Chapter 19
Elara's POV
The walk home stretched longer than it should have. My legs screamed with every step, muscles burning from yesterday's forest sprint and today's fight with Sophia. Late afternoon sun turned our shadows into long dark streaks across cracked pavement, but all I could focus on was the steady throb in my left wrist and Ethan's words sitting heavy in my chest.
Family meeting. Tonight. Important.
I kept my face blank, but my brain was already spinning through worst-case scenarios. Had someone found the weapons? Had Marcus heard rumors? Had the school called about my sudden personality change?
Or worse—had the Wild Hunt already made contact?
"You're doing it again," Ethan said quietly.
I blinked. "What?"
"That thing where you go all silent and your face gets completely blank." He was watching me with those sharp amber eyes. "Like you're planning a war or something."
My throat went tight. Not wrong.
"Just thinking about homework," I lied.
"Sure." He didn't buy it, but he didn't push. Just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets.
We turned onto our street. The houses here were smaller, older, paint peeling and yards overgrown. This was where disgraced wolves ended up. The ones who'd been cast out, forced to scrape by on whatever human-world work they could find.
The ones like us.
The Grey house came into view—small, weathered, with faded blue siding and a sagging porch. Nothing grand. Just a house. But warm yellow light spilled from the windows, and I could hear sounds from inside. Pots clattering. A TV murmuring. Normal domestic noise.
My chest did something weird.
Ethan pushed open the squeaky front gate. We walked up the cracked path. He paused at the door, glancing back at me.
"Whatever Dad wants to talk about, it's probably nothing bad. He would've said if it was urgent."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He studied my face another moment, then sighed and opened the door.
Heat and light and cooking smells hit me all at once. Chicken soup. Fresh bread. The underlying scent of family. The living room was tiny—barely enough space for the worn couch and armchair, the coffee table covered in mail and magazines. Family photos lined the walls in mismatched frames.
And sitting on the couch, looking up as we entered, was Marcus Grey.
My breath stopped.
I'd seen his face in the fragments of Elara's remaining memories, glimpsed him in family photos on these walls. But now, standing here in the warm glow of living room lamps, I was seeing him in person for the first time. Really seeing him.
Mid-forties maybe. Weathered face from years of hard labor. Dark hair threaded with gray at the temples. Rough, callused hands. Simple flannel shirt and faded jeans.
But his face made my heart stutter.
The bone structure. The jaw angle. The shape of his eyes—gray-blue, deep-set, dark lashes. Even the slight arch of his eyebrows when he looked at me.
I'd seen that face before. Every day of my previous life. In mirrors. In still water. In polished weapon surfaces.
Lynette's face. My face.
The resemblance wasn't exact—Marcus's features were broader, more masculine, worn by age in ways mine never had been. But the underlying structure was unmistakable. The genetic blueprint that had shaped my previous body was written all over his face.
My brain stuttered over an impossible thought: If Lynette really was their missing daughter... how? How does a baby disappear from Oregon and end up thousands of miles north in Canadian wilderness? Who takes a child that far?
"Welcome back," Marcus said, voice warm and tired. He stood from the couch with stiff, careful movements—someone whose body hurt after a long workday. "How was school?"
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Ethan stepped in smoothly. "Fine. Elara's pretty wiped though."
Marcus's eyes sharpened with concern. "You feeling alright? You look pale."
"I'm fine," I managed. My voice sounded tight, strange. "Just tired."
"Mm." He didn't look convinced but didn't push. Just nodded. "Your mother's in the kitchen. She's been cooking since she got home—made enough food for an army, I think."
Emily appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Her face lit up when she saw me.
"There you are! I was starting to worry." She hurried over, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead. "Still no fever. How's the breathing? Any chest tightness?"
"Mom, I'm okay. Really."
She frowned, eyes scanning my face for signs of illness. "You're still pale. And sweating again—is your inhaler working? Maybe we should call Dr. Patterson—"
"Emily," Marcus said gently. "Give her space to breathe."
She stepped back immediately, but worry stayed written across her face. "I just want to make sure she's alright. After yesterday..."
"I know." His voice was soft. "But she said she's fine. We need to trust that."
The exchange twisted something in my chest. The easy way they moved around each other. The unspoken communication. The shared concern.
This was what family looked like.
I'd never had this. Not in my previous life. In the Northern Territories there'd been no gentle mother worrying about fevers, no father easing tension with quiet words. Only cold. Hunger. Brutal training designed to forge weapons from children.
But here, in this cramped living room smelling like soup and detergent, with these two people looking at me with such open, uncomplicated love...
I didn't know what to do with it.
And the worst part? If I really was Lynette—if this body's soul and mine had somehow both belonged here—then I'd stolen this from them once already. And now I was about to get them killed.
Because the Wild Hunt was coming. That was certain. And this house, this family, was directly in the line of fire.
Marcus and Emily had no idea. They were just trying to live quiet lives, working hard and loving their children in a world that had already cast them out once.
And my presence—Lynette's presence—was going to destroy everything they'd built.
"I'm going to wash up," I said abruptly. "Before dinner."
Emily's face fell slightly—just a flicker of hurt she tried to hide. "Of course. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes."
I headed down the hallway, moving on autopilot. Behind me I heard Ethan say something low, heard Emily respond, but the words didn't register.
All I could think about was Marcus's face. Those familiar features echoing my own. And the impossible, terrifying question circling through my thoughts.