Chapter 10 10
I don't know how long I lay there, sobbing into the dirt. Long enough for the chill to seep through my hoodie and make me shiver. Long enough for my throat to feel raw. The sounds of the forest—the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of some small creature in the underbrush—slowly filtered back in, pushing out the static of my own misery.
I made myself stop. The crying was useless. It wouldn’t change anything. I pushed myself up, my palms gritty with soil and crushed moss, and wiped my face with the back of my sleeve. It came away muddy. Pathetic.
I reminded myself, the words a shaky chant in my head, that this wasn’t the only full moon. There'll be another one next month. And the month after that. My wolf wasn’t dormant or dead inside me, no matter what some of the pack members whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t be cursed by the goddess to be wolfless, like the nastier ones said. I refused to accept that.
No. I don’t accept that.
But the defiance felt thin and worn out, like an old blanket with holes in it. I stood up, my legs stiff, and brushed what dirt I could from my clothes. I had to go back.
Stepping out of the woods and onto the manicured lawn felt like crossing a border back into a world where I didn’t quite belong. My gaze caught on the old stone bench near the rose garden. Logan and I had never sat there—it was too exposed—but the sight of it, lonely in the moonlight, reminded me of him anyway. Of secret picnics in other, hidden places. A sharp, stupid ache bloomed in my chest. That was the worst part. The way everything, every stupid bench or a particular brand of soda or the smell of pine, could suddenly twist into a knife. You want to forget someone ever existed, but the whole world seems to be conspiring to remind you.
I inhaled the cold air sharply, ignoring the ache, and scaled the trellis back to my window. I was quiet as a shadow, slipping inside and closing the pane behind me.
My room was dark, still smelling of the eucalyptus bath. I was covered in forest—dirt on my knees, moss stains on my leggings, the scent of damp earth clinging to me. I didn’t even bother to take a shower. The thought of standing under another stream of water felt exhausting. I didn’t want to go to bed either. My body was tired, but my mind was a jangling mess of broken memories and fresh hurt.
I badly wanted to see someone. The only someone who had never judged me, never found me lacking, never given me a “last warning.”
I brushed some of the bigger bits of moss and leaf from my pants and shirt, a half-hearted attempt at tidiness, and walked out of my room.
The hallway was a tunnel of deeper darkness, the only sound the quiet hum of the house at rest. My feet carried me by memory to the end of the west wing, to the set of large, white oak doors that were always kept closed but never locked.
I stopped before them, my hand hovering over the polished brass handle. Then I turned it, pushed, and stepped inside, closing the door behind me with the softest click.
The room was vast and quiet, a king’s chamber frozen in time. Only the small lamp on the bedside stand was on, casting a warm, honey-colored pool of light that fought back the shadows. It smelled faintly of antiseptic, lemon polish, and the subtle, sandalwood scent that was just… him.
On the large, canopied bed, he lay.
The very man I had first cherished.
My father.
Alpha Hades Reynolds.
I walked closer, the plush carpet muffling my steps. I stood by the bed and just looked at him. He was so still. His eyes were shut, his face relaxed, the lines of stress and command I remembered from my childhood smoothed away. He looked peaceful. Like he was having the best nap of his life. Or like he was playing one of his old games, pretending to be fast asleep to fool me when I was a little kid, only to suddenly grab me and tickle me until I shrieked with laughter.
But it wasn’t the case. He wasn’t napping. He wasn’t pretending.
He was in a coma. A deep, unyielding sleep that had lasted for ten years.
I sank into the worn velvet armchair that was permanently stationed beside the bed, the one that was supposed to be for my mother but had become mine. I looked down the length of his body under the fine duvet. He was still a big man, broad-shouldered, but there was a slight hollow to his cheeks that spoke of years of stillness. I reached out and adjusted the duvet over him, tucking it a little more neatly around his shoulders.
“Father,” I whispered, my voice sounding too loud in the sacred quiet. “I hope you’re not feeling cold today. Mother makes sure the heaters are checked every single day, even though they work perfectly.” I gave a soft, watery chuckle as I took his hand in mine. It was warm, always kept warm, but it was heavy and unresponsive. “You know… she’d bark at the servants and even the pack doctors if she thought there was a draft.”
I lifted his hand and kissed the back of it, the familiar texture of his skin against my lips making tears spring to my eyes all over again.
“Father, I’m upset with you.” The confession tumbled out in a hushed rush. “You’ve never… done anything against my wish. You’d always get me what I wanted. You were even ready to push the moon out of the sky for me if I’d asked. But I only asked for one thing. All these years… I just asked you to wake up. To wake up and call me your princess again. Wake up, and let me feed you properly for once. Wake up and watch me eat like a well-groomed girl who’s finally mastered her culinary skills, just like you always wanted me to. Wake up…”
I paused, the words choking me. A tear rolled down my cheek and dripped onto the back of his hand. I wiped it away quickly, as if it might bother him.
“But you’ve never listened to me. I’m tired of seeing you like this. I miss hearing your voice. I miss your scoldings. I miss your… your nice words that never matched up to your hard-core expressions.”