Chapter 65
Ellie's POV
A soft knock. "Ellie? Can I come in?"
I straightened, schooling my expression into something neutral. "It's open."
Jackson slipped inside, closing the door behind him. We stared at each other across the small space.
"You're wondering who she is," he said carefully.
"It's none of my business."
"It is my business if it's making you think I—" He stopped, searching for words. "Isabelle is family. Werewolf family. The ceremony today, the people you're about to meet—they're all like us. And after the performance, I'm going to tell you why I've been hiding from this world. Why I hid from you."
I searched his face for lies, for deflection, for any sign that this was another stalling tactic.
Found only exhaustion and determination and something that looked almost like fear.
"Two hours," I said quietly. "You get two hours to perform. Then you tell me everything. Everything, Jackson. Who you are. What Isabelle is to you. Why you've spent a week avoiding me. All of it."
"All of it," he promised. "My family history. My reasons for hiding. Why it took me so long to be brave enough." His voice cracked slightly. "Why you matter enough that I'm breaking every rule I set for myself."
I held his gaze. "If you deflect again—if you give me half-truths or carefully edited versions—we're done. Not just this conversation. Everything."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because I've spent a week feeling crazy. Feeling like maybe I imagined everything, or maybe you just don't trust me, or maybe I'm just not important enough for honesty." The words spilled out despite my attempts to stay controlled. "And I can't do this anymore, Jackson. Can't keep hoping you'll let me in."
His expression cracked. "You didn't imagine anything. And you are—God, Ellie, you're so important. That's the whole problem. You matter so much that I'm terrified of doing this wrong."
"Then do it right," I said simply. "Two hours. Then honesty."
He nodded, looking younger suddenly. Vulnerable. "Two hours."
When he left, I changed into my performance outfit with shaking hands, Thalia pacing restlessly inside me.
Two more hours, I told her. Then we'll know. One way or another, we'll finally know.
The performance was technically flawless. Our bodies executed every step with precision born from weeks of rehearsal. But the connection that usually sparked between us felt muted, careful—both of us holding something back.
When we took our final bow to enthusiastic applause, I saw Isabelle in the front row beside an older man in his sixties. Both wore expressions of approval that felt weighted, significant.
Jackson's hand found mine. "Come with me."
He led me away from the ceremony, toward the edge of the development where construction hadn't yet begun. Beyond the completed community center, the land opened into empty lots marked with surveyor stakes and scattered building materials.
We found a spot sheltered by a half-built retaining wall—private, quiet, far from the celebration crowds. We sat on a stack of lumber, the scent of fresh-cut pine mixing with the distant smell of food from the ceremony.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Jackson stared at his hands, and I waited, giving him the space he needed.
"My full name," Jackson said finally, voice low, "isn't Jackson Wilson. Wilson is my mother's surname. My father was Arthur Martinez."
I went absolutely still.
And finally—finally—he began to tell me the truth.
"Martinez family has deep roots in Europe—Spain, England, France. One of the old bloodlines." His voice carried a weight I hadn't heard before. "My parents were Alpha and Luna of the Spanish territory. I was five when they died."
I drew a sharp breath. "Jackson—"
"Car accident." He cut me off gently. "Nothing dramatic. Just... wrong place, wrong time. Rain, a truck that couldn't stop." His jaw tightened. "My mother's brother—my uncle Miles—came for me. Brought me to live with him in the States."
"So you grew up here."
"Mostly. Uncle Miles raised me in Seattle, gave me a normal life. But summers and winter breaks..." He paused. "I'd go back to the pack. Learn what I needed to learn. Then come back to human school, human friends, human everything."
The pieces clicked into place—his perfect code-switching, his ability to exist in both worlds so seamlessly. "But why couldn't I sense you? Even on Halloween, I wasn't sure."
"I hide it. Deliberately." Jackson's expression went complicated. "The pack back in Spain... they think I'm weak. That growing up mostly human made my wolf fade."
"But that's not true."
"No." His jaw tightened. "But if they knew how strong I actually am, if they knew I could challenge for Alpha..." He looked away. "My uncle took me in when no one else would. Gave me a real home, a real life. The last thing I want is for anyone in the pack to think I'm waiting to come back and claim my parents' position. That I'd threaten my cousins' inheritance."
Understanding crashed over me. "So you make yourself invisible. To them and to everyone else."
"Uncle Miles knows the truth. But to the Martinez pack, to most wolves?" Jackson's smile was bitter. "I'm just the Alpha's orphaned son who went soft living with humans. Not a threat. Not worth political maneuvering or family drama."
"That's why you were so scared when I recognized you on Halloween."
"You saw through years of careful control in one night." His laugh was hollow. "Yeah, that terrified me. If you could sense it, maybe others could too."
The weight of everything—his confession, my accusations, the week of silent suffering—crashed over me. "Jackson, I'm so sorry. I pushed you, I made you—"
"Hey." His hand caught my arm, steady and warm. "You didn't make me do anything. I should have told you the moment I realized what you were. This is on me, not you."
"But I cornered you—"
"You called me on my bullshit," he corrected, a hint of humor breaking through. "There's a difference. I was hiding because it was easier, not because I had to. You deserved honesty from the start."
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm night. The relief of knowing the truth warred with the guilt of forcing it out, tangled up with the confusion of what this meant for... whatever we were.
Jackson seemed to sense my turmoil. "Ellie, listen. I don't want things to be weird between us now. Can we just..." He ran a hand through his hair, looking younger somehow. "Can we go back to being friends? Like before all this?"
"Yeah," I heard myself say. "Friends sounds good."
The word landed with unexpected relief. After everything with Lucas—the mate bond confusion, the awkward assumptions, the messy unraveling—I'd learned my lesson about jumping to conclusions. Just because Jackson was a werewolf, just because we had this connection, didn't mean... anything. Not automatically.
And honestly? When he'd said friends, something in my chest had actually unclenched.
Because looking back at this past week—the way I'd confronted him, the way I'd demanded answers, the hurt I'd felt at his silence—I'd been acting like... like I had some claim on him. Like a girlfriend who'd been lied to, not just a friend who'd been confused.
God. Had I really put myself in that position? Without even asking if that's what he wanted?
The realization made my cheeks burn. No wonder he'd looked so panicked.
"Good friends," Jackson emphasized, and his smile was genuine. "The kind who actually tell each other the truth."
"Good friends," I agreed, managing a smile back that felt steadier now. Less complicated.
Friends. Good friends. The kind who understood each other's wolves without all the messy expectations that had crashed and burned with Lucas.
Yeah. I could definitely work with that.