Chapter 192
Ellie's POV
One year later.
Winter light filtered through the dorm window, painting Cedar View's snow-covered quad in silver and gold. I stood on the tiny balcony, hands wrapped around steaming coffee, watching my breath crystallize in the cold air.
Memories came in fragments, each one sharp enough to steal my breath:
Jackson in that Barcelona council chamber—the vaulted ceiling, ancient tapestries, rows of stern faces watching him take the oath. I'd watched via encrypted livestream at 3 AM, clutching my laptop, seeing him transformed. No longer the street dance captain who'd bandaged my silver burns. Now Alpha heir to one of Europe's oldest packs, his father's legacy settling on his shoulders like a crown of thorns.
Most of his time belonged to Europe now. Late-night calls were our lifeline—him in some centuries-old estate, me in my dorm room, talking through time zones and responsibilities neither of us had expected to carry this young.
Then there was the file. That damned police report I'd helped him request again and again. Vehicle malfunction. Insufficient evidence of foul play. Case remains open but inactive. His parents' deaths, reduced to bureaucratic language and stamped in red. We'd spent months chasing leads, reviewing footage, questioning witnesses. But sometimes the truth stays buried. Sometimes justice doesn't come.
"We have to accept it," Jackson had said one night, voice hollow. "They're gone. The why doesn't change that."
I'd wanted to argue. To insist we keep fighting. But I'd seen the exhaustion in his eyes—the weight of carrying both grief and an entire pack's future.
"Your parents wanted change," I'd reminded him gently. "Focus on that. Make their deaths mean something."
And God, he had.
His coronation day—if you could call it that—had been December 15th. The day he'd stood before the Council of Elders and European pack leaders and dropped a bomb that made international supernatural news.
"Effective immediately, the Alpha position will rotate every five years. Leadership will be determined by capability, not bloodline. Any wolf who can prove themselves worthy may challenge for the position. This is my parents' legacy. This is the future."
The chamber had erupted. Half in outrage, half in shock. I'd watched ancient wolves sputter, younger ones lean forward with hungry eyes. Jackson had stood firm, chin raised, every inch his father's son.
The reforms were controversial. Dangerous, even. But they were right. And they'd sent shockwaves through the supernatural world—proving that even centuries of tradition could be challenged.
"You know what this means," I'd teased him later, when he'd finally made it back to Cedar View for a stolen weekend. "Our kids won't inherit anything. They'll have to actually earn leadership."
We'd been tangled in our bed, the afterglow of our mutual marking still thrumming through our bond. That had been the night before he left for Europe permanently—the night we'd made it official in the way that mattered to our wolves.
The marking had been... intense. Sacred. Terrifying and perfect. The moment his teeth had broken skin, the moment mine had answered—every cell in my body had known. This was permanent. This was everything.
Thalia had surged forward, recognition blazing: OURS. ALWAYS.
Jackson's wolf had answered in kind, and for those heartbeats, we'd been purely animal. Purely instinct. Purely united.
"We're using protection, right?" I'd gasped afterward, coming back to myself. "Because I love you, but I'm not having a baby before I graduate."
Jackson had laughed, pressing kisses to the fresh mark on my neck. "Already handled. I'm not explaining to your father why his daughter dropped out of CVU to raise wolf cubs."
"Our hypothetical children are going to hate us," I'd mused, fingers tracing the matching mark on his neck. "We just made sure they can't inherit your position based on DNA alone."
"They'll understand," Jackson had said with absolute certainty. "Because we'll raise them to value merit over birthright. To see leadership as service, not privilege."
"You're assuming they'll want to lead."
"If they're anything like their mother, they'll probably build a better system entirely and make mine look outdated."
I'd smacked his chest, laughing. "Flatterer."
"Realist." He'd pulled me closer, voice going soft. "Our kids—whenever we have them—will grow up knowing their parents chose each other. Chose change. Chose a harder path because it was right. That's worth more than any inherited title."
"And if they resent us anyway?"
"Then we'll love them through it. Like our parents loved us."
The memory made my chest ache. One year later, Jackson was in Barcelona navigating pack politics. I was here finishing my Computer Science degree and managing the Sanctuary Network. We were building something bigger than ourselves—a future where wolf packs weren't bound by ancient hierarchies, where lone wolves could find family, where love mattered more than bloodline.
It was messy. Complicated. Sometimes lonely.
But it was ours.
And just like Lily waiting for Ryan, I'd wait however long it took for Jackson to come home.
Because some bonds didn't weaken with distance.
They only proved how essential they'd become.
My gaze drifted to the wall calendar. December 17th, circled in red marker so thick it had bled through.
Lily's judgment day.
The bathroom door opened. Lily emerged, hair damp, face pale as January snow. She clutched her phone like a lifeline, screen showing a countdown timer: 00:00:12:47.
"Coffee?" I offered, holding up the second mug.
She took it with trembling hands. "What if he doesn't call?"
"He will. Ryan's never broken a promise."
"There's a first time for everything." She sank onto her bed. "What if he forgot? Or moved on?"
I settled beside her. "Has he seemed like he's moved on?"
"He hasn't sent emails."
"Exactly. If he'd moved on, you'd have gotten the 'it's not you, it's me' email months ago. Radio silence means he's keeping his promise."
Lily's laugh was half-sob. "You make it sound so rational."
"One of us has to be." I sipped my coffee. "Want to know how many times I've deleted and restored Jackson's photos this year?"
"How many?"
"Stopped counting at forty-seven. There was this week in March—he went dark for five days—and I literally planned his funeral in my head."
Her eyes went wide. "What happened?"
"He video-called at three AM, looking like death, and said 'Sorry I'm late for our Sunday call.' He'd been in Frost Pack negotiations and forgot time zones existed."
"Did you yell?"
"Oh, I screamed. Then cried. Then he cried. Whole thing." I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "My point is—long distance is hell. But if Ryan's anything like Jackson, he's been counting down seconds just as hard as you."