CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:SIDE EFFECTS.

        SIDE EFFECTS 

The thing about remembering is that it never asks permission.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in my grandparents’ mansion when it hits me. The mattress is too soft, the room too quiet. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes gently. Someone laughs.

My shoulders go tense automatically.

I hate that about myself.

“Emily?”

My grandmother’s voice floats in from the corridor. Calm. Warm. Normal.

“Yeah,” I call back. “I’m here.”

Her footsteps stop outside my door. She doesn’t come in immediately. She always knocks first.

“Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Okay.”

She hesitates, then, “You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

The words come out so smoothly I almost believe them.

After she leaves, I let myself sink backward onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s beautifully carved, intricate patterns etched into the stone like someone once cared enough to make sure even the ceiling mattered.

Safe place. Safe people.

My chest still feels tight.

Because safety doesn’t erase memory. It just gives it room to breathe.

Earlier, when I walked into the town hall, everything had felt fine at first. Smiling faces. Polite nods. Elders murmuring approval as I was introduced.

“Alpha Matteo’s granddaughter.”

“Family.”

Hands had gripped my shoulders, gentle and approving. Someone squeezed my arm and said, “You’ll do well here.”

I smiled. Nodded. Played my part.

Inside, something small and sharp curled inward.

Because I’ve heard those words before.

You’ll be fine. You’ll fit in. Just give it time.

I swing my legs off the bed and stand, pacing slowly. The carpet doesn’t make a sound. My footsteps are soft. Controlled.

I learned that too.

Back then, in school, noise got attention.

“Hey, Emily.”

I freeze.

My brother is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, like he isn’t acutely aware of how long it’s been since we stood in the same room like this.

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Story of your life,” he replies lightly, then winces. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

I wave it off. “You’re fine.”

He watches me for a second. Really watches me.

“You always do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Say you’re fine like it’s a reflex.”

I shrug. “It works.”

“For who?”

I don’t answer.

Silence fills the space, not uncomfortable, just heavy. Familiar.

Finally, he says, “Big day.”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone seemed… pleased.”

I let out a soft breath. “They usually do when they’re looking at a version of you they like.”

He frowns. “They like you.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s the problem.”

He doesn’t push. I’m grateful for that.

After he leaves, I sit back down.

That tightness in my chest refuses to go away.

It’s stupid. I’m safe now. No one here has shoved me into a locker or laughed when I walked past. No one has called me names.

Yet my body doesn’t seem to believe it.

I remember sitting in class, that feeling right before the laughter started. That moment when the air shifted and I knew something was coming.

I feel it now.

Not because anything bad is happening.

Because nothing is.

That calm feels unnatural.

Later, at dinner, everyone talks at once. Plates clink. Someone tells a joke and my grandmother laughs, soft and genuine.

I laugh too.

It slips out before I think about it.

For half a second, I imagine being sixteen again, laughing at something harmless before realizing the joke was about me.

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.

“Emily?” my grandfather says gently.

I blink. “Sorry. Spaced out.”

He nods. “Long day.”

“Very.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He never pushes in front of others. He waits for privacy.

I appreciate that more than he knows.

After dinner, as people drift away, I wander onto the balcony outside my room. The night air is cool. Stars stretch endlessly overhead.

I rest my arms on the railing and breathe.

“I know,” I whisper quietly.

My wolf stirs faintly. Not anxious. Not alarmed. Just present.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” I murmur.

A memory flickers through me involuntarily. Standing in a hallway. Books scattered. That feeling of being watched.

My fingers curl against the railing.

“Not here,” I say softly. “We’re not there anymore.”

She doesn’t argue.

But she doesn’t fully relax either.

Inside, people move. Doors open and close. Life continues.

I stay where I am, listening, grounding myself in the sounds of normalcy.

Yet some part of me keeps waiting for the shift. For the moment when smiles falter. When voices change. When quiet turns sharp.

I learned long ago that peace can be temporary.

That acceptance often has conditions you don’t learn until too late.

The difference now is this.

I’m not sixteen anymore.

And I’m not unarmed.

As I turn back toward the open

doors of the mansion, I catch my reflection in the glass. My reflection stares right back at me, looking older but watchful.

I'm learning when to trust the calm and when not to.