Chapter 99

Lisa Pov

Morning arrives, but it doesn’t feel like a new day. The ache in my chest is the same as it was last night, heavy and unshakable. My father is gone.

I lie still, staring at the wooden ceiling, feeling the numbness settle deeper into my bones. The scent of burning sage and herbs still clings to my hair, a reminder of the ritual. The flames had risen high, devouring his sins, purifying his spirit.

But what about mine?

What about the scars left behind?

A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I don’t answer, but it creaks open anyway.

Mike steps in, his eyes cautious. “Lisa… you should eat.”

I shake my head. I’m not hungry.

Luke appears behind him, arms crossed. “You need to take care of yourself. The funeral is in a few days, and there’s still a lot to prepare.”

I know he’s right. I know they mean well. But I can’t bring myself to move, to pretend like I’m okay.

Instead of pushing, they exchange a look and leave, letting me grieve in silence.

Hours pass before I finally sit up. The house is quiet except for the distant chatter of pack members outside, busy with preparations. I push open the window, letting the crisp morning air brush against my skin.

And that’s when I smell it.

Something rich, warm, and… familiar.

Food.

My stomach twists, reminding me I haven’t eaten since the night before. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself following the scent, stepping barefoot onto the cool grass.

I stop, near Luke's outdoor kitchen.

Standing by the fire pit, sleeves rolled up, is the last person I expect to see.

Angus.

His broad back is turned to me as he stirs something in a large pot, the scent of roasted meat and herbs filling the air around him. This is the same person that regret me from being his mate and also locked me in the dungeon for days while torturing me, without thinking about how it will hurt me. Now he is here . Then he won't even look at me or listen to me

For a moment, I think I must be hallucinating.

But then he turns, and our eyes meet.

There’s something there—an unspoken plea, a silent apology.

I grip my arms, keeping my expression blank. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Cooking.”

I let out a scoff. “Why?”

His gaze never wavers. “You need to eat.”

The Uncomfortable Breakfast

I should refuse. I should turn around and walk away.

But my stomach has other ideas, grumbling loud enough for him to hear.

Angus smirks, just slightly, as if he knew this would happen. “Sit.”

I hesitate, but the exhaustion, the hunger, and the sheer absurdity of the situation make me move. I sit on the wooden bench, watching as he fills a plate with food—roasted meat, warm bread, and soup. He sets it in front of me without a word.

The first bite is heaven.

I hate that I like it.

“You’re trying too hard,” I mutter between bites annoyed.

Angus lets out a slow sigh. “I know.”

We eat in silence, the air between us thick with everything unspoken.

When I’m finished, he doesn’t press me to talk. He simply clears the dishes and walks away, leaving me to my thoughts.

The next morning, the scent of food lingers in the air again.

At first, I ignore it. But when I step outside, I find a plate left on the wooden railing of the porch. The food is still warm.

I glance around, but Angus is nowhere in sight.

This continues for days.

Every morning, he’s up before sunrise, making sure there’s something warm for me to eat. He doesn’t talk much—just leaves the food and disappears, giving me space.

I tell myself I don’t care.

But I notice.

I notice how he keeps his distance but remains close enough that I never feel completely alone.

I notice how, when the weight of the funeral preparations becomes too much, he quietly hands me a cup of tea.

"It helps with stress," he murmurs before walking away.

I don’t thank him. But that night, as I sip the tea in the silence of my room, I feel something shift inside me.

I don’t know what it is.

But it scares me.

The night before the funeral, I feel like I can’t breathe.

The pressure of it all—the loss, the unresolved emotions, the expectations—I feel like I’m drowning.

I slip outside, needing air, needing space. The moon hangs low, casting a silver glow over the clearing. I wrap my arms around myself, staring at the sky, willing the grief to loosen its grip.

Footsteps approach.

I don’t turn. I already know who it is.

Angus stops a few steps away, his presence solid and steady. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me.

Then, softly, “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

I let out a shaky breath, my throat tight but my voice drip of venom. “i'm not the same person you used to know Angus. I'm not weak.”

His voice is gentle. “i'm sorry.”

I turn to him, ready to push him away, ready to throw my anger in his face.

But then I see it.

The pain in his eyes.

The regret.

The understanding.

Something in me cracks.

I don’t realize I’m crying until he steps closer and wipes a tear from my cheek. His touch is careful, hesitant, as if afraid I’ll pull away.

But I don’t.

For the first time in weeks, I don’t fight it.

I don’t know if I can ever forgive him.

But for now, I let myself be vulnerable.

For now, I let myself feel.

Angus’ POV

The morning air was crisp, the kind that bit at exposed skin but wasn’t quite cold enough to be unbearable. I rolled up my sleeves, letting the heat from the open fire pit chase away the lingering chill. The scent of roasted meat and herbs curled into the air, thick and inviting.

I wasn’t a cook. Hell, I barely knew how to season anything properly. But this wasn’t about skill—it was about effort.

Lisa hadn’t been eating. Not properly, anyway. She moved like a ghost through the pack, her shoulders weighed down by grief, her eyes hollowed by exhaustion. She barely spoke unless spoken to, barely reacted unless pushed. It was as if she had buried herself alongside her father, locking away everything that made her Lisa.

And it was my fault.

I stirred the soup in the pot, watching the steam rise. The smell reminded me of home—of simpler days, before everything had unraveled. Before betrayal, before pain, before regret. I had made too many mistakes, ones that couldn’t be erased with warm meals or quiet gestures.

But still, I tried.

I had hurt Lisa in ways I couldn’t begin to measure, and though I didn’t expect her to forgive me, I wanted—needed—to make things right.

I heard her before I saw her. Soft footsteps approaching, hesitant, as if she wasn’t sure whether to keep walking or turn around.

I didn’t look up immediately. I let her make the choice to stay.

When she finally stopped a few steps away, I met her gaze.

She looked tired. Dark circles framed her eyes, her usual fire dimmed. But she was still her—strong, resilient, and unwilling to break, no matter how much the world tried to crush her.

Her arms folded across her chest. “What are you doing?”

I shrugged. “Cooking.”

She scoffed. “Why?”

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I ladled some soup into a bowl, placed a slice of warm bread beside it, and set it on the wooden bench.

“You should eat,” I said simply.

Lisa hesitated. For a moment, I thought she’d turn and walk away, her stubbornness outweighing her hunger. But then her stomach betrayed her, letting out a soft rumble.

I didn’t smirk, didn’t comment. I just waited.

Slowly, she sat.

She picked up the spoon, testing the warmth, taking cautious bites as if she didn’t want to admit that she liked it.

I didn’t press her for conversation. Didn’t ask her how she was feeling or if she wanted to talk. I knew she didn’t. So I let the silence settle between us, unspoken but not uncomfortable.

When she finished, she stood without a word and walked back toward the house.

She didn’t thank me.

But she didn’t refuse the meal, either.

And that was enough.

The next morning, I was up before dawn.

The kitchen fire crackled to life as I started preparing another meal, moving through the motions with ease. I wasn’t expecting a miracle—I wasn’t expecting anything at all.

But when I left the plate outside her door, it was empty by noon.

She had taken it.

Each day, it was the same. I cooked before sunrise, left the food where she’d find it, and disappeared before she could see me. She never said anything, never acknowledged it, but I noticed small changes.

Her steps became steadier.

Her movements, less sluggish.

Her shoulders, a little less burdened.

The grief still lingered, but she was there—not just existing, but living, little by little.

And that was enough.

The night before the funeral, I found her standing alone outside, her back to me, her face turned toward the moon.

She looked small against the vast sky, a fragile silhouette carved in silver light.

I took a breath, debating whether to speak.

She made the decision for me.

“Do you believe in second chances?” Her voice was quiet, but steady.

I stepped closer, keeping a respectful distance. “I’d like to.”

A long pause. “Do you think my father’s at peace?”

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell her what she needed to hear, that the ritual had cleansed him, that he was free from his past mistakes.

But I couldn’t lie.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I think he would have wanted you to be.”

Lisa exhaled slowly, like she was trying to release something heavy from her chest.

“I used to think forgiveness was easy,” she murmured. “But now… I don’t know.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s not easy. It never is.”

She turned, finally facing me. “Then why are you trying so hard?”

I met her gaze, steady and sure. “Because you deserve better than the pain I caused you.”

She held my stare for a long moment, searching for something. Maybe truth. Maybe sincerity.

Then, without another word, she walked past me and disappeared into the house.

She hadn’t forgiven me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But she had listened.

And for now, that was enough.