Chapter 64
Kara
The sky outside is already deep purple—Alaska's polar night swallowing what should be afternoon. Through my window, the frozen river behind the estate reflects faint starlight, a ribbon of silver cutting through endless white.
Inside the house, warmth wraps around everything. Almost too warm, like the heating system is overcompensating for the Arctic cold pressing against the walls.
I sit on my bed—the real bed in the guest room they moved me to—staring at five wrapped boxes.
Three of them are mine. My gifts.
The titanium bookmark for Asher weighs almost nothing in my palm. I spent two weeks researching custom engravers online, using the money from that black card with no limit.
To guide your path as Alpha. The North Star constellation etched into surgical-grade metal. Because Asher is always the one navigating. The one who sees ten steps ahead.
Blake's sketchbook sits beside it—moose hide cover, 180gsm paper inside. I wrote on the first page in careful pen: May you capture all the beauty you see.
He captures me without permission. Those photos on his walls proved that. But maybe... maybe if I give him permission now, it'll feel different.
Cole's bracelet took the longest. Two weeks of braiding silver and navy threads during late nights when I couldn't sleep. The moonstone in the center cost more than I wanted to spend, but Sophia said it represents "new beginnings."
I need new beginnings.
Then there are the other two boxes. Macallan 18-year whiskey for Marcus. Hermès scarf for Victoria.
My fingers tremble touching those.
This is just basic courtesy, I tell myself. Even if they never treated me like family, I'm supposed to be... what? Their future daughter-in-law? Their sons' Luna?
The word "family" tastes wrong in my mouth. Like forcing down spoiled meat.
But I wrapped them anyway. Because that's what you do. You perform the ritual even when your heart isn't in it.
Outside, a car engine growls—low and expensive. My wolf's ears prick up inside my head.
They're early.
The grandparents.
My stomach clenches. I've never met them. Blake mentioned them once in passing: "Grandpa Sterling was Alpha before Dad. He doesn't visit much. Thinks we've gotten 'soft.'"
Great. Another layer of judgment incoming.
I touch the boxes one more time, then stand. Smooth down the deep green velvet dress Cole picked out for me yesterday. It has long sleeves and covers my collarbones—hides the faint marks their mouths left three nights ago when we all slept in Blake's bed.
My reflection in the mirror looks... different. The dress fits perfectly. My deep gold curls are loose around my shoulders instead of yanked back in a bun.
I barely recognize myself.
That's the point, my wolf whispers. We're not the storage room girl anymore.
But I don't feel like a Luna either. I feel like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
Downstairs, I hear voices. Deep. Authoritative.
Time to meet the family.
---
The long dining table is set like something from a magazine spread when I finally descend the stairs. White linen tablecloth. Silver candelabras with real wax candles flickering. Crystal wine glasses catching the light.
Marcus sits at the head, Victoria to his right. The three brothers are spaced around the sides—Asher directly across from Marcus, Blake and Cole flanking.
And across from them...
Grandpa Sterling is exactly what I expected: seventy years old but built like he could still rip throats out. Steel-gray hair slicked back. Pale blue eyes that miss nothing. He wears a black suit like armor.
Grandma Sterling sits beside him—sixty-eight, rail-thin, with long silver-streaked brown hair pinned in a severe bun. Her green eyes are chips of ice. She's wearing pearls and a navy dress.
I'm the last to enter. I planned it that way—less time for scrutiny.
Every head turns.
Grandpa Sterling's gaze lands on me like a physical weight. His upper lip curls—just slightly. Barely noticeable if you're not trained to read micro-expressions.
"This is Connor's child?" His voice is gravel. Not Connor's daughter. Not even a name. Just... child.
Like I'm livestock. A stray dog they took in.
"Her name is Kara." Blake's voice cuts through before I can respond. Gold flickers in his eyes—his wolf rising.
Grandpa Sterling's eyebrow lifts. "I know what her name is. I'm simply confirming identity."
Bullshit. That was a deliberate insult. Testing how much disrespect they can get away with.
I slide into the empty chair between Cole and Blake. Cole's hand immediately finds mine under the table, squeezes once. You're okay. We've got you.
Grandma Sterling delicately touches her napkin to her nose. Doesn't even try to be subtle about it.
She leans toward Victoria—but her voice carries, because wolf hearing means nothing is truly whispered in this house: "Her scent is rather cloying, isn't it? Like those cheap drugstore perfumes girls wear when they can't afford the real thing."
My white musk and first snow scent isn't cheap. It's mine. My unique pheromone signature.
But to her, I'm just another low-class stain on their pristine bloodline.
My fingers tighten around my fork. Across the table, Blake's knuckles go white gripping his knife.
"Grandmother." His voice is dangerously soft. "Watch your words. That's my future Luna's natural scent. Not perfume."
"Blake—" Victoria starts.
"No." Asher's voice is black ice. Pure Alpha command threading through it. "If anyone—family or not—disrespects Kara at this table, they're welcome to leave."
Cole adds quietly, but firmly: "They're just... traditional, Kara. Don't take it personally."
Traditional. Code for "bigoted and stuck in the past."
Grandma Sterling's lips thin. Grandpa Sterling cuts his steak with precise, angry movements.
Marcus clears his throat. Changes the subject. "How was your flight from Anchorage?"
I stab at my roasted turkey. My appetite is gone. The meat might as well be cardboard.
My white musk shifts—curdles into something bitter and sharp. Like crushed holly leaves. Defensive pheromones flooding out.
The brothers notice. Blake's hand finds my knee under the table. Asher's jaw tightens. Cole leans closer, trying to physically shield me with his body.
But Victoria? She looks away. Pretends she doesn't see.
And Marcus? He just keeps cutting his prime rib in neat, methodical slices.
I'm not family. I never was.
I'm just the debt collector's daughter they're tolerating because the Moon Goddess decided I'm their sons' mate.
---
Hours later, I've just finished showering. I'm wearing Cole's oversized gray T-shirt—the one that hangs to mid-thigh on me—and a pair of soft sleep shorts. My hair is damp, loose around my shoulders.
I'm about to crawl into bed when I hear it:
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three knocks. Perfectly synchronized. Same rhythm, same spacing.
They planned this. Their triplet mind link means they can coordinate down to the heartbeat.
"Kara?" Blake's voice comes through the wood. "Don't close that door yet, Baby. We need to talk."
I pause, hand on the doorknob.
Asher's voice next: "According to ancient pack tradition, mates should rest together on important holidays. It helps stabilize both parties' pheromone fields and strengthens the bond."
I blink. Is that real? Or is he making that up?
Knowing Asher, he probably researched actual wolf customs just to have a legitimate excuse.
Then Cole's voice—softer, more vulnerable: "And... our ruts are coming. Soon. If we don't smell you tonight, none of us will sleep. Please, Kara."
My wolf is internally screaming: YES YES LET THEM IN NOW.
My human brain is more cautious: This is how it starts. You let them sleep beside you, then they push for more, then suddenly you're fully mated and trapped and—
"We won't do anything." Blake's voice again. Serious now. "Just sleep. I swear on my Alpha title. On my life, Kara."
Through the door, I hear the sound of fabric rustling. I crack it open just enough to peek.
Blake has three fingers raised—like a Boy Scout making a pledge. His expression is completely earnest.
It should be funny. Instead, it makes my chest ache.
"If you feel uncomfortable—at all—you can tell us to leave." Asher's voice is steady, but I catch the slight waver at the end. Vulnerability. "But please. Let us stay close tonight."
I bite my lower lip. My hand trembles on the doorknob.
What's the worst that could happen?
Famous last words.
But I'm so tired of being alone. Of sleeping in beds that feel too big. Of waking up cold.
I open the door.