

She did not respond.

My heart began to pound.

She had lived in this house for years. She had never collapsed like this. Never reacted this way to anything.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

The door handle rattled.

I stayed where I was, my back turned, my pulse roaring in my ears. I felt it then, that brief, unsettling sensation of being watched. Someone stood there. Long enough to see the scene.

Then the presence withdrew.

Just before the door closed, Daniel’s voice drifted back, casual but oddly careful.

“Did you take the medicine?”

That was when the fear truly set in.

Not sharp. Not sudden. But deep and consuming, like cold water closing over my head.

The scene refused to let go of me. The bowl on the floor. Miso lying still. The silence in my chest where my wolf should have been.

Miso had not changed.

The house had not changed.

The only difference was what she licked.

The realization settled into my bones, sending a chill slowly down my spine.

Something was very wrong.