Chapter 36 Aunt Elara
The penthouse looked like a war zone in the aftermath. Shattered glass from the coffee table sparkled across the white marble like deadly snow. The black leather sectional lay on its side, torn open, stuffing spilling out.
Blood streaked the walls and floor in dark, drying ribbons. The three Moonclaw wolves lay sprawled in grotesque stillness, two in partial shift, fur matted and limbs twisted, the third fully human again in death, eyes open and glassy.
I stood frozen in the middle of it all, chest heaving, hands still trembling from the shift that had torn through me. My robe hung in tatters, blood, mine, theirs, smeared across my arms and stomach. The claws that had extended from my fingers were gone now, but I could still feel the phantom ache of them, the raw power that had surged when I needed it most.
Alexander moved first.
He crouched beside the silver-haired woman who had called me the “lost heir,” checking her pulse with two fingers, then stood. His own body was already healing, deep gashes across his ribs and shoulder closing into pink lines, blood crusting but no longer flowing.
He pulled his phone from the pocket of his discarded pants and dialed without looking away from me.
“Rafe,” he said when the call connected. “Penthouse. Three bodies. Full cleanup. No traces. Bring a team. Now.”
He ended the call, eyes never leaving mine. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes. We’re leaving.”
I nodded numbly. My voice felt locked in my throat.
He crossed to me in three strides, cupping my face with careful hands. “You’re shaking.”
“I killed them,” I whispered. The words tasted like ash. “I… shifted. I tore into them.”
His thumbs brushed my cheekbones. “You defended yourself. You defended us. That’s what matters.”
But it wasn’t that simple. The memory of my body changing, bones lengthening, fur erupting, strength flooding every muscle, played on loop behind my eyes. It felt right in the moment. Necessary. Powerful. And that scared me more than the blood on my hands.
He kissed my forehead, quick and hard. “We need to go. Get dressed. We’re not safe here anymore.”
I moved on autopilot, pulling on the clothes from yesterday, jeans stiff with dried blood, sweater ripped at the sleeve. Alexander dressed in silence, then grabbed two black duffels from a closet, tossing essentials inside: weapons, cash, burner phones, spare clothes. He handed me one of his hoodies, too big, soft, smelling like him, and draped his coat over my shoulders.
We left through the service stairs, avoiding the main elevator. The stairwell echoed with our footsteps.
Outside, a nondescript gray sedan waited in the loading dock. Alexander drove us out of the city without a word, weaving through back streets until the glittering downtown faded behind us.
The new safe house was thirty minutes out, a modern two-story townhouse in a quiet, upscale neighborhood. Gray stone exterior, black-framed windows, no markings. He parked in the attached garage and killed the engine.
“Another one of yours?” I asked, voice hoarse.
“Off the books. Even Ben doesn’t know this exists.”
Inside smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen. The main floor was open-plan: dark wood floors, charcoal walls, white kitchen cabinets, a single black leather couch facing a fireplace. Upstairs, a master bedroom with a king bed in crisp white linens, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a small fenced yard blanketed in snow. Simple. Secure. Temporary.
Alexander dropped the duffels and turned to me. “Shower. There’s clean clothes in the closet. I’ll make food.”
I nodded and climbed the stairs on unsteady legs.
Hot water stung the shallow cuts on my arms and side, but they were already closing, thin pink lines where deep gashes had been hours ago. I stared at them in the mirror, then at my own face: pale, eyes too wide, pupils still dilated from shock. The girl in the reflection had killed three werewolves tonight. She had shifted. She had claws.
I stayed under the spray until my fingers pruned, trying to wash away the feeling of fur, of fangs, of power I didn’t understand. It didn’t work.
When I came downstairs in one of Alexander’s black T-shirts and soft gray sweatpants, he’d set two plates on the kitchen island: scrambled eggs, toast, sliced fruit. Coffee steamed in mugs. He looked up from his phone, eyes softening when he saw me.
“Eat,” he said gently.
I sat. We ate in silence at first. Then he spoke, voice low.
“You don’t have to talk about it yet. But when you’re ready… I’m here.”
I nodded, poking at the eggs. “I just… need time. To understand what happened. What I am.”
He reached across the island, covering my hand with his. “You’re still you. The rest is just… more.”
I wanted to believe him.
After we cleared the plates, he disappeared upstairs to make calls. I wandered the living room, restless. My phone sat on the coffee table. I hadn’t checked it since the fight.
Three unread messages.
Two from Lily, casual check-ins, memes, a photo of her latest coffee. Normal. Safe.
The third was from the unknown number.
Unknown: We need to talk. Urgent. About your sibling. Meet tomorrow? Aunt Elara
My heart stuttered.
Sibling.
The word hit like a shockwave. Excitement flared first, bright, wild, almost painful. A brother? A sister? Someone who shared my blood, my history, maybe even this awakening I couldn’t yet name. The thought made my chest ache in a way I hadn’t expected. I’d grown up thinking it was just me, Mom, and Lily. The idea of another piece of family felt like a missing puzzle edge suddenly appearing.
But skepticism crashed in almost immediately.
Who was Aunt Elara? I’d never heard the name. Mom had no siblings or knew anything about my adopted parents. The timing was too perfect, right after I shifted, right after Moonclaw called me “heir.” Trap? Moonclaw ploy? Or real?
My thumb hovered over the reply button. I locked the screen instead. Not yet. Not until I could think clearly.
Alexander came down the stairs, phone still in hand. “Pack’s tracking the Moonclaw survivors. They’re scattered, licking wounds. We should be clear here for a few days.”
I nodded, forcing a small smile. He studied me, sensing the shift in my mood through the bond, but didn’t press.
Later, when he stepped out to check the perimeter, I pulled up Mom’s contact instead. I didn’t call, didn’t want to risk her hearing the tremor in my voice. I texted.
Me: Hey Mom. How are you feeling today? Treatment going okay?
The reply came slowly.
Mom: Tired but okay. Doctors say progress is steady. I miss you so much. How’s everything there?
Me: Complicated. But I’m safe. Love you.
Mom: Love you more. Tell me when you’re ready to talk. No pressure.
I stared at the screen, throat tight. She was still in the hospital, chemo, monitoring, no visitors allowed yet. No way she could come here, no way I could bring this chaos to her bedside. Whatever truth lay behind “Aunt Elara” and the word sibling, I had to find it myself.
Alexander returned, snow dusting his shoulders. He saw my face and crossed to me without question, pulling me into his arms.
“You okay?” he murmured.
I buried my face in his chest. “Not yet. But I will be.”
He held me tighter. Outside, snow continued to fall, soft, relentless, covering the world in quiet white.