•MARY• [20 YEARS AGO] I was sixteen when my entire world ended, though in truth, it had ended long before that. My mother had died when Xander and I were still young, and the house we called home had grown colder with each day that followed. The pack house was quieter, and my father had stopped all our chefs and cleaners from working. He insisted that Xander and I needed to take care of the house chores. We did it, thinking that it would end when he had finally realized that we also lost our mother, and we were grieving just as he was. Xander, only two years older than me, tried his best to shield me, but he was just a boy himself, and I was learning, even then, how fragile protection could be. We learned to survive in the way children of broken homes often do. We learned to speak only when spoken to, to avoid drawing attention, and to make ourselves small. I learned to read the tension in my father’s eyes. To be aware of when his temper might flare, and to measure my word
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