I didn’t chase after Alpha Thorne Darkhowl.

He left still laughing, his voice pitched too loud, too careless, murmuring about champagne and bikinis into Camille Hartclaw’s ear as if I were already erased—as if I were nothing more than the mat beneath his boots. He walked like a man reborn, posture straight, steps confident, while I stayed collapsed on the floor, knees screaming, pride splintered, spirit cracked open. It felt as though the ground itself had claimed me, swallowed me whole, while he strode away untouched.

Eventually, I pushed myself upright, slowly, with intention. My joints protested, creaking like rusted hinges. I dragged my palm across the tile, smearing dust and grit and whatever scraps of dignity still clung to me. I made my way to the bathroom and closed the door quietly, careful not to disturb the sleeping house.

The mirror offered no mercy.

Bloodshot eyes. Puffy skin. Hair loose and feral. I looked like someone who had tried to scream underwater—someone who had already drowned but kept breathing out of habit alone.

There was no coffin waiting for me. No candles burning low. No whispered prayers or mourning veils. And yet I was grieving. Not for him. Not even for the ruin of our marriage. I mourned myself—the girl I used to be. The reckless flame who laughed too loudly and loved too fiercely, before I dimmed her light for his comfort. Before I clipped my wings, blunted my claws, and bent myself smaller so I could fit inside his expectations.

I mourned every piece of myself I buried in quiet compromises. Every version of me that faded when I chose him over my own blood and fire. Until all that was left was a hollow thing—a shadow drifting through the remains of the wolf I once was.

His footsteps passed the door. His laugh followed, low and cruel. He was still on the phone, but he paused just long enough to bark, “Pack my bags. It’s business mixed with pleasure. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

No glance.

No courtesy.

Only command.

I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. When his voice disappeared down the hall, I dried my hands on the crooked towel and walked into his room like a servant answering her master’s call.

His closet was a disaster—suits tangled with shirts, shoes buried beneath dirty socks. A grown man with the habits of a spoiled pup who believed himself a ruler.

I began folding his clothes anyway, smoothing fabric with hands that felt numb. Then my elbow brushed the side table, and a folder slid free, scattering its contents across the floor.

Cruise tickets.

I read the names once.

Then again.

Each letter cut sharper than the last.

Thorne Darkhowl.

Camillerette Hartclaw.

Julian.

Corinne.

Ken.

Nolan.

My name was nowhere to be found.

The journey I had carried in my chest for three decades—the promise whispered into my hair when I was eighteen—had been handed to Camille as casually as tossing a bone to a favored hound.

It was for her birthday.

He remembered hers.

He never remembered mine.

I folded the tickets slowly, carefully, as though paper could bleed if mishandled. Then I packed his suitcase anyway. Shoes buffed. Shirts pressed. Cufflinks gleaming like silver fangs. Julian barged in without knocking, beer in hand, and ordered me to pack for him too. And the twins. Corinne’s perfume. Snacks with neat labels. They dropped their needs at my feet and left without a word of thanks.

I complied.

Obedience had been driven into me over decades—the way one breaks a wolf until it forgets the taste of its own blood.

Later, alone in my room, shaking, my thoughts drifted backward.

To eighteen.

To Thorne, when his touch had been a vow instead of a weapon. When his eyes had not yet hardened into cold steel. He had promised to protect me always. To build a future untouched by pack politics or prophecy. His words had burned brighter than a blood moon, and like a fool caught in its glow, I believed him.

I believed him even when it meant defying my father—the Alpha of the Mira—whose fury was ancient, whose wolf carried the weight of centuries.

“You are no daughter of mine,” my father had roared, his voice shaking stone, his beast raging beneath his skin. The earth itself seemed to bow beneath his dominance. “Take that boy if you choose. But know this—our bond is severed. If you return to my gates, I will tear out your throat before I ever call you kin again.”

I had stood before him, trembling but unbroken, and whispered through his storm, “I love him.”

“You love a shadow,” he spat, eyes blazing silver. “And shadows always consume their own.”

Thirty winters later, his curse had come true.

The boy I loved, the mate I bled for, had withered into a man who could snarl me down, shove me aside, and walk away without a backward glance. A man who booked moonlit voyages with another woman while leaving me behind to scrub his boots like discarded prey.

And at last, I understood.

My father hadn’t cast me out in cruelty.

He had seen the rot long before I ever did.

My gaze fell on the landline—old, forgotten, ignored. But it still worked. My hand moved before fear could stop it. I dialed the number I had carried like an open scar for thirty years.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Then—

“Hello?”

His voice. Older. Rougher. Worn by time. But unmistakable. Still the Alpha of the Mira. Still my father.

My throat closed. I clutched the receiver like a lifeline, tears falling in silent, unstoppable streams.

“…Father,” I whispered, the word breaking free like shattered bone. “…It’s me. Nyx.”

The phone was still warm against my palm when my father finally spoke. His voice carried the weight of a wolf who had spent countless nights calling into emptiness—hoarse, weathered, and tired in a way that sank deep into the bones. And yet, threaded through that fatigue was a steadiness I hadn’t heard since I was a child. A quiet peace that startled me more than anger ever could.

“Come back to me, Nyx,” he said softly, the years roughening every word. “I’ve waited twenty years for this.”

Twenty years.

Two full decades of hollow winters and endless moons. Of standing alone beneath silver skies, my wolf pacing restlessly inside me, trapped behind the walls I had built. Twenty years of silent wars—fought without witnesses—because my pride had been too sharp to bend, my wounds too deep to expose, and my spirit too fractured to return.

My legs weakened, threatening to fold beneath me. Instead of falling, I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed, my body giving in where my heart no longer could. Tears spilled freely, scorching trails down my cheeks, washing away years of forced restraint and swallowed pain.

“I’ll come home,” I murmured, my voice barely there, as fragile as breath drifting through the trees.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. All I heard was the quiet rise and fall of his breathing—steady, patient, real. It anchored me, like the rhythm of a pack heartbeat I had once turned my back on. I ended the call before my resolve could falter, before I could say words that might shatter me if spoken aloud.

The door opened with a slow groan, and Alpha Thorne stepped inside as if he owned the very air in the room. He moved like a shadow that refused to leave, one that had grown too comfortable in the dark. His scent reached me before his voice ever did—sour wine tangled with lies, ambition drowning out loyalty. His gaze pinned me in place, sharp and probing, as though he could already smell my escape clinging to my skin.

“You saw the plane passes, didn’t you?” he said, lips curving into a cruel half-smile. “Six seats. That’s all. Me, Camille, Julian, Corinne, and the twins. No more.”

My throat tightened painfully, but I forced the lump down, refusing to let him see the crack.

“You were never part of the plan,” he added flatly, his tone eerily calm, like ice fracturing beneath your feet without warning.

Then came the lie disguised as generosity. “When I’m back, I’ll spoil you. Diamonds. A trip to Hawaii.” As if glitter and distance could erase exclusion. As if I were some neglected she-wolf desperate enough to be pacified with shiny distractions.

Without another look, he turned away. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound final and hollow—less like closure, more like a coffin being sealed.

The following morning, I drifted through the kitchen like a spirit haunting its own ruins. I cooked without thought—eggs folded into omelets, bacon sizzling, toast popping up warm and golden. The smells filled the air, taunting me with the illusion of togetherness. From the living room, the twins’ laughter burst out, loud and unrestrained, like pups discovering the thrill of a chase.

“This cruise is going to be legendary!” Julian shouted. “Best trip ever!”

Their excitement was pure. And that purity made it hurt all the more.

Camille swept in not long after, arms heavy with takeout bags. She dropped them onto the counter with deliberate force, her smile sharp and satisfied.

“I can’t stand Nyx’s food,” she declared loudly. “It’s either tasteless or unbearably salty. Like chewing paper or licking a salt block. No creativity at all. Honestly, it suits her.”

Her words tore into me, sharp and precise. The twins snickered. Corinne leaned closer, eyes glittering with cruelty.

“Seriously, Mum, it’s depressing,” she said. “It’s like you cook just to make a point. Burnt edges everywhere, as if that’s your silent protest. But don’t worry—we get it.”

I shrank into myself, fading into the corners of the room, a presence barely acknowledged in the house I lived in. Their voices stripped me bare, leaving nothing but bone and ache. Still, I stayed silent, biting back the bitterness before it could escape.

Then Alpha Thorne’s voice cracked through the space, sharp as a lash.

“Where’s my wallet?” His stare snapped straight to me, heavy with accusation. “You took it, didn’t you? Always sneaking. Always hiding. You hide from respect. From duty. From everything. Pathetic. Envious. Worthless.”

I shook my head, but my denial didn’t matter. His hand struck my face with brutal force, the sound ringing out like something breaking. My vision blurred as pain exploded across my cheek, blood rushing from my nose. Inside me, my wolf screamed, thrashing against the cage I had locked her in for years.

I hit the tile floor hard, the cold biting into my skin as the metallic scent of blood filled my lungs.

Camille gasped theatrically. “Oh, Alpha,” she cooed, pulling the wallet from her bag, her eyes flicking to mine with a private smile. “Looks like I took it accidentally. Silly me.”

The setup was flawless.

The degradation, complete.

They grabbed their luggage, voices light and unbothered.

“I’ll bring you a souvenir magnet,” Julian said cheerfully.

“I’ll get you a keychain,” Corinne added.

“And we’ll bring you all our dirty clothes, Grandma!” the twins howled, their laughter slicing deeper than claws ever could.

The door slammed shut, leaving behind a silence so sharp it felt like it could draw blood.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t scream.

I stood up calmly, walked to my room, and dropped to my knees. From beneath the bed, I pulled out the bag I had hidden years ago. My hands didn’t shake. I packed only what truly mattered. Everything else could decay alongside them.

At the airport, my phone vibrated.

Stay home while we’re gone. A week. Don’t screw anything up.

Another message followed immediately.

I shouldn’t have hit you. But you pushed me. If you weren’t so jealous all the time, things wouldn’t end like this. You bring it on yourself.

I read the words once. Then again. And something deep inside me—ancient, feral, long restrained—finally broke free. I blocked his number, erased the conversation, and slipped my phone away.

The smile that touched my lips wasn’t happiness.

It was my wolf awakening at last, teeth bared, eyes clear.

I was finished protecting a house that had never sheltered me.

Finished pretending this place was home.

I was returning to the only place that ever truly was.

Back to my pack.

Back to blood and roots.

Back to the forest where my name still echoed.

I was going home.