here with you

here with you
The air in the hall was thick, every eye fixed on me as I stood before them. My palms were damp, hidden in the folds of my dress, and though I forced my shoulders back and my chin up, inside I was trembling like a child. The wolves had gathered in one massive circle, men and women of every age, their faces stern, unreadable. The weight of their stares pressed against me, testing every ounce of strength I had built in the hours before this moment.
The beta stood just behind me, his presence both reassuring and suffocating. He hadn’t said much since we entered, only a firm nod that told me it was my turn. The murmurs died as silence descended, heavy as a blade.
I took a slow breath, my heart hammering so violently that I feared they could hear it. “My name is Advika,” I began, my voice low at first, but then steadier as I continued. “I am the daughter of Samantha… and the stepdaughter of Alpha Eric.”
A ripple went through the crowd, like the sudden shift of wind before a storm. Faces turned, some exchanging sharp glances, others narrowing their eyes. I swallowed hard but pressed on, my words clinging to the strength I had rehearsed. “I come here not to dishonor his memory, but to stand among you as the blood that still ties me to him. To mourn him as you mourn him.”
Before I could gather the courage to say more, a piercing voice cut through the air.
“Liar!”
The word cracked like a whip.
The crowd shifted, and from among them pushed forward a woman, older than most, her presence demanding the space around her. She looked a little past fifty, her silver-streaked hair tied tightly back, her posture tall despite the anger radiating from her. Her eyes locked on me with a fire so sharp I felt it pierce straight through my chest.
I froze, unable to breathe as she stepped closer. Her face was lined with years of hardship, yet there was a fierce beauty in her rage. “How dare you speak those names!” she spat, her voice trembling with both fury and grief. “My daughter and granddaughter died years ago. I buried that pain with my own hands. And now you come here, wearing their names like a cloak to win your place?”
The crowd erupted in gasps, the sound swelling around me like the roar of a wave.
My heart skipped, stopping so suddenly I thought I would collapse. For a moment, everything blurred—the faces, the walls, the very ground beneath me. Her words tore into me, every syllable denying the truth of who I was, of where I belonged.
“No…” I whispered, but the sound was swallowed by the chaos around us. Wolves muttered, suspicion thickening in their eyes as they looked from me to the woman. Some edged closer, not in support but in hunger for what might unravel.
The woman’s eyes burned with tears, but they only made her fury stronger. “You dare to stand here in front of his pack and soil their memories? Samantha was my child. Advika was my grandbaby. Both gone. Both dead. You are nothing but an imposter.”
Her words struck harder than claws, because they weren’t just accusations—they were grief. Grief so raw that it echoed the one I carried inside me.
I wanted to scream, to tell her that I was that granddaughter, that I bore Samantha’s blood in my veins, that Eric had raised me well to a degree. But my voice was trapped in my throat, strangled by the weight of her truth and my fear that the pack—already skeptical—would choose her side over mine without hesitation.
The silence between us cracked into murmurs again. I felt the heat of a hundred eyes press down on me, judging, doubting, waiting. My body swayed under the invisible weight, my breath coming shallow, uneven.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt. And in that moment, as the woman’s accusation rang in my ears, I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—the pack turning on me, or the possibility that they already had
The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet as the woman’s words struck me again and again, each one like a blow I could not block. My throat closed, my chest tightened, and though my lips parted, nothing came out. The crowd pressed in, their eyes suspicious, some outright hostile. I felt like prey cornered in the center of the room, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
And then, through the storm of voices, I heard his.
“Enough!”
The sound tore through the hall like a crack of thunder. The crowd fell silent, as if the air itself had been commanded into stillness. My head snapped toward the voice, and there he was—Aiden, standing tall, shoulders squared, his eyes burning with a fire that dared anyone to challenge him.
He moved forward, pushing past the line of bodies that had closed in, until he stood by my side. For a fleeting second, relief washed through me. He hadn’t left. He hadn’t abandoned me to face this alone.
“You will not call her a liar,” he said, his voice firm, steady, unyielding. His words carried with them a power that silenced even the most doubtful among them. “You know nothing of her story. Nothing of the truth she carries.”
The older woman’s eyes widened, then narrowed as she fixed her gaze on him. “And who are you to speak of truth?” she demanded, her voice thick with both anger and grief. “You—an outsider. You have no blood here, no right to stand in our circle.”
Aiden did not flinch. His hand brushed mine—just the lightest touch, yet enough to steady me, to anchor me against the rising tide of fear. “I may not have blood here,” he said, his voice low but sharp, “but I have honor. And I will not stand by while you tear down someone who only wishes to mourn the man you all claim to love.”
The words struck the air like sparks. The crowd shifted uneasily, their murmurs rising again, but this time tinged with uncertainty rather than outright accusation.
I looked up at him, at the sharp line of his jaw, at the way his eyes never left the woman’s. He stood there like a shield, daring them all to try to break me through him. My chest tightened, a swell of emotion I could not name rising in me.
The woman’s voice wavered, though her fury still burned. “My daughter is dead. My granddaughter is gone. You cannot erase that grief with pretty words.”
“No,” Aiden said softly, his tone shifting, gentler now, though still firm. “No one can erase grief. But don’t let grief blind you to what might still remain.”