Chapter 206
Kara
Before I could process that, before I could even begin to untangle the knot of emotions choking me, Dmitri stepped forward. My grandfather—and wasn't that still surreal, having a grandfather who wanted me—positioned himself beside Celeste, his presence a solid wall of support.
"The past is poison," he said, his gaze sweeping across everyone in the foyer—Victoria and Marcus, Connor and Celeste, the pack members still watching with wide eyes. "It will kill us all if we keep drinking from that well. What happened, happened. The choices made, the pain inflicted, the years lost—we can't undo any of it."
His throat worked as he swallowed hard. "But we can choose what happens next. We can choose whether to let old wounds fester and destroy what's left, or we can try—just try—to build something new from the rubble."
His eyes found mine, and the naked hope in them made my chest ache. "I lost ten years with my granddaughter. Ten years where I could have known her, protected her, loved her the way she deserved. I can't get those years back. But I can be here now. I can choose to be part of her life now, if she'll have me. If she can forgive an old fool who was too weak to fight harder."
Blake's hands steadied me as my knees threatened to buckle.
I looked at my grandfather, my parents, Victoria's tear-stained face, Marcus's carefully controlled expression. I looked at the pack members witnessing this unraveling of their leaders' carefully maintained facades.
And I realized I had a choice to make.
Hold onto the anger. Make them all pay for every moment of pain, every night I'd cried myself to sleep, every time I'd felt worthless and unwanted.
Or try to build something new.
What do I do? I asked my Alphas through our bond, desperate for guidance. What's the right choice?
There is no right choice, Asher sent back gently. Only your choice. Whatever you decide, we'll support you.
Even if I want to burn it all down? I asked.
Especially then, Blake confirmed, and I felt his willingness to set this whole house on fire if that's what I needed.
But? I pressed, because I could feel the unspoken words hanging in the bond.
But, Cole said softly, you're not the kind of person who burns things down just because you can. You're the kind who builds. Who survives. Who finds a way forward even when the path is impossible.
I'm tired, I thought, and let them feel the bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond physical. I'm so tired of being angry. Of hurting. Of letting the past control everything.
"I'm tired," I said aloud, voice smaller than intended. "I'm tired of being angry. Tired of hurting. Tired of letting the past define everything."
I took a breath, steadying myself against Blake's solid presence. "That doesn't mean I forgive everything. That doesn't mean we're suddenly a happy family and everything's fine. The things that happened—the things you all did or didn't do—those still hurt. They're still going to hurt for a long time."
Victoria flinched. Connor's face crumpled. Dmitri's hope flickered.
"But," I continued, forcing the words out, "maybe we can try. Maybe we can figure out how to move forward instead of staying trapped in what was. I don't know if it'll work. I don't know if I can ever really forgive. But I'm willing to try if you are."
The relief that flooded the room was almost palpable, pheromones shifting from tense and hostile to something cautiously hopeful. Victoria's shoulders sagged as if a massive weight had been lifted. Marcus's jaw unclenched slightly.
Then Marcus did something I'd never seen in all the years I'd lived under his roof. He smiled—just a slight curve of his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was genuine.
He raised his glass of whiskey, his Alpha authority making the gesture feel both casual and commanding. "To new beginnings," he said. "And to the Luna strong enough to give us a second chance we sure as hell don't deserve."
There was surprised laughter from pack members, nervous but genuine. The tension eased from unbearable to merely uncomfortable.
Connor and Celeste were guided toward the sitting room by Dmitri, Victoria trailing behind them with an expression that was equal parts longing and wariness. Marcus followed, already launching into explanations of everything that had happened in the ten years they'd been gone, his voice carrying that particular blend of authority and awkwardness that came from trying to fill an impossible silence.
Then it was just me and my three Alphas in the foyer, surrounded by pack members who were trying very hard to pretend they weren't staring.
"Come on," Asher said quietly, hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that was both possessive and comforting. "You need rest."
I wanted to argue—wanted to say I should stay, should be part of the conversation happening in the sitting room, should try to bridge the impossible gap between my parents and the woman who'd raised me with ice instead of love. But exhaustion was catching up with me now, the adrenaline that had kept me functioning finally starting to drain away.
"Okay," I whispered, and let them guide me toward the stairs.
We made it three steps up when Victoria's voice stopped us.
"Kara."
I turned to find her standing in the sitting room doorway, face still blotchy from crying, her usual composure in tatters. For a long moment she just looked at me, and I could see the war playing out across her features—the old resentment battling with something newer, something that might have been the beginning of acceptance.
"I'm glad you're home," she said finally, the words seeming to cost her something. "I'm glad you're safe."
It wasn't an apology. Wasn't acknowledgment of the years of pain she'd caused. But it was something. A crack in the ice. A first, tentative step toward... what? I didn't know. Maybe I'd never know.
"Thank you," I managed, because what else could I say?
Victoria nodded once, sharp and decisive, then disappeared back into the sitting room. The sound of raised voices—Connor's defensive, Celeste's pleading, Dmitri's mediating—filtered out before the door closed.
"Well," Cole said into the silence, his mint scent carrying a hint of dark amusement. "That went better than expected."
"The bar was literally on the ground," Blake muttered.
Asher said nothing, just continued guiding me up the stairs with steady hands and unwavering presence. We passed the second floor, and I expected them to turn toward the guest rooms where I'd stayed before. But instead they guided me past those doors, toward the narrow staircase that led to the fourth floor.
"Wait," I said, my exhaustion-fogged brain finally catching up. "Where are we—"
"Your room," Blake said simply, as if that explained everything.
"But I thought—the third floor—"
"No." Asher's voice went flat, carrying an edge of something dark that made me shiver. "You're never sleeping in that room again. Never going back to the place where you were taken. Where you were vulnerable. Where we failed to protect you."
They moved me, I realized, something warm and terrifying unfurling in my chest. They moved me to their floor. To the private Alpha wing.
We reached the fourth-floor landing, and I blinked in confusion at the unfamiliar hallway. At the end was a door with a biometric lock and a small plaque that made my breath catch.
Kara's Room
Not "Luna's Room." Not "Guest Room." Kara's Room. Like I was a person. Like I belonged.
"We had it built while you were..." Cole's voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Through our bond, I felt the surge of guilt and self-recrimination that accompanied the memory of my captivity. "We wanted you to have a space that was truly yours. Safe. Protected."
Blake stepped forward, pressing his palm to the biometric scanner. It beeped softly, and I heard the heavy click of multiple locks disengaging. "Programmed for all four of us," he explained, voice rough. "No one else can get in. No one else can even get close without triggering the security system."
They built me a fortress, I thought, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A fortress on the fourth floor of the house that used to be my prison.
Through our bond, I felt their nervousness. Their desperate hope that I would accept this, that I wouldn't see it as another cage.
"Open it," I whispered.
Cole's hand trembled as he turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Warm light spilled out, carrying the scent of new wood and fresh paint, vanilla candles and—underneath it all—the complex blend of black ebony, gunpowder, and mint that meant home in a way this house never had before.
I stepped inside and stopped, breath catching.