Chapter 10

Chapter 10
Elara's POV

The moment I cleared the forest edge and stepped onto the paved road, my body stopped pretending it was fine.

My legs started shaking so badly I had to stop and lean against a telephone pole. The backpack felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. My shoulders screamed where the straps dug in. My lungs burned with every breath, that familiar tightness building again in my chest.

I fumbled for the inhaler with trembling fingers and took two puffs, forcing the medicine deep. Slowly, the pressure eased. My vision cleared.

But the exhaustion didn't go anywhere.

I pushed away from the pole and kept walking, because stopping meant collapsing, and I couldn't afford that. Not yet. Not until I was somewhere safe.

The night wind cut through my dirt-covered clothes, making me shiver. My hands throbbed where I'd torn my fingernails digging up the cache. Blood had dried in dark lines across my palms.

At least the cold helped me think.

I forced my mind to focus on the practical problems ahead. The Wild Hunt. Fenrir and his pack of mercenary wolves. They'd accepted the blood hunt contract on my family—on Marcus and Emily and Ethan Grey, people who had no idea what kind of danger was coming for them.

I ran the timeline in my head. The Wild Hunt operated out of the Canadian border territories. Even moving fast, it would take them weeks to reach Oregon. I knew Fenrir's methods too well from my past life. He'd send scouts first, gather intelligence, map out the territory before making his move.

Which meant I still had time.

But tomorrow afternoon, I had a more immediate problem.

Sophia.

The mandatory combat training class. Her public challenge. The whole school watching while she tried to humiliate me, maybe even cripple me, in front of everyone.

My hand moved unconsciously to the backpack strap, feeling the weight of the bracers and knife inside. If I could use these—if I could activate the runes—Sophia wouldn't stand a chance. I could end the fight in seconds.

But the problem was how to use forbidden weapons in a legal school combat class without raising questions I couldn't answer.

I needed time to think. To plan.

The residential streets were quiet at this hour, street lamps casting pools of yellow light across empty sidewalks. I followed the route that surfaced from Elara's memories—fragmented images of walking this path countless times before. Left at the corner store. Right past the park. Straight down Maple Street until—

Until I reached number seventeen.

My feet slowed as the memories intensified. Not my memories. Hers. The original Elara's.

I saw flashes of a small gray-white house with a rusted mailbox. Warm light spilling from the windows. A voice calling out, "Little sleepyhead, late again?" Another voice, softer, worried: "Elara, it's cold outside, come in quickly..."

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, my heart doing something strange in my chest.

These people—Marcus, Emily, Ethan—they loved her. Loved their daughter, their sister. They had no idea she was gone. That the girl who would walk through their door tonight wasn't really her anymore.

I didn't know how to be someone's daughter. Someone's sister.

In my past life as Lynette, I'd led a pack of warriors. I'd commanded respect through fear and strength. People obeyed me because I was the strongest, the most ruthless, the one who could kill them without hesitation if they stepped out of line.

But a family? People who cared about you for no reason except that you existed? Who worried when you were late, who made you hot chocolate when you were cold, who hugged you just because?

I had no fucking idea how to handle that.

Should I act like the Alpha I used to be—cold, distant, in control? Or should I pretend to be the weak, frightened Omega girl they expected?

I didn't even know how to respond to a hug. How to accept concern that came with no ulterior motive.

The thought made my throat tight.

I forced myself to keep walking. One foot in front of the other. The house was close now—I could see it at the end of the block, exactly as Elara's memories showed me. Gray-white paint peeling slightly. Small front yard. A battered pickup truck in the driveway.

Home.

Except I'd never had a home before. Not really.

I stopped at the front gate, staring at the house. Light glowed from the first-floor windows. Someone was still awake.

Then I looked down at the backpack on my shoulder.

Fuck.

I couldn't just walk in there carrying a bag full of silver weapons, runic bracers, and a combat knife. What would I say if they asked what was inside? If Emily wanted to help me unpack? If Ethan offered to carry it upstairs for me?

I needed to hide it. Somewhere safe. Somewhere I could access it tomorrow morning before school.

My eyes tracked up the side of the house to the second floor, where a window stood half-open. That had to be Elara's room—my room now. If I could climb up there, I could toss the backpack inside without anyone seeing.

I circled around to the side of the house, assessing the route. The garage roof. The window ledge. The climb to the second floor.

In my past life, I could have scaled a ten-meter cliff face with my bare hands. I'd done it dozens of times during raids and hunts.

But now?

I set the backpack down carefully and started climbing. My hands found purchase on the garage roof's edge. I pulled myself up, muscles screaming in protest.

I made it to the roof, breathing hard. So far so good.

Then I reached for the window ledge.

My fingers couldn't grip it. They were too weak, too torn up from digging. My arms shook with the effort of trying to pull myself higher. The distance between the garage roof and the window suddenly seemed impossibly far.

I tried again. Reached. Strained. Failed.

This body was so fucking weak. Not just unable to shift—it couldn't even manage basic physical tasks that should have been easy.

I dropped back down to the garage roof, breathing hard, frustration burning in my chest.

Fine. I'd have to go through the front door after all.

I jumped down from the garage, landing harder than I intended. Pain shot through my left ankle—a mild sprain, nothing serious, but enough to make me bite back a curse.

Great. Just perfect.

I limped back toward the front of the house, trying to figure out how to explain the backpack without—

"Elara?"

I spun around, my body reacting before my brain caught up. Combat instincts flooded through me—assess the threat, find the weapon, prepare to—

Except I didn't have a weapon. The knife was still in the backpack I'd left by the garage.

A tall male figure stood in the shadows by the driveway. Backlit by the street lamp, I couldn't see his face clearly. But the voice was familiar in a way that made Elara's memories surge forward.

Deep. Concerned. Protective.

I forced myself to relax, to search through the fragments of memory for a name to match that voice, that silhouette.

"Ethan?" I said cautiously.

He stepped forward into the light, and I got my first clear look at my—at Elara's—brother.

He was tall, maybe five-eleven, with the same dark brown hair and amber eyes. His face was harder than mine, more angular, with a jaw that looked like it had taken a few punches over the years. He wore a grease-stained work shirt and jeans, and his hands were rough and calloused.

Twenty years old. Working two jobs to help support the family. Protective of his little sister to the point of throwing punches at anyone who hurt her.

All of this came from Elara's memories, flooding in so fast it made my head spin.

Before I could process any of it, Ethan closed the distance between us and pulled me into a tight hug.

I froze.

His arms wrapped around me, strong and warm. I could feel his heartbeat through his chest. Smell the faint scent of motor oil and soap. Feel the way he was holding me like I might disappear if he let go.

"You ran off," he said into my hair, his voice rough with emotion. "I've been looking for you for an hour. Where the hell were you?"

I didn't know what to do with my hands. Didn't know where to put them. In my past life, anyone who got this close was either about to attack or about to die.

But Ethan wasn't doing either. He was just... holding me.

Like I mattered. Like he'd been worried.