Chapter 153
Lynette's POV
I lifted my head from the embrace. My parents' arms were still around me but I could breathe again. The tears on my face felt strange. Foreign. In the Pack, crying meant weakness. Here it just meant... family.
My eyes found Ethan across the room. He stood by the dining table. His posture was stiff. Rigid. His face showed something I couldn't quite read. Shock, yes. But there was more beneath it. Something deeper that I didn't understand yet.
Mom pulled back slightly. Her hands came up to wipe her face. Her sleeves were damp. Her eyes were red and swollen but she was smiling. Actually smiling through the tears.
"Let me look at you again," she said. Her voice shook. "Twenty years. My baby. You're finally home."
The words hit me harder than any blow I'd taken in the North. Home. She kept saying that word like it was simple. Like it was obvious. But I'd never had a home before. Just territory. Just survival.
Mom reached for my hand. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist. Then she froze.
I felt it too. The rough texture of scar tissue under her palm. Her expression changed. Confusion first. Then something like horror.
"Lynette?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
She pushed up my sleeve before I could stop her.
The scars were everywhere. Thick white lines crisscrossed my forearm. Some were old. Faded to silver. Others were newer. Still pink at the edges. Claw marks. Bite wounds. Burns from silver weapons.
The living room went silent.
I looked up. Dad had gone pale. His eyes were fixed on my arm. Ethan had taken a step closer. His jaw was tight. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.
I tried to pull my arm back. Mom's grip tightened.
"These..." She couldn't finish the sentence. Her fingers traced one of the longer scars. The one that ran from my wrist almost to my elbow. "These are all..."
"It's fine," I said quickly. Too quickly. "They're old. They don't hurt."
That was a lie. Some of them still ached when the weather changed. But I wasn't going to tell her that.
Mom's face crumpled. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. I should have protected you. I should have—"
"Emily." Dad's voice cut through her words. He moved forward. Put his arms around both of us. His hand settled on the back of my head. "This isn't your fault. Don't do this to yourself."
But Mom was shaking her head. Her whole body trembled. "I lost her. I lost our daughter for twenty years. Look at what happened to her. Look at—"
"Mom." I didn't recognize my own voice. It came out rough. Strained. "Please don't cry. I'm okay. I'm here now."
She looked at me. Her eyes were so full of pain it made my chest hurt. In the North, no one cared about scars. They were just proof you'd survived. Proof you were strong enough to keep living.
But here? Here they made my mother cry.
I didn't know what to do with that.
Ethan's footsteps broke the silence. He came closer. Stopped a few feet away. His eyes moved over the scars on my arm. Then up to my face.
"Some of these are really old," he said. His voice was carefully controlled. Like he was forcing himself to stay calm. "Years old, probably."
I nodded. Couldn't speak.
"Lynette." He said my name slowly. Testing it. "What happened to you? Where were you all this time?"
The question hung in the air. Heavy. Demanding.
I glanced at Elara. She stood near the doorway. Watching. Waiting. Her face was calm but I could see the tension in her shoulders. She was ready to help if I needed it.
I took a breath. Let it out. "I grew up in a very... strict place. The people there, they believed in tough training. Survival skills. That kind of thing."
It wasn't a lie. Just not the whole truth.
Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew I was holding back. I could see it in his face. But he didn't push. Not yet.
Mom's hands were still on my arm. Still touching the scars like she couldn't quite believe they were real. "Did they hurt you?" Her voice broke on the last word. "Did someone hurt you?"
"No." Another lie. But a necessary one. "It was just... accidents. Training accidents. The environment was harsh. I had to learn to take care of myself."
Dad's arms tightened around us. I felt his chest rise and fall. Heard the slight hitch in his breathing. He was trying not to cry too.
The weight of their grief pressed down on me. Made it hard to breathe. I'd spent twenty years learning not to feel. Learning to shut down emotion because it made you weak. Made you vulnerable.
But this? This was different. This wasn't weakness. This was love.
And I had no idea how to handle it.