Chapter 3. The Summons

Chapter 3 — The Summons

Three days later, a letter arrives from the pack’s elder council.

It’s waiting for me on my office desk when I come in from the production room, cream‑colored, heavy, stamped with the crescent‑moon seal I used to respect. My stomach knots the second I see it. Sylvie goes still inside me, then starts pacing, claws scraping at the edges of my mind.

They’re summoning me before the pack.

More like Adrian used them to drag me back so he can wash away the guilt of rejecting me for that betraying piece of shit he called a Luna.

I pick up the envelope and turn it over in my hands. The wax feels too thick, too deliberate, like they wanted the weight of it to remind me who holds authority. Once, that would have worked. Once, I would have bowed my head and obeyed without question.

Now, I just feel tired.

I break the seal and unfold the letter. Formal language. Elder council signatures. A reminder that I am still registered as an Omega of the pack, bound by its laws. A “request” that is really an order.

I can’t ignore the summons. I’m still a pack member, and my Omega rank leaves me little choice.

Sylvie growls low, a rumble only I can hear.

We don’t owe them anything, she whispers. They watched him reject us. They blessed her instead.

“I know,” I murmur under my breath, eyes scanning the lines again. “But we still owe Mom. Dad. Elias. The pack pups who didn’t ask for any of this.”

She doesn’t answer, but her anger simmers under my skin.

I sit back in my chair and stare at the letter for a long moment. The words blur. My mind drifts back to that night under the full moon, the ceremonial ring, the way my heart cracked when Adrian spoke the rejection. The way Sylvie screamed inside me and then went silent.

I fold the letter carefully and set it aside.

Business first. If I’m going to walk back into hell, I’m not leaving my life here in chaos.

I call my assistant, Janine, into the office. She wipes flour off her hands as she steps in, eyes bright but wary. She’s been with me long enough to know when something’s wrong.

“Hey, boss. What’s up?”

I slide the letter across the desk. She reads it, her brows knitting together.

“Elder council?” she says slowly. “Is this… family stuff?”

“Pack stuff,” I correct, because there’s a difference. “I have to go back. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

She looks up sharply.

“Is it safe?”

I don’t answer that. Instead, I start listing what needs to be done. Inventory schedules. Supplier contacts. Payroll. Special orders. She listens, jaw tight, nodding as I talk.

“I’ll handle it,” she says finally. “Just… come back if you can.”

Her voice wavers on the last word. I pretend not to notice.

“I’ve already spoken to my lawyer,” I say. “If something happens and I don’t return, he’ll bring you the transfer‑of‑ownership paperwork. The bakery will be yours.”

Her eyes widen.

“Alara…”

“This place kept me alive,” I say quietly. “If I don’t make it back, I want it to keep you going too.”

She swallows hard and nods.

“Okay.”

The call to my lawyer had been short and grim. I told him what I needed, and he didn’t ask questions. He just agreed, his tone solemn, and promised to have everything ready. When the call disconnected, the silence in my office felt heavier than usual.

I leave the office and walk through the bakery one more time.

The ovens hum steadily, radiating warmth. The scent of fresh bread, sugar, and butter wraps around me like a blanket. My staff moves with practiced ease, shaping dough, glazing pastries, laughing over some shared joke. This place is alive. It’s mine. It’s the first thing I ever built that wasn’t tied to the pack.

Sylvie presses closer, soaking in the smells, the sounds, the comfort.

We did this, she says softly. We survived.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “We did.”

I run my fingers along the edge of the display case, over the polished wood, the glass I insisted on replacing myself after a break‑in last year. Every corner of this bakery has a memory attached to it. The first day we opened. The first time we sold out. The nights I slept in the office because I couldn’t bear to go home and be alone with my thoughts.

My duffle bag sits in the office, already packed. Clothes. A few personal items. My crescent pendant, which I hadn’t worn in years until the elder council letter arrived. I slip it around my neck now, the metal cool against my skin.

My phone rings.

It’s my mother.

I answer immediately.

“Hi, Mom.”

Her voice comes through the line tight, urgent, like she’s been holding her breath for days.

“Alara… do not come home. Stay where you are and live your life. Reject the pack so the elders can’t bring you back. Please don’t worry about us. We will be fine.”

The call disconnects before I can respond.

“Mom? … Mom!?”

I stare at the screen, at the “Call Ended” message, my heart pounding. My mother never begs. Never pleads. She’s the one who held our family together when the pack started to fracture. For her to tell me to reject the pack… that’s not just fear. That’s warning.

Sylvie whines low, pressing against my ribs.

She’s scared, my wolf says. She thinks they’ll hurt you.

“I know,” I whisper. “But if I reject the pack now, they’ll turn on her. On Dad. On Elias. You know they will.”

Sylvie doesn’t argue. She just curls in on herself, unhappy.

I should have listened to my mother. I know that even as I move through the motions of leaving. But my family is everything to me. I can’t abandon them, even if going back might destroy me.

The car arrives to take me to the airport. I step outside, the city air cooler than the warmth of the bakery. I turn back and look at the sign above the door, the name I chose, the logo I designed. The windows gleam. The interior glows softly with the last of the afternoon light.

The bakery saved me from becoming a suicidal wreck. It gave me something to wake up for when all I wanted was to disappear. It feels like this will be the last time I ever lay eyes on my life here.

I pause at the door, letting my hand rest on the frame.

“Thank you,” I murmur to the empty space, to the ovens, to the walls that held my grief and didn’t break.

Sylvie presses forward, reluctant.

We don’t have to go, she says. We could run. Change our name. Start over somewhere else.

“We could,” I agree. “But then we’d spend the rest of our lives wondering if we could have saved them.”

Duty and blood pull harder than fear.

I climb into the car, my duffle tossed onto the seat beside me. The driver says nothing, just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. I watch the bakery shrink in the side mirror until it’s just another building on a busy street.

At the airport, the noise and movement feel distant, muffled. I move through security on autopilot, my mind half in the past, half in the future I don’t want.

When I board the plane, I pause at the entrance, fingers brushing the crescent pendant at my throat.

I’m heading back to where my pain began.

Sylvie settles in, bracing herself.

If they try to break us again, she says, we break them first.

I take my seat, buckle in, and stare out the window as the city I chose for myself falls away beneath the clouds.