Chapter 139
Freya's POV
Sunlight filtered through the curtains of Ivy's apartment, casting gentle rays across my still form. I sat in the armchair by the window, fingers unconsciously tracing patterns over my flat stomach. Once there had been life growing inside me—now there was only emptiness and a dull ache that seemed to reach into my very soul.
I shifted uncomfortably as a different pain throbbed in my swollen breasts, tender and heavy with milk that would never nourish my child. The cruel irony wasn't lost on me—my body still preparing to nurture a baby who would never feed, the milk that should have sustained my wolf cub now only bringing physical pain.
My eyes stared at nothing in particular as my mind drifted through the nightmares of recent days—from the horrors of the Bloodclaw compound to the soul-crushing loss of my child to discovering Ethan with that Bloodclaw woman, their bodies intertwined in what was supposed to be our bedroom.
"Are we ever going to move again?" Ember's voice in my mind was gentle, concerned rather than impatient as she once would have been.
"I don't know if I remember how," I answered silently.
My wolf had changed since our captivity. She no longer paced restlessly or pushed for control. Instead, she lay curled beside my consciousness, sharing my grief, her presence a steady warmth in the cold emptiness of my mind. Sometimes I caught glimpses of her dreams—running through forest paths that didn't exist, chasing prey we'd never caught. In those moments, I almost felt alive again.
The scent of chamomile and lavender wafted through the air, pulling me back to the present moment. Mom emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming mug of herbal tea, her footsteps careful and measured as if afraid too much noise might shatter me completely.
"Freya, drink this," she said, her voice soft. As she handed me the mug, her eyes searched my face with the worried scrutiny that only mothers seem capable of. "How are you feeling today?"
I accepted the mug, feeling warmth seep into my cold fingers. The heat was anchoring, a small reminder that I could still feel something besides grief. "Thanks, Mom."
The steam carried scents of herbs I recognized—Ivy's special blend for healing hearts, she called it. Whether it contained actual magic or just the comfort of tradition, I couldn't say. I took a small sip, the warm liquid spreading through my chest.
Mom settled into the chair across from me, hesitating before saying, "I heard Riley is being released from prison tomorrow."
My head snapped up in surprise, the tea nearly spilling. "Already?" I realized I'd lost track of time completely, grief blurring the days together. The calendar on Ivy's wall showed dates that meant nothing to me.
"Yes," Mom nodded, watching me carefully. "According to what Ivy's heard, the Zeta ceremony for Moonshade Pack will be held a week after Riley's release." She paused, gauging my reaction. "They're preparing for it now. The whole pack is involved."
The Zeta ceremony. The words stabbed at my heart, twisted like a silver knife. I'd originally wanted to become Zeta to secure a safer future for my unborn child. The position would have given us protection, resources, standing within the pack. Now that future had been cruelly ripped away, leaving behind only the hollow shell of ambition without purpose.
"We could still compete," Ember suggested tentatively. "Alpha is our mate, you will be Zeta."
"For what?" I asked her. "For whom?"
She had no answer.
"Have you thought about... maybe it's time to start engaging with these things again?" Mom asked gently, her hand reaching out to rest on my knee. "I know it's difficult, sweetheart, but life has to go on. You can't stay here forever, staring out of windows."
I looked at her—really looked at her for perhaps the first time since our reunion. Though awake and recovering, she still carried the ghost of her coma in the slight hollowness of her cheeks, the careful way she moved. She had spent years unconscious, years stolen from her life, and yet here she was, encouraging me to move forward when I'd lost only weeks.
Shame washed through me. What right did I have to disappear into grief when my mother had been fighting her way back to consciousness for so long?
I took a deep breath, feeling my grief begin to transform into something like determination—not happiness, not healing, but movement at least. "You're right, Mom. I can't hide forever." I set the mug down with more force than necessary. "I've decided I'll go meet Riley when she's released tomorrow."
"Really?" Mom looked both surprised and relieved, her eyes brightening. "I'll come with you. I'd like to see Riley too, despite... everything."
I shook my head firmly. "Mom, supernatural prisons aren't exactly human-friendly. The guards are mostly trolls and ogres who still remember the Hunter Wars. Besides, you still need rest. Dr. Morrow said you need at least three months to fully recover your strength."
Mom's lips pressed together in a way I recognized from childhood—the expression she wore when I'd won an argument but she wasn't happy about it. Finally, she nodded in understanding. "You're always so considerate, Freya." She reached out to stroke my hair, her fingers gentle against my scalp, her eyes shining with a pride I didn't feel I deserved. "I'm proud of you, you know. Going to meet Riley... it's a good first step."
"It's just a prison pickup," I said, uncomfortable with the praise. "Not exactly climbing Mount Everest."
"Sometimes getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain," she replied with quiet wisdom. "Small steps, Freya. That's how we rebuild."
Later that night, with Ivy and Mom asleep in their respective rooms, I remained awake. The apartment was silent except for the occasional car passing on the street below and the faint ticking of the clock on Ivy's mantel. I sat at her workbench, the small lamp casting shadows across her tools and materials. My fingers absently ran over a piece of silver, testing its purity by touch alone.
Even in my darkest moments, my fingers still remembered the texture of silver, how to test its quality and potential. It was muscle memory, a craft connecting me to my past, to my mother, to something beyond the pain of recent weeks. The silver felt cool and responsive beneath my touch, almost alive in its own way.
"You should make something," Ember suggested. "You always feel better when you're creating."
I nearly laughed at the simplicity of her solution. "I don't think a silver pendant is going to fix what's broken inside me, Em."
"No," she agreed. "But your hands remember who you are, even when your heart forgets."
Yet no matter how hard I tried to focus on the silverwork, my thoughts inevitably drifted to Ethan. The emotions churning inside me were complicated—anger at his betrayal with the Bloodclaw woman, sorrow for our lost child, but also an inexplicable connection I couldn't deny. Even now, miles away from him, I could feel the tug of something unfinished between us, like a partially completed spell or an interrupted ritual.
I remembered how his eyes had lit with recognition when he saw me, as if truly seeing me for the first time. There had been a moment—just a moment—when something had shifted between us, before reality came crashing back with all its weight.
"Damn you, Ethan," I whispered to the empty room. "Why couldn't you have looked at me like that before everything fell apart?"