Chapter 91

Lisa’s POV

The road stretched endlessly ahead, a dark ribbon winding through the dense forest. The farther we went, the heavier the weight in my chest became. It sat there like a stone, pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. My fingers dug into my lap, knuckles white, but no matter how tightly I clenched my hands, I couldn't stop the unease from creeping in.

Hunter must have felt the tension rolling off me because his grip on the steering wheel tightened. He glanced at me, his golden eyes filled with quiet concern.

"You don’t have to do this, Pumpkin," he murmured. "We can turn around right now."

I forced a bitter smile. "And let my past keep haunting me?" I shook my head. "No. I need to do this. Even if it feels like a mistake."

His hand found mine, his warmth steadying me. "It’s not a mistake," he said firmly. "But whatever happens, you won’t face it alone."

I wanted to believe that, but the past had a way of making me feel alone no matter who stood beside me.

The hours dragged on, the quiet hum of the car doing little to soothe the storm inside me. I didn’t know what I expected when I saw my father again. Maybe that he would look just as powerful, just as cruel as the last time I saw him. But death had a way of stripping people down to nothing. And if Mike was right, that’s exactly what was happening to him now.

The Red Moon Pack’s borders loomed ahead, the familiar stone gates standing as an unyielding reminder of the place that once rejected me.

Mike rolled down his window as the guards stepped forward, their eyes narrowing when they spotted me. Recognition flickered in their gazes, followed by something else—guilt, maybe.

"She’s here to see her father," Mike said, his voice clipped.

A tense silence stretched between us before one of them finally nodded, stepping aside.

"Go ahead."

The car rolled forward, and I inhaled sharply, my grip tightening on Hunter’s hand.

I was back.

The Red Moon Pack hadn’t changed. The streets, the houses, the training grounds—it was all exactly as I had left it. And yet, I felt like a stranger here. Like a ghost walking through the remnants of a life that no longer belonged to me.

After a few minutes, we pulled up to the house.

My father’s house.

The sight of it made my stomach churn.

It looked the same—tall, imposing, a structure built to command respect. But all I could see were the memories hidden within its walls. The cold glares. The harsh words. The loneliness.

The door swung open before I could brace myself.

Luke stood in the doorway, his blue eyes wide with shock. For a second, he just stared, as if he didn’t believe I was real. Then, without warning, he rushed toward me, pulling me into a tight, almost desperate embrace.

"Lisa," he breathed. "You're alive."

His arms wrapped around me, strong and warm, and for a moment, I was too stunned to react. But then the reality of his touch, his scent, his presence sank in, and my chest ached with something I couldn’t name.

"I thought you were dead," he continued, his voice thick. "I—I never forgave myself for not stopping him."

His words sent a sharp pang through my heart.

I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper. "You didn’t try."

He pulled back slightly, pain flickering across his face. "I should have," he admitted. "I should have fought harder. But I was a coward."

I didn’t know what to say to that. Part of me wanted to be angry, to scream at him for standing by while I was cast out. But another part of me, a part I hated, felt relief that he had missed me.

He blinked, as if just realizing that we were still outside. "Sorry, I—" He shook his head. "Come inside. Please."

I hesitated for only a moment before stepping through the doorway.

The moment I crossed the threshold, my chest tightened.

The air smelled the same—a mix of wood, leather, and the faint scent of burning firewood. The furniture hadn’t changed, the walls were still lined with the same old portraits. It was like stepping into a time capsule.

But I wasn’t the same girl who had lived here.

I took a slow breath, forcing the memories away.

Luke led us down the familiar hallway, the same one I had walked countless times as a child. Each step felt heavier than the last.

And then we reached the room.

The door was slightly ajar, and the scent of sickness seeped through the cracks. It was thick, suffocating, a reminder that time had finally caught up with the man who had once seemed untouchable.

Luke pushed the door open, and there he was.

My father.

Beta Giovanni Albert.

The man who had tormented me. The man who had cast me out.

And now, he was nothing but a frail shadow of the monster I remembered.

His body looked small against the massive bed, his skin pale and thin, his breathing shallow. His once-powerful presence had withered, leaving behind something fragile and weak.

My hands clenched at my sides, my nails digging into my palms.

I had dreamed of this moment for years. I had imagined standing before him, strong, victorious, making him regret everything he had done to me.

But now that I was here, I felt nothing but a strange, aching hollowness.

His eyes fluttered open, dull and tired, but when they landed on me, something flickered in them.

Recognition.

Regret.

"Lisa," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.

I just stared at him, at the man who had made me feel so small, so unwanted. And now, lying before me, he was the one who looked powerless.

"Lisa," he said again, struggling to lift his hand. It trembled in the air between us, weak, uncertain.

I could see it in his eyes. He wanted something from me. Forgiveness. Redemption. Maybe even comfort.

But I wasn’t sure I had any of those things left to give.

Luke stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "He’s been asking for you."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Now he wants to see me?" My voice was sharp, edged with years of hurt. "Now, when he’s dying, he suddenly remembers he has a daughter?"

A heavy silence filled the room.

Mike looked down, guilt written across his face, but Luke held my gaze, something unreadable in his expression. "I don’t know what he wants to say," he admitted. "But maybe... maybe you need to hear it."

My chest ached. My mind warred with itself.

I had spent years convincing myself I hated this man. That I never wanted to see him again. That I didn’t care if he lived or died.

But now, standing in front of him, my heart told a different story.

I wasn’t sure if I could forgive him.

I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to.

But I knew one thing.

This was my moment.

For once, I held the power.

And I had a choice.

I just wasn’t sure what to do with it yet.