CHAPTER FOUR - Five Years of Silence

*Present day...*

The morning after my gallery opening, I woke to seventeen missed calls from my mother.

I stared at my phone, a cold knot forming in my stomach. My mother had called twice a year like clockwork since I left—my birthday and Christmas—respecting my need for distance even though it clearly hurt her. Seventeen calls in one night meant something was wrong.

Dread pooling in my gut, I hit the callback button.

She answered on the first ring. "Wren. Oh, thank God."

"Mom? What's wrong?"

"It's your father." Her voice cracked. "There was an accident. A motorcycle crash on Route 7. He's... he's in the hospital, sweetie. They're not sure if—" A sob swallowed the rest of her words.

The floor tilted beneath me. I sat down hard on the edge of my bed, phone pressed so tight against my ear it hurt.

"How bad?"

"Bad." She was crying openly now. "Multiple fractures, internal bleeding, they had to do surgery. He's stable but... they're talking about more procedures. A long recovery. *If* he recovers."

*If*. Such a small word to carry so much weight.

"I'm coming," I heard myself say. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Really?" Hope and disbelief tangled in her voice. "Wren, you don't have to—"

"He's my father." The words came out sharper than I intended. "Of course I'm coming."

After I hung up, I sat in silence for a long moment, staring at nothing. Five years. Five years of careful distance, of phone calls that never lasted more than ten minutes, of finding excuses to miss holidays and family gatherings. I'd built my entire life around staying away from Ironvale.

Now I had to go back.

*You can do this*, I told myself. *You're not the same girl who left. You're stronger now. Better. You can face your family without falling apart.*

I didn't let myself think about who else I might face.

The drive from Seattle to Ironvale took seven hours. Seven hours of increasingly empty highways, of forests growing denser and mountains looming larger, of the modern world falling away until I felt like I was driving back in time.

My wolf stirred as we crossed into pack territory, sensing the familiar magic in the land. She'd been quiet for years—subdued, depressed, a shadow of the vibrant creature she'd once been. But now she lifted her head, ears pricking forward.

*Home*, she whispered.

*It's not home anymore*, I told her firmly. *We're just visiting.*

She didn't believe me. I wasn't sure I believed myself.

The town of Ironvale hadn't changed much. Same main street lined with brick buildings. Same ancient oaks shading the sidewalks. Same mix of shops and businesses that catered to both the human population and the pack that hid in plain sight among them.

Chrome & Fang Customs sat at the edge of downtown, its lot full of motorcycles gleaming in the afternoon sun. I drove past without looking, refusing to acknowledge the way my heart rate spiked.

The hospital was small—only twenty beds—but well-equipped, funded by pack money that ensured our people got the best care without having to explain unusual healing rates to outside doctors.

I found my mother in the waiting room, looking smaller than I remembered. Older. Gray threaded through her auburn hair, and lines bracketed her mouth that hadn't been there five years ago.

"Wren." She stood when she saw me, tears spilling down her cheeks. "You came."

"I said I would."

We hugged, and it felt like coming home and saying goodbye all at once. She smelled like lavender and pack and childhood, and something cracked in my chest—a wall I hadn't realized I'd built against her too.

"How is he?"

"Stable." She pulled back, swiping at her eyes. "He woke up an hour ago. He's been asking for you."

My father looked wrong in a hospital bed. David Mercer was a big man, barrel-chested and strong, with a booming laugh that could fill any room. Seeing him pale and diminished, tubes snaking from his arms, machines beeping steadily beside him—it made the world feel tilted, off-axis.

"There's my girl." His voice was weak but warm, and his smile, though strained with pain, was genuine. "Took you long enough."

"Traffic," I said, the old joke falling flat. I moved to his bedside, taking his hand. His grip was weaker than it should be. "Dad, what happened?"

"Deer." He grimaced. "Jumped out of nowhere. I tried to swerve, but..." He gestured vaguely at his battered body. "Bike's totaled. That's the real tragedy."

"You're ridiculous." I laughed despite myself, despite the tears pricking my eyes. "You could have died."

"But I didn't." He squeezed my hand. "I'm too stubborn to die. Your mother would kill me."

We talked for an hour, carefully avoiding the elephant in the room—why I'd stayed away so long, what had driven me from Ironvale in the first place. My parents had never pushed for answers, and I'd never offered any. It was easier that way.

But I saw the question in my father's eyes. The hurt he tried to hide.

Eventually, the nurses shooed me out so he could rest. I found my mother in the hallway, leaning against the wall like she might collapse without its support.

"You should go home," I told her. "Get some sleep. I'll stay."

"I can't leave him."

"He's stable. The nurses will call if anything changes." I touched her arm. "Mom. You look exhausted. Please."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Your brother's at the house. He'll want to see you."

Ronan. Another reunion I'd been dreading. "I'll stop by later."

After she left, I found a chair in the waiting room and sank into it, suddenly bone-tired. The adrenaline that had carried me through the drive was fading, leaving me hollow and heavy.

I closed my eyes, just for a moment.

And felt it.

A tug at my chest. A pull, deep and insistent, like a hook buried beneath my ribs. The bond—dormant for so long I'd almost forgotten what it felt like—flared to sudden, aching life.

My eyes flew open.

He was there.

Standing in the hospital doorway, frozen mid-step, staring at me like he'd seen a ghost.

Skyler Voss.

Five years had changed him. His dark hair was longer, unkempt, falling across a forehead creased with lines that hadn't been there before. Dark circles shadowed his steel-gray eyes. He was thinner, the powerful frame I remembered now gaunt, almost haggard.

He looked like a man who hadn't slept in years.

He looked like a man being eaten alive from the inside.

"Wren." My name fell from his lips like a prayer, like a curse, like something precious and poisonous all at once.

I stood slowly, proud that my legs didn't shake. I'd imagined this moment a thousand times—what I would say, how I would act. I'd pictured myself cool and indifferent, proving that his rejection hadn't destroyed me.

Instead, I looked at the wreckage of the man who'd broken my heart, and I said the only thing I could.

"Hello, Skyler."