Joke of the century

Selene

I stared at Alaric, the silence between us stretching taut, until something inside me cracked. A loud, bitter laugh tore out of me, echoing sharply off the sterile hospital walls. He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Instead, he gave me that cold, grumpy look of his. The same one that could freeze fire. His huge brows were drawn into a deep scowl.

“You really think this is funny now, do you?” he asked, his voice flat but deep.

“Isn’t it?” I chuckled, shaking my head even as the laughter started to curdle in my chest. “I mean, you just said the most hilarious thing of the century.”

Alaric’s jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle jump. “Look at me, Selene. I am serious.” His eyes darkened. “I am dead serious.”

My smile vanished. Anger surged through me like wildfire, tightening my face until my cheeks ached. My gaze flicked to the invitation card lying on the bedside table, its elegant gold lettering glinting mockingly under the lights. I bit down hard on my bottom lip until I tasted the sharp tang of blood.

“You expect me to go back to that place?” My voice trembled with fury. “That hell of a pack? You hate me, don’t you? Is this your plan? To send me back there so they can finally finish what they started and get me killed?”

Alaric sighed heavily, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “Why would I want you killed, Selene? You’re my friend. I’m the one who saved you back then, remember?”

The words only fueled the storm inside me.

“You saved me for what, then?” I almost yelled, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “Just so you could drag me back there to die? What kind of sick mercy is that?”

I let out a heavy, shaky sigh and collapsed back against the pillows, yanking the thin hospital blanket up to my chin like a shield. The fabric smelled faintly of antiseptic and fear—my own fear.

“I really don’t want to hate you too,” I whispered softly, my voice cracking. “Just… leave me alone. Pretend I don’t exist.” A hollow laugh escaped me. “Not like I exist anyway.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Finally, Alaric spoke, his tone quieter but still edged with frustration.

“I’ll give you time to think about it.”

His footsteps faded across the room. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the beeping monitors and the suffocating weight of his words.

The second he was gone, I sat up abruptly, my heart pounding. My eyes locked onto the invitation card on the table. Seeing my name there, ‘Selene Ashwood,' in beautiful, condemning script made my chest tighten painfully. My breathing turned shallow and frantic, each inhale sharper than the last.

I dropped my face into my hands, gripping fistfuls of my hair until my scalp stung. A ragged sigh tore from me. I didn’t know what to do. The thought of returning to the Whitemoon Pack sent ice sliding down my spine. I couldn’t go back there. I wouldn’t. I had already tasted death in that place once. I wasn’t ready to face it again.

Later, the nurse and doctor came in for their rounds. They checked my vitals, exchanged pleased glances, and told me I was recovering remarkably well. I nodded and murmured the appropriate thanks, forcing a weak smile that never reached my eyes.

They were glad I was doing well.

But all I could feel was the invisible noose tightening around my neck.

***

I was discharged the following day. It was only Alexa who came to pick me up, which didn't surprise me. Deep down, I already knew Alaric wouldn't show.

She drove away from the hospital in comfortable silence while my mind kept replaying yesterday’s argument on an endless loop. My fingers brushed against the crumpled invitation card tucked deep in my jacket pocket. The once-smooth paper now felt rough and worn, its edges frayed from how desperately I’d clutched it the night before.

“Are you alright?” Alexa asked after a while, glancing over with quiet concern.

I turned to her and forced a smile. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

She nodded, though I could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced. After another stretch of silence, I asked, “What about Alaric? The least he could’ve done was show up for my discharge.”

"He said he didn’t want to come."

I blinked, momentarily stunned. He didn’t want to see me? Well, that was a first. Was he seriously that upset just because I refused to RSVP to my own funeral? What a joke.

"Did he tell you why?" I asked.

“Well, not really. He wouldn’t even listen to my questions. He’s been pouting since yesterday. He was moody, grumpy, the whole thing,” she explained with a small sigh. “You know how he gets when he’s like this.”

The car finally rolled to a stop in front of the pack house. We stepped out, and Alexa led me along the stone path, pointing out the blooming gardens, the wide training fields in the distance, and the sunlit balconies overlooking the forest. The beauty of it tugged at an old, buried longing inside me. For a fleeting second, I missed the pack house back at Whitemoon—the familiar scent of pine, the way moonlight used to spill across the wooden floors.

I shook my head sharply, banishing the thought. I was dead there. That place wasn’t home. It was a grave waiting to claim me again.

We finally stopped in front of a beautiful, dark oak door with a polished brass handle. Alexa pushed it open, revealing a beautiful, impeccably arranged bedroom. Large windows let in the perfect amount of light, and the entire space felt warm and welcoming.

“So you’ll be staying here,” Alexa said with a gentle smile. “This will be your room.”

A sudden lump formed in my throat, and my eyes stung. After everything, having a safe place felt overwhelming. "Thank you," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I really love it."

Alexa chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You shouldn't thank me. Thank Alaric. He was the one who picked this out and made sure it was tailored exactly to your taste."

"Oh," I muttered, nodding slowly as my chest tightened with a mix of guilt and confusion.

Alexa watched my expression closely. "Do you want to see him, by the way?"

I could only blink, completely at a loss for words.