The Weight of the Eyes

I feel his gaze long after he's gone.

Even as I sit at the dining table—flanked by wolves twice my size, beneath chandeliers that glitter like ice above us—his presence coils in my mind like smoke I can't exhale.

Ethan Alaric is seated at the head of the table beside my father, as if he already belongs here. His posture is effortless, relaxed even, but there’s nothing casual about him. He owns every breath of space he occupies. And I hate how aware of him I am.

Our eyes haven’t met since the courtyard. And yet, I feel them. Like heat on the back of my neck.

I busy my hands with the stem of my glass, resisting the urge to glance at him.

“I heard your daughter’s been training with the warriors,” someone says near the far end of the table.

My fork pauses mid-air. My jaw tightens.

Ethan leans back in his chair, voice smooth. “That’s unusual for a Beta’s daughter, isn’t it?”

“She’s always been headstrong,” my father replies with a careful smile. “Tougher than most boys, really.”

A murmur of amusement ripples through the table, but it feels wrong—like they're laughing at me, not with me.

I press my lips together.

“She beat me in a fight once,” Ethan says suddenly.

Silence.

My eyes snap up, shocked to find him watching me now, head tilted slightly.

My wolf shifts under my skin, unsettled.

“I was twelve,” he adds. “She was ten. But still...”

Another wave of chuckles. But this time, it’s different. Curious. Respectful.

He doesn’t laugh. He just holds my gaze, golden eyes unreadable.

Why is he doing this?

“Don’t worry,” I say coolly, reaching for my water. “I’m sure you’ve learned how to lose more gracefully since then.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “I guess we’ll see.”

The tension snaps like a drawn bowstring, and my cheeks flush with something I don’t want to name. Heat. Embarrassment. Something heavier.

After dinner, the wolves disperse, murmuring and exchanging glances. My father pulls Ethan aside, no doubt to talk about “important matters.”

I slip out the side hall toward the garden.

The air is crisp, touched with the scent of rain. Shadows dance across the gravel path as I try to calm the chaos inside me. It’s just politics. It’s just strategy.

The garden wraps around the west wing of the house like a secret. I step through the stone arch and into a world softened by dusk. Wild roses coil along the iron fence. The wind hums low through the hedges, carrying the scent of jasmine and woodsmoke.

The moment I cross the threshold, I feel it—that shift. The noise inside, the pressure in my chest, it loosens just a little.

The moon hasn’t risen yet, but her presence is there, quiet and patient, tucked behind the clouds. I tilt my face upward, searching for her. Waiting.

The silver-leaved trees rustle as I pass beneath them, their branches reaching like arms in prayer. A single white blossom falls from above and lands at my feet.

I stare at it.

Delicate. Silent. Crushed with a single misstep.

I step around it.

The deeper I walk, the more the earth seems to breathe with me. Crickets trill softly. Fireflies blink in and out like fading thoughts. And still, that weight in my chest refuses to lift.

I don’t know what I came here to find. Stillness? Strength?

Maybe I just needed to run from him.

But that’s the thing about running—you never really leave anything behind. You only take it with you in silence.

But the way Ethan looked at me...

It wasn’t just politics.

I grip the cold stone railing and stare up at the moon, full and silver and impossibly still.

What is happening to me?