Chapter 8- The High-Functioning Despair

Santa closed her front door with a resounding bang, the echo vibrating through the empty apartment with a sharpness it never possessed during the day. She leaned her back against the wood and let out a long, ragged sigh. What a hell of a day, she thought, her eyes sliding shut. She let her bag slip from her shoulder; it hit the floor with a heavy thud, the weight of her textbooks a metaphor for the life she was struggling to carry. For several minutes, she simply stood there, staring into the dark abyss of her hallway, letting the silence of the room try to drown out the ringing in her ears.

Once the static in her mind finally began to settle, she reached out and flicked the light switch. The dim yellow glow did little to cheer the space. She crossed the hallway and entered the living room, heading toward the window to shut out the world. But as her hand reached for the heavy fabric, a glint of silver caught her eye.

Santa tilted her head, peering down at the street below. At first glance, it was the same view she saw every night: empty, grey, and depressing. But then she saw it—a car parked several doors down. It was sleek, polished to a mirror finish, and looked brand new. It sat like a apex predator among the rusted hatchbacks and cracked pavement of her run-down neighborhood.

The sight of it made the hair on her arms stand up. On the walk home, she’d been haunted by the prickling sensation of eyes on her back—a phantom heat that felt less like her father’s hounds and more like something ancient. She had dismissed it as paranoia, but now that same cold knot of dread tightened in her stomach. That feeling had been her shadow ever since she stepped off the campus, a heavy, velvet-wrapped pressure.

With a shuddering breath, she gripped the heavy curtains and yanked them shut. They protested with a metallic groan, finally sealing her away from the street. She turned on her heel and limped toward the bathroom.

The fluorescent light hummed to life, bathing the small room in a clinical, unforgiving white. Santa stepped toward the mirror, her breath catching as she finally saw the damage. Her skin was pale, making the trauma stand out in stark relief. Slowly, her fingers trembling, she reached up to delicately graze the split skin of her lip. The copper taste of blood returned to her tongue, a grim reminder of the violence she’d endured while her "hero" had walked past.

Santa let out a weary sigh. She pulled the first aid kit from under the sink and balanced it on the cabinet, then opened the linen cupboard for fresh clothes. She always kept a spare set of pajamas here for moments exactly like this—when the bedroom felt miles away, and the effort of walking those few extra feet seemed insurmountable.

Back in the bathroom, she stepped into the shower. She stood there for a long time, the steam rising around her like a shroud. As the water warmed, her tears finally broke free, mixing with the hot stream cascading down her face. The physical pain began to dull into a tolerable ache under the heat, but the humiliation remained sharp.

After she finished, Santa stood before the mirror, wiping a clear circle in the steam with her palm. The split on her lip was a jagged vertical line that pulsed with every heartbeat. With a steadying breath, she soaked a cotton pad in antiseptic and pressed it into the wound. The sting was electric—a white-hot spark—but she didn't flinch. She applied a butterfly bandage, her movements clinical and practiced.

Next, she let the towel drop. The sight of her stomach made her breath hitch. A massive, blooming bruise dominated her midsection—a deep, angry purple at the center, bleeding out into sickly greens. It was a map of Anol’s cruelty. She reached for a roll of medical wrap, but as she raised her arms, a sharp, stabbing pain flared in her ribs.

She gasped, her hand flying to her side. Probing carefully, she felt the tell-tale swelling. Not broken, but badly bruised. She began the methodical process of binding her ribs, the pressure of the compression bandage providing a grim sort of comfort, like a firm hand holding her together.

She pulled on her pajama top, the soft fabric a relief, and left the bathroom. She had barely taken two steps before a sharp, heavy knock at the front door made her heart lurch into her throat. She froze, her breath hitching as she waited for a voice that never came.

Steeling herself, she checked the peephole—nothing but the flickering hallway light. She eased the door open just a few inches, the chain still engaged. Resting on the threshold was a brown paper bag, the top folded with military precision. The rich, savory scent of roasted lamb and herbs drifted upward, hitting her senses with a force that made her stomach give a traitorous, painful rumble.

Santa glanced up and down the corridor. It was empty. With trembling hands, she gathered the warm, steamy package into her arms and retreated into the living room.

She set the bag down, the heat seeping through the paper into her cold palms. Finally, she peeled it open. Inside, nestled next to the containers, was a small, cream-colored envelope with her name written in elegant, sharp calligraphy.

She pulled out a heavy card. There was no signature, only a single line of razor-sharp script:

"A girl who takes a hit like a wolf should at least eat like one. Heal quickly; the moon is rising."

Santa dropped the card onto the table as if it had burned her. Her eyes darted instinctively toward the window. How did they know? How had they seen her? The memory of the lecture hall flashed—Nathan’s eyes meeting hers for that split second.

She looked at the food. It smelled divine, but the sight of it made her feel hunted.

Outside, within the sleek interior of the Audi, two of Nathan’s men sat in practiced silence, their eyes fixed on her window as they tapped out a status report to Marcus. They weren't alone. A few car lengths back, shrouded in the shadows of a rusted van, a third man—one of her father’s men—watched the same window.

Two competing agendas. One girl.

Yet, all of them missed the real danger. A massive wolf had settled itself between the vehicles, melting into the tangled shrubland. A phantom of fur and teeth, Nathan lay perfectly still in his shifted form, his glowing amber eyes watching the watchers. He didn't just want her fed; he was waiting for the moment he would have to tear the throat out of anyone who stepped toward her door.