Chapter 238 238

Chapter 238 238
Nova's POV

The path to Lydia's cottage curved through a stand of pines that blocked most of the afternoon light. I kept my eyes on the ground, watching my feet move one in front of the other, trying not to think about the words still ringing in my ears.
As my Luna and partner again.
My chest felt tight. Part of me wanted to just give in, to stop fighting the pull I felt every time Caden was close. The other part, the part that remembered every humiliation, every cold dismissal, every time he'd chosen Lila over me, wanted to run as far from Shadowcrest as I could get.
I focused on Lydia instead. On the fact that her son had just been arrested for trying to kill me. That was simple. Straightforward. Something I could actually help with.
The cottage came into view, a small stone structure with window boxes that probably held flowers in the spring. Right now they were empty, the soil dark and waiting. I knocked twice and heard movement inside.
Lydia opened the door. Her eyes were red, her face blotchy. When she saw me, her expression crumpled.
"Miss Nova, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Her voice broke. "What Zayn did, I never knew, I swear I never knew he felt that way about you."
"I know." I stepped inside and caught her before she collapsed. "Lydia, I know. This isn't your fault."
She sobbed into my shoulder, her whole body shaking. I held her, letting her cry, my own throat burning. She'd worked for this pack for decades. Raised three kids alone after losing her husband in the war. And now her son was in a holding cell for treason.
When the worst of it passed, she pulled back and wiped her face with shaking hands. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix this."
"You can't fix it," I said gently. "He made his choice. That's on him, not you."
Her face twisted. "But I raised him better than this. His father raised him better."
"Let me make us some tea." I guided her toward the kitchen, a small space with worn counters and a table pushed against the wall. "Sit. Where do you keep it?"
"Top cabinet, on the left side." She sank into one of the chairs, looking smaller than I'd ever seen her.
I found the tea, filled the kettle, set it on the stove. The familiar motions gave me something to focus on besides the mess in my own head. When the water boiled, I made two cups and carried them to the table.
Lydia wrapped both hands around her mug, staring into it like she might find answers in the steam.
"How are your other children doing?" I asked, sitting across from her.
"They're devastated. Angry." She took a shaky breath. "My daughter called me a failure as a mother."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Her voice cracked. "I had three kids. Three chances to get it right. And one of them tried to murder you."
"Zayn is an adult who made his own choices. You didn't put those ideas in his head."
She was quiet for a moment, turning the mug between her palms. "Their father would be ashamed. Of Zayn. Of me for not seeing it."
I leaned forward. "Lydia, I don't believe that. I think your husband would see a woman who raised three children alone, who taught them values and did her best in impossible circumstances." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "From what I saw today, Zayn acted out of loyalty to Caden and what he thought was best for the pack. Misguided, yes. Wrong, absolutely. But not coming from a place of cruelty or selfishness."
Her face crumpled and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
I reached across the table and patted her hand. "You did your best. Sometimes that's all we can do."
She nodded, unable to speak, and her eyes drifted to something on the wall behind me. "It's times like these I miss my David. He'd have known how to handle this."
I turned to look. A framed photograph hung near the doorway, showing a good-looking man in his early thirties with dark hair and warm eyes. The resemblance to Zayn was striking, though this man's expression held a kindness his son had lost somewhere along the way.
"That's him?" I asked softly.
"Taken a year before he died." Lydia's voice steadied slightly. "He was a good man. Strong. Kind. Patient with the kids even when they drove him crazy."
"How old were they when it happened?"
"Zayn was fifteen. His brother was thirteen, and my daughter was twelve." Her fingers tightened on her mug. "Old enough to understand what losing their father meant. Young enough to need him desperately."
"The war?"
She nodded. "His unit got ambushed near the eastern border. Only two men made it back." Her voice went flat. "They told me he died protecting the others. That he'd held the line so they could escape."
I didn't know what to say to that. What words could possibly help?
"When the news came, I thought we'd lose everything," Lydia continued. "I had three teenagers and no idea how we'd survive. Pack provisions only go so far."
"What did you do?"
"I didn't have to do anything." She took a sip of tea. "Caden showed up at my door the next day. He was barely Alpha, still grieving his own father, and he came personally to tell me David had died a hero."
I watched her face, saw the memory playing behind her eyes.
"Then he told me I had a job for life at the estate and my children would want for nothing." Her voice softened. "He kept that promise. Put all three of my kids through school. Made sure we never went without. When Zayn got in trouble as a teenager, Caden didn't just punish him. He sat him down and talked to him like he was worth the effort."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Fighting, mostly. He was angry about losing his father and taking it out on anyone who looked at him wrong." Lydia shook her head. "Caden spent hours with him. Training him, channeling that rage into something useful. I thought it had worked."
The kettle had left a ring of condensation on the counter. I got up and wiped it away, needing something to do with my hands.
"That's the Caden I know," Lydia said to my back. "The one who takes care of his people. Who shows up when it matters."
I turned around. "He wasn't always like that though, was he? So... controlled?"
"No." She met my eyes. "Before the war, he was different. Lighter. He'd come to the kitchens and steal cookies, make jokes and raise all kinds of hell. He had this laugh that would fill a whole room."
"What changed him?"
Lydia was quiet for a long moment. "Losing his father was hard. But losing Oliver nearly destroyed him.”