Chapter 84 Not like this
IRIS
Today, I don’t get out of bed until the sun is past its highest point in the sky.
The light that seeps through the curtains is soft and golden, nothing like the cold gray of yesterday, but it doesn’t matter. My body still feels like lead. Every inch of me aches, inside and out, as if the tears I shed by the lake were just another form of training, one that pulled just as hard on every muscle.
I lie there for a while, blanketed in silence. I think about moving. I don’t. I just breathe. Slow, and shallow, waiting for something inside me to catch up.
Eventually, my stomach twists enough to force me out of bed.
The house is quiet when I pad down the hallway in thick socks and a hoodie that still smells faintly like pine and sweat. I half expect to hear voices, footsteps, the low hum of the fridge in the background. But there’s only stillness.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and set it on the stove. The ritual feels mechanical. I reach for the mint tea, the one with lemon balm and dried orange peel. I don’t know if it’ll actually help the knot in my chest, but it’s something to do with my hands.
Nana’s already in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a small basket of green beans in front of her. She’s snapping the ends off one by one, collecting them in a bowl on her lap.
She glances up when I walk in. “Morning, sweetheart.”
I manage a quiet, “Afternoon.”
A soft smile touches her lips. “How’d you sleep?”
“I didn’t,” I say honestly, not quite meeting her eyes.
She pauses in her rhythm, the snap of the bean between her fingers hanging in the air.
“You look like you’ve been through a war.”
I shrug and pour hot water into my mug, letting the tea steep.
Nana doesn’t press. She watches me for a beat, like she wants to say more, but whatever it is, she tucks it away. She just nods and goes back to her beans.
I sit across from her, holding the warm mug between my hands. The smell is soothing. The heat even more so.
Neither of us speaks for a while.
It’s strange how silence can be both comforting and unbearable depending on the weight of what’s unspoken.
I take a sip of tea. It burns my tongue, but I welcome the sting.
The floor creaks.
I look up to see my grandfather standing in the doorway.
For a moment, none of us says anything. He’s not dressed for training, just worn jeans and a dark flannel with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His arms are crossed, expression unreadable.
I brace myself, but he doesn’t raise his voice or bark a command. He just walks in, grabs a glass from the cupboard, and pours himself some water. Then he leans against the counter, facing me.
“When I was your age,” he says, his voice low, steady, “I thought the worst thing in the world was being powerless.”
I don’t respond. I just stare at him over the rim of my mug.
He takes a drink, then sets the glass down.
“I trained because I had to. Because my father made me. Because the pack was always under threat. But I didn’t understand the why of it, not really, until the first time someone came for me.”
His eyes meet mine.
“I was seventeen. I thought I was invincible, thought legacy meant something on its own. That being born into this life was enough. But when the time came, when the threat was real and not just something I heard about in council meetings or bedtime stories… I froze.”
Nana’s hands still in her lap. She watches him now, too.
“I should’ve died that day,” he says. “I only survived because my father stepped in. Took the hit meant for me.”
Something flickers across his face. Not regret, no, it’s older than that. A kind of settled sorrow.
“And I’ve carried that weight every day since.”
He pushes away from the counter, walks a little closer, but doesn’t sit.
“You can point your finger at me all you want. You can hate me. Blame me. Scream until your voice breaks. That’s your right. But it won’t change the truth.”
The air feels heavier suddenly. Like the walls are holding their breath.
“They will come for you, Iris. Whether you want this or not. Whether you think it’s fair or not. That part was never up to you.”
My fingers tighten around the mug.
He takes one more step forward. His voice doesn’t rise, but it sharpens. Like a blade being honed.
“And when they do, only two things can happen. You die. Or you survive.”
The words land like stones in my chest.
“I know,” I say quietly. “You’ve made that clear.”
His gaze doesn’t soften, but it does steady. “Then stop training like you’ve got something to prove to me. And start training like your life depends on it. Because it does.”
A silence settles again. He doesn’t wait for a response this time, just turns and leaves the way he came.
I don’t move. Not right away. My tea has gone lukewarm in my hands. Nana says nothing, but I feel her watching me.
She doesn’t say “he means well” or “he loves you in his own way.” She knows better. She knows that whatever version of love my grandfather has to offer, it’s wrapped in iron and survival and old scars.
And what he said… he meant it.
Not as a threat.
As a truth.
I finish my tea in a few more sips, slow and thoughtful.
My mind wanders to yesterday. The way my body failed me. The way I failed myself. The way it felt like everything was slipping through my fingers and I couldn’t stop it.
But even in the middle of that breakdown, especially then, there was something else. A refusal. A quiet, flickering thing in my chest that said, Not like this.
Not broken.
Not beaten.
Not erased.
I don’t know when I stand. Or when my voice comes back. But I hear myself ask the question before I even fully register making the choice.
“When’s our next training session?”
Nana looks up at me. Her brows lift slightly. She doesn’t smile, but there’s something warm in her eyes. A kind of quiet pride.
“You should eat something first,” she says gently.
I nod, already reaching for the fridge.
Because she’s right.
I’ll train.
But I won’t do it on an empty stomach.