LOGINPOV: Lilah Three years later, I could tell time by paw prints.Little muddy ones up the porch steps, bigger ones streaking through the herb beds, a trail of damp prints across the kitchen floor that always, somehow, ended at the cookie jar.“Rowan Vale,” I called. “I see you.”A small head popped up from behind the counter.Not fully shifted—too young for that—but caught mid‑way. Ears pointed and furred on top of their head, human face dusted with faint down, eyes bright with mischief and that familiar ring of luminescence flashing around the irises.They froze, one cookie half‑out of the jar.“Hi, Mama,” they said.I folded my arms, trying to look stern and failing.“How many did you already take?” I asked.They frowned, concentrating, lips moving silently as they counted.“Two,” they said finally, holding up three fingers.“Very convincing,” Naomi said from the table, where she sat cross‑legged helping a pair of pups with colored pencils and a very chaotic pack family tree. “Your
“I’ll be right here,” he said. “Bond or no bond. You call, I come.”Emotion clogged my throat.“Okay,” I whispered.I pushed the door open.The room was small. Standard. Bed. Chair. Small TV mounted in the corner. Window is looking out over the parking lot.My mother lay propped against pillows, a blanket over her legs, tubes snaking from her arm to a bag hung on a pole.She looked… older."Smaller.The sharp lines of her face had softened into something more fragile. Gray threaded through her hair, which was pulled back in a loose braid.Her eyes were open, fixed on the muted TV.For a second, she didn’t see me.Then she turned her head.We stared at each other.I saw the flicker of recognition. The way her mouth parted, then pressed tight again like she was holding back too many words.“Hi,” I said.Not “Mom.” Not yet.Her throat worked. “Lilah,” she said. My name sounded like something she’d been afraid to say out loud.I closed the door behind me, the soft click feeling indecently
POV: Lilah The town looked smaller.Maybe it had always been this size—one main street, two traffic lights, a scattering of side roads pretending they were going somewhere—but now, after forests and pack lands and gods and curses, it felt… compressed.Like someone had taken my old life and hit “zoom out.”I watched it through the windshield as Ronan eased the truck off the highway and onto the familiar road, my fingers curled around the strap of Rowan’s car seat.They gurgled softly, half‑dozing, their little wolf‑stripe at the nape of their neck peeking out above the collar of their onesie.“Still time to turn back,” Naomi said from the back seat, one arm tossed over her eyes. “We can claim we got lost. Blame the GPS. Say the moon intervened.”“You insisted on coming,” I reminded her.“I insisted on emotional support and a milkshake,” she said. “The rest is negotiable.”Bella, beside her, clutched a small bouquet of wildflowers we’d picked near the pack lands, stems wrapped careful
POV: Lilah Rowan discovered their feet at three months old and their power at four. The feet were easier. “Look at you,” Naomi cooed, lying on her stomach on the rug as Rowan lay on their back on a blanket, chubby hands grabbing at their toes like they were the most fascinating thing in the universe. “Ten out of ten, excellent feet. Very bite‑able.” “Please don’t bite my child,” I said, sipping lukewarm tea from the couch. Ronan sat beside me, one arm along the back, his fingers absently tracing shapes between my shoulder blades. “I’m Fun Aunt,” Naomi said. “It’s in the job description.” Rowan kicked, toes escaping their grip, face scrunching in determined concentration as they tried again. Their little tongue peeked out, brows furrowing in a way that made Ronan groan quietly. “That’s your face,” he muttered. “It is not,” I said. He glanced at me. I relented. “Okay, maybe a little.” Bella sat cross‑legged nearby, a book open but mostly ignored in her lap. “They’re strong,”
My heart climbed into my throat. “Leo,” I whispered. He took another breath, like he was stepping off a cliff he’d been standing on for a long time. “Stay,” he said simply. “Here. With us. With me. Not because you owe us anything. Not because you don’t have options. Stay because this is where you’re… happiest. I think. If I’m wrong, tell me, and I’ll shut up.” The words were so very Leo. No flash. No poetry. Just a steady, honest offering. Once, I’d thought my life was going to be small. Clinic shifts. A modest apartment. Visits to my parents on holidays. Books and plants and maybe, one day, someone to share groceries with. Safe. Predictable. Contained. Then Lilah had gone off to “have an adventure,” and I’d come to check on her, and the entire shape of my world had changed. I’d seen magic and gods and curses, and a version of my best friend I’d never dreamed could exist. And somewhere in the middle of that, a gruff Beta with too many scars had started bringing me coffee. T
POV: Bella The morning after Naomi’s “absolutely not a wedding, shut up” ceremony, the house felt hungover in the best way. Empty plates and cups are stacked everywhere. A faint, lingering smell of woodsmoke and grilled meat. A trail of flower petals that started in the clearing and somehow ended in the pantry. Someone had drawn tiny wolves in party hats on the corner of Luna's new charter. I suspected Freya. I slipped out early, before most of the pack stirred, cradling a mug of tea between my hands. The garden behind the pack house was quiet. Dew beaded on the tomato leaves. The air smelled like damp earth, crushed thyme, and the faintest echo of last night’s smoke. This had always been my place to breathe. Away from strategies and screaming matches. Away from prophecy and gods and the constant thrum of pack emotion. Just plants, doing their slow, stubborn work. “You’re drooping,” I told a basil plant, crouching to pinch off a flower bud. “We talked about this. A
*Ronan*For a breath, all I can do is stare.Half‑moon grooves scar the floorboards where her nails dug in. Her fingertips are tipped in blunt, half‑formed claws. The air in the room crackles with the echo of her scream.And her eyes—Gold. Not a flicker. Not a trick of the light.A full, predatory
*Lilah*He walks me back to my room in silence.Leo falls in behind us without a word. The tension in the corridor follows like a ghost—cracked stone, torn fabric, the echo of a boy’s scream, and the memory of Ronan’s hand on my face.My heart hasn’t quite figured out how to calm down yet. It stutt
*Lilah*The dining hall looks like something out of a dark fairy tale.Long wooden tables stretch the length of the room, lit by iron chandeliers and the glow from a massive fireplace at one end. Wolves fill the benches—some rowdy, some stiff, all too aware that this is more than just dinner.It’s
*Lilah*The dress stares at me like it has opinions.Cream‑colored. Long sleeves. Soft and deceptively simple, the kind of fabric that will cling in the right places and float everywhere else. A “Luna dress,” if there ever was one.*Fake Luna uniform,* I think again.I don’t put it on right away.I







