Chapter 4

Clara’s pov

The letter showed up on a Thursday, tucked under the napkin holder at the counter like it had been waiting for me.

Marnie slid it across when I came down for the morning shift. “Mail for you. Postmark from somewhere north. You got people writing already?

I stared at the envelope. Plain white. My name in dark ink I recognized even before I touched it. No return address, but I knew.

Thanks, I said, and stuck it in my apron pocket without opening it.

Marnie raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Suit yourself. Coffee’s ready.”

I worked the breakfast rush the same as always, eggs, toast, refills, wiping tables.

The letter sat against my hip the whole time, a thin square of paper that felt heavier than it should.

My wolf had been quiet for weeks. Now she lifted her head, restless, like she could smell something through the paper.

I ignored her.

By the time the lunch crowd thinned I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I took my break out back by the dumpster, sat on the concrete step, and tore the envelope open.

One page. His handwriting, sharp and controlled.

Clara,

I shouldn’t be writing this. You left clean and I should let you stay gone. But the bond isn’t fading the way it should.

I feel it every night. I need to know you’re safe. If you want nothing from me, fine. Just tell me you’re all right so I can stop wondering.

Kael

I read it twice. Then a third time, slower, like the words might change if I stared hard enough.

They didn’t. No apology. No explanation for the public rejection. Just that low, careful request like he still had the right to ask anything of me.

My hands shook once. I clenched the paper until the edges crumpled.

“Asshole, I muttered under my breath.

The back door opened. Marnie stepped out with a cigarette she didn’t light. She glanced at the letter, then at my face.

“Bad news?”

“Old news.”

She nodded toward the alley. “There’s a barrel out there if you need to burn something. I won’t ask questions.”

I almost smiled. “Appreciate it.”

She went back inside. I walked to the metal barrel they used for trash burn when the dumpster got full.

The letter was still in my hand.

I stared at the signature one last time, then struck a match from the pack Marnie kept on the shelf by the door.

The paper caught fast. The ink blackened and curled. I watched his words disappear into ash and didn’t feel the satisfaction I’d expected. Just a tight, hollow pull under my ribs.

My wolf stirred harder then, pushing against my skin, restless, almost angry.

She didn’t like the burning. She wanted the scent of him that still clung faintly to the paper.

I shoved her down and dropped the last of the ashes into the barrel.

When I went back inside, Marnie was plating a burger order.

“You good?” she asked without looking up.

“Fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m working on it.”

She handed me the plate. “Table four. And don’t snap at the customers just because you’re pissed at whoever wrote that letter.”

I took the plate and went.

The rest of the shift dragged on. Every time the bell over the door rang I felt my shoulders tighten, like some part of me expected him to walk in even though that made no sense.

He wouldn’t. He’d rejected me in front of the whole pack. He’d made it clear I was nothing. A letter didn’t change that.

Still, my wolf wouldn’t settle. She paced under my skin through the dinner rush, through the close, through the walk up the stairs to my little room.

I locked the door, kicked off my shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees.

The bond ached again, stronger than it had in weeks. Not the sharp tear of the rejection night, but a low, steady pull that made it hard to sit still. I pressed the heel of my hand against my sternum and breathed through it.

“Stop,” I told her quietly. “He’s not coming. We’re not going back.”

She didn’t listen. She never did when she got like this.

I stood, paced the small room once, twice, then stopped at the window and looked out over the dark alley.

Millbrook was quiet this late. No pack territory markers. No scouts. No Alpha waiting in the trees. Just the distant hum of a truck on the main road and the smell of the diner still clinging to my clothes.

I thought about the letter again, the way he’d written that the bond wasn’t fading. Part of me wanted to believe he was lying, that it was just another way to keep a thread on me.

Another part, the part that still remembered the exact gold of his eyes when the bond first snapped, knew he wasn’t.

I hated that part.

I washed my face, changed into an old T-shirt, and lay down on the bed. Sleep didn’t come easy.

My wolf kept pushing, restless, like she could still catch the ghost of his scent in the air. I rolled onto my side, stared at the wall, and waited for the pull to ease.

It didn’t.

Sometime after midnight I got up, opened the window a few inches, and let the cool night air in.

Then I sat on the floor with my back against the bed and stayed there until the sky started to lighten.

The letter was gone. Burned clean. But the feeling it left behind stayed under my ribs, stubborn and quiet, and my wolf refused to go back to sleep.