Chapter 200: 15 Years Later

15 Years Later

Fifteen years had passed since I left Silver Moon Pack behind. Fifteen years since I boarded that private plane and chose a new life for myself. And yet, most days, it felt like only five had gone by.

I stood in the kitchen, hair twisted up into a bun, sleeves rolled to my elbows, my phone propped up against a jar of honey while I spooned yogurt into a glass container and tried to carry on a conversation at the same time.

“Yes, I’m eating, Dad,” I said, voice dry. “And no, I haven’t skipped breakfast since last week. Trish, stop smirking.”

Trish rolled her eyes at me from the screen. “You used to live off wine and leftovers. Forgive us if we don’t believe you’ve suddenly turned into Little Miss Wellness.”

“It’s been 15 years, Trish…”

“She looks well to me,” my dad chimed in. “A little tired, maybe.”

“Between the pastry shop, the center, and keeping up with El,” I muttered, rubbing a hand over my face, “I’m always tired.”

I hadn’t expected retirement from blood-soaked politics to mean trading fangs for fondant and marital counseling, but here I was—spending most days making tarts for and my weekends volunteering at a support center for humans who’d found themselves mated to lycans. Which, as it turned out, was more common than most people thought… and far more overwhelming for some.

Behind me, I heard the familiar, rapid-fire thump of feet barreling down the stairs.

“I’m ready! I’m ready, I swear—I just had to feed Roger!”

I turned just in time to see El careen around the corner, blonde hair in a barely holding ponytail, her school bag slung over one shoulder, her uniform wrinkled, and her shirt only halfway tucked in. She was breathless and beautiful and still very much my baby—even at fourteen.

“El,” I said, arching a brow, “I called you ten minutes ago.”

She winced. “I know, I know. I just couldn’t leave Roger hungry. He gets cranky.”

“He’s a hamster.”

“And he has emotions, okay? I read somewhere they’re very sensitive creatures.”

I rolled my eyes. “Somehow I don’t think Roger’s on the verge of an existential crisis.”

On the screen, my mother’s laugh came through softly. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, her face creasing into that warm, familiar smile.

“Grandma!” El practically launched herself toward the screen. “Did you find any cool shells this week?”

“I did, actually,” my mother said, holding up a small conch shell she’d placed beside the laptop. “Found this one near the cove. Has these little purple ridges—looks like something out of a fairytale.”

El’s eyes lit up. “Can I have it when you visit?”

“If you’re still collecting, I’ll save it for you,” she said. “But you’ll have to remind me what the last one I gave you looked like.”

“The pink one with the spiral that looked like frosting. I named it Clementine.”

“You named your shell?” Trish’s voice chimed in offscreen, dry as ever.

“She names everything,” I said. “Even the rock in her pencil case.”

“It’s not a rock,” El huffed. “It’s a crystal. And his name is Kevin.”

“Right. Kevin.” I glanced at the time. “Okay, time’s up. If we don’t leave now, you’ll miss your train.”

El turned back to the screen quickly, eyes bright. “Hi, Grandpa! Aunt Trish! When are you all coming to visit again? You promised last time and then bailed.”

“We didn’t bail,” Trish said with mock offense. “Your mom just lives in the middle of a forest where the GPS dies.”

“It’s not the middle of a forest,” I muttered, grabbing my keys. “It’s the countryside. A perfectly normal, peaceful, green countryside.”

“With suspiciously perfect air and no cell reception in the back garden,” Trish added.

“I like the back garden,” El said. “That’s where Roger’s pen is.”

“See? Someone appreciates it.”

We all said quick goodbyes, promises of a visit were thrown around again, and I ended the call. I grabbed my bag, El her lunch, and together we spilled out the front door, locking up behind us as the morning sun filtered through the dense trees.

The air was crisp. Everything was green. The world felt quiet and clean.

We climbed into the car, and I started the engine. The silence settled comfortably between us for a few moments as I pulled out of the long gravel driveway.

“Have you finished cleaning the attic yet?” I asked.

“Halfway,” she said, chewing her lower lip. “There’s a lot of old boxes.”

“Some of them are mine. Just don’t open the ones labeled ‘tax stuff,’ unless you want to die of boredom.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she replied. Then added, “But I do still want to turn it into a mini studio.”

I glanced at her. “You sure about that? We live in a cottage in the middle of nowhere. The entire house is quiet.”

She smiled faintly. “I know. But the attic… It’s peaceful. I can think better there.”

I hummed. “Peaceful, huh? That’s a fancy word for not having to hear me yelling at the Wi-Fi.”

“Exactly.”

I laughed, and she grinned at me—an honest grin that still managed to undo me every time. So much of her was new and yet, somehow, familiar. Like a melody I used to know, played on a different instrument.

I had no idea what the rest of the day would bring, or the week, or the year. But for now, I had my daughter, the road, and the green of the English countryside stretching endlessly ahead.

And for the first time in a very long time, that was enough.

I dropped El off in front of the school gate just as the bell was about to ring.

“Don’t forget your art submission,” I reminded her as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“It’s in my bag. Promise.”

“And lunch?”

She gave me a look. “Mom, I’m fourteen. I think I can handle lunch.”

“Mm, sure,” I said, though I still watched her all the way to the front steps, like part of me expected her to look back and wave like she used to when she was little. She didn’t. She had friends now. Her own world. It was how it should be.

I drove to work, windows cracked open, letting the cool country breeze roll in. The road was quiet, lined with hedgerows and wildflowers. It wasn’t a short drive, but I didn’t mind the stillness of it.

The bakery sat at the edge of a cobblestone high street in the nearest village. It was painted a soft cream, with dark green windowpanes and climbing ivy curling up one side. The kind of place that looked like it belonged on a postcard. It was always warm inside, filled with the smell of sugar and cinnamon, with the low hum of chatter from the early customers already trickling in.

This is my life now, and I love every minute of it here.