The brass zipper of my duffel bag slid shut with a sharp, decisive pull.

I straightened up, resting a hand beneath the curve of my stomach. At five months, the swelling was impossible to hide, a gentle, rounded arch that pressed against the fabric of my sweater. Beneath my palm, the faint, rhythmic flutter of my pup stirred, warming the cold dread that had settled in my chest since dawn.

A telegram had arrived three hours ago: Grandma Evelyn had suffered a mild stroke.

She was the only person in the Silver Pine Pack who had ever looked at a girl whose wolf failed to emerge at sixteen and treated her like flesh and blood. She was the one who had slipped warm chamomile tea into my freezing hands when my parents banished me from pack meetings, and the one who had bandaged my scraped knees while my sister sat on the Alpha’s dais.

I had to go back. Just for three days.

"Three days is seventy-two hours too long, Maeve."

A deep, gravelly voice broke through the quiet of the private bedchamber.

Kieran leaned against the heavy oak doorframe, blocking the threshold with the towering breadth of his frame. He was fresh from the dawn sparring yard, stripped to the waist in low-slung combat trousers. A thin sheen of sweat glistened over the heavily corded muscle of his broad shoulders and chest, carrying the rich, intoxicating scent of crushed winter pine, dark cedar, and the sharp bite of high-mountain frost.

His dark amber eyes locked onto my packed bag, a dangerous, possessive shadow flickering behind his lashes.

"Grandma needs me, Kieran," I said gently, picking up the strap. "The healers say she’s stable, but she’s confused. I just need to see her on her feet."

Before I could take two steps, Kieran crossed the room in three silent strides.

He didn't grab the bag. Instead, his large, calloused hands came around my waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against my back like a heated wall of stone. He lowered his head, burying his face into the sensitive crook of my neck, breathing me in until his broad ribs expanded against mine.

Slowly, tenderly, his large hands slid down, fingers spreading wide over the rounded swell of my belly.

A quiet, helpless shiver ran down my spine as his warmth washed away the morning chill.

"Two days," Kieran murmured against my pulse point, his voice vibrating straight into my bones. "Let Douglas drive you in the armored transport with a royal detail. If you stay in the valley lodge, you won't have to step foot under your father’s roof."

"No convoys, Kieran. No royal banners." I turned in his arms, resting my hands flat against his warm, bare chest. "You promised me. The moment the Northern High Guard rolls into Silver Pine, Grandma’s quiet recovery turns into an armed political summit. My father will parade you through the council chambers, and Talia will spend three days clawing for an audience. I want to see my grandmother in peace."

Kieran’s jaw tightened, the golden embers in his eyes burning with restless, barely contained fury. He despised Silver Pine. He despised the pack that had spent twenty years treating his mate like an unwanted ghost.

"They put you in a cellar when you were eighteen, Maeve," he growled low. "They let that Silver Pine enforcer discard you like broken scrap."

"And you gave me a kingdom," I whispered, reaching up to brush my thumb over the rigid line of his jaw. "Let me finish this on my own terms. Three days. Then I’m coming home to you."

He stared down at me for a long, agonizing moment, every protective instinct written plainly across his face.

Finally, Kieran let out a harsh, defeated breath.

He stepped back and reached for his heavy black tactical overcoat draped over the armchair. It was thick, double-lined shearling, made for northern blizzards, bearing no royal crests or golden embroidery—just plain, heavy black wool.

Without a word, he wrapped it around my shoulders.

The coat was enormous on me, the hem dropping past my knees, but the moment the fabric settled against my collar, Kieran's scent enveloped me in a suffocating, impenetrable wave of dominant Alpha authority. It was pure, unadulterated power, so thick it felt like an invisible shield forged from iron and frost.

He tilted my chin up, pressing a slow, bruising kiss against my lips, before whispering against my mouth:

"If any male in that valley forgets who claims you, let their wolves smell this."

The five-hour drive south felt like stepping back into a suffocating dream.

By two in the afternoon, my rented sedan pulled into the winding gravel driveway of the Silver Pine Pack House. The three-story cedar estate stood exactly as I remembered it—manicured lawns, high stone arches, and the polished banners of the Carter lineage fluttering from the eaves.

I stepped out into the crisp mountain air, pulling Kieran's heavy coat tightly around my midsection.

On the wide front porch, two figures stood by the carved railing.

My father, Thomas Carter, was checking the gold watch on his wrist, his posture stiff and authoritative. Beside him stood my mother, Carol, smoothing down the front of her tailored knit dress.

For half a second, a foolish, childish flutter rose in my chest. Did they come outside to wait for me?

I hauled my leather duffel bag from the backseat and started up the gravel path.

My father’s head turned. His sharp, calculating eyes locked onto me, then dropped straight down to the heavy swell beneath my open coat.

There was no rush of relief. No welcoming smile. No outstretched arms.

His brow furrowed into a deep, irritated scowl.

"Maeve," my father said, his voice flat as I reached the bottom of the porch steps. "You finally decided to show up."

"Hello, Dad. Mom," I said, setting my bag down on the stone landing. My lower back throbbed with a dull ache from the drive. "How is Grandma Evelyn? The clinic said—"

"She’s sleeping," my mother interrupted, waving a dismissive hand before her eyes locked onto my stomach with a look of pinched disapproval. "Good heavens, Maeve. You're actually showing. How far along are you?"

"Five months," I replied quietly.

My father folded his arms, looking down at me from the top of the porch as if reviewing an unsatisfactory balance sheet. "And where is the father? You've been married for six months. You show up here alone, dragging luggage out of a cheap rental, and your mate couldn't even be bothered to escort you to your family's estate?"

The old, familiar lump rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down.

"He's working," I said evenly. "He manages territory in the northern ridges. He couldn't leave on such short notice."

My father let out a harsh, scoffing sound through his nose. "Manages territory. So he's an unranked drifter watching barren timber plots for an outcast pack. A rogue with dirty boots who’s too ashamed to look an honorable pack councilman in the eye."

"Thomas, keep your voice down," my mother muttered, checking the long driveway with an anxious glance. "The neighbors might hear. Just be glad she didn't bring him along to embarrass us."

I stood on the cold stone steps, holding Kieran’s coat around my belly. They hadn't asked if the baby was healthy. They hadn't asked how I was feeling, or if the drive had been difficult.

They had looked at their pregnant daughter and seen nothing more than a potential embarrassment.

Before I could speak, the deep rumble of a powerful engine vibrated through the trees.

A sleek, midnight-black pack SUV swept around the bend, tires crunching aggressively over the crushed stone. It bore the polished silver trim of the regional guard.

My mother gasped, her eyes lighting up with radiant, unmistakable warmth.

"They're here!" she cried, pushing past me down the porch steps without a second glance. "Thomas, they made it!"

The SUV came to a halt. The passenger door opened, and Talia stepped out onto the driveway.

My younger sister looked radiant. She wore a tailored ivory cashmere sweater, slim trousers, and diamond studs that caught the afternoon sun. She stepped into the gravel with the effortless, pampered poise of a girl who had spent her entire life being told the world belonged to her.

From the driver's side stepped Brock Hale.

He was broad-shouldered, wearing his crisp dress tunic displaying the copper-trimmed intake insignia of the Northern border division. He carried himself with an inflated, theatrical arrogance, chest pushed out so far his brass buttons strained.

"Talia, darling!" my mother beamed, throwing her arms around my sister.

My father strode over, a wide, triumphant grin stretching across his face as he clamped a heavy hand onto Brock’s shoulder. "Brock, son! Welcome back. How was the drive from the regional outpost?"

"Smooth, sir," Brock said, flashing a dazzling, practiced grin. "The transit clearance cleared without a hitch. Northern Command gives priority passage to all incoming division recruits."

"Four thousand applicants, and they chose our Brock," my father said loudly, practically vibrating with pride as he shook Brock's hand again. "Silver Pine hasn't seen this kind of recognition from the Northern Crown in thirty years. We're hosting a feast tonight in your honor."

I stood ten feet away by the porch rail, my fingers curled tightly around the strap of my heavy duffel bag.

Three years away. A marriage. A child growing under my heart.

None of it mattered. The invisible hierarchy of this house remained carved in solid granite: Talia was the golden child born to carry the family into glory, and I was the broken, wolf-less daughter who should be grateful just to stand on the edge of their lawn.

Talia turned, catching sight of me for the first time.

A little smirk curved her red lips as she took in my plain sweater, flat boots, and the worn leather bag sitting on the ground beside me.

"Maeve!" Talia called out, gliding over with open arms and an exaggerated, theatrical pout. "You actually made it! We were worried you’d be stuck out in the cold country with no way to travel."

She stepped close, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a brief, perfume-scented embrace.

The second Talia’s cheek brushed against the shearling collar of my coat, she froze.

Her hug stiffened into absolute stone.

Her eyes snapped wide, the pupils shrinking into tiny, terrified pinpricks. Her nostrils flared involuntarily as the scent rolling off the heavy black wool hit her senses like a physical hammer.

It was Kieran’s scent.

Dense, ancient, and suffocatingly powerful. The pure, predatory resonance of a Sovereign Alpha rolled off the fabric, thick with the scent of bitter frost and dark pine—an aura so crushing that Talia recoiled as if her inner wolf had cowered from it.

For three agonizing seconds, Talia couldn't breathe. Her hands trembled against my sleeves, the color draining from her cheeks.

Then, she swallowed hard, took a hasty step back, and forced a shrill, nervous laugh to cover the tremor in her knees.

"God, Maeve," Talia laughed, pointing a manicured finger at the heavy black coat. "Your rogue smells expensive."

Brock looked over from the SUV, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

"This jacket," Talia mocked, gaining her footing as she rolled her eyes toward our parents. "It’s practically drenched in synthetic Northern pheromones. You can smell the chemical cologne from three feet away!"

She reached out, flicking the heavy shearling lapel with a dismissive chuckle.

"Where did your mate buy this, Maeve? The border black market? Does he really think dousing himself in fake Alpha scent makes him look like a high-ranking warrior? It’s pathetic. It smells like a dog trying to puff up his chest."

Brock let out an amused, condescending bark of laughter. "Desperate rogues do that all the time along the northern perimeter. They buy illegal scent oils to scare off wild beasts because they don't have the strength to hold their own territory."

My mother clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she led the way toward the front door. "Just tacky. Trying to make an unranked nobody sound important. Come inside, Brock. The steak has been marinating since noon, and we need to hear all about your clearance."

"Coming, Carol," Brock smiled, wrapping his arm around Talia’s waist as they walked up the porch steps, chatting happily about the Northern capital.

I stood alone on the gravel path.

I looked down at the dark, heavy wool wrapped securely around my body, feeling the phantom warmth of Kieran's chest still lingering in the fibers.

A few hours ago, the supreme ruler of twelve sovereign territories had buried his face into this very collar, terrified to let me walk out of his sight.

I pulled the coat a little tighter around my belly, a cold, quiet stillness settling over my heart.

I picked up my duffel bag and followed them into the house.

Brock cut into his medium-rare steak with the theatrical confidence of a man who believed he owned the room. Across the dining table, my parents hung on his every word, their plates barely touched.

"The Northern perimeter guard doesn't take just anyone," Brock said, pausing to let the weight of his statement settle over the dining room. "Over four thousand applicants from every major pack in the region. Only twenty made the final cut."

"Four thousand," my father repeated, letting out an appreciative whistle. He refilled Brock’s wine glass before touching his own. "Silver Pine hasn't sent a warrior to the Northern borders in three decades. You're putting our name back on the map, son."

"It's about standards," Brock said with a humble shrug that fooled no one. "Alpha Kieran Vale doesn't tolerate weakness. He personally reviewed the final dossier. His signature was right at the top of my clearance sheet. Kieran Vale approved my name himself."

My mother beamed, placing a hand over her heart. "A personal sign-off from the Alpha King. Talia, darling, you found a true leader."

Talia leaned into Brock’s shoulder, a smug little smile curving her lips. "I told you, Mom. Brock isn't like the boys around here. He has real ambition."

I kept my eyes on my plate, cutting a piece of roasted potato. Hearing Kieran’s name thrown around so casually in my parents' dining room felt surreal. Brock spoke of him like a myth, a distant god who had bestowed a blessing from an ivory tower. To Brock, Kieran was a terrifying signature on a piece of paper.

To me, Kieran was the man who made sure my side of the bed was warm before I crawled into it and who left handwritten notes on my nightstand whenever he had dawn briefings.

"And what about your mate, Maeve?" my mother asked suddenly, her voice dropping the warm, glowing tone she used for Brock.

The table went quiet.

My father set his fork down, leaning back in his chair with narrowed eyes. "Yes, Maeve. You've been married for six months, and we haven't seen the man once. What kind of wolf doesn't introduce himself to his mate’s family?"

"He’s busy," I said evenly.

"Doing what, exactly?" Talia asked, swirling her wine. "You were always so secretive about him. Every time Mom asked, you changed the subject. Is he ashamed to show his face?"

I took a slow sip of water, feeling the cool liquid soothe the dryness in my throat. "He manages territory."

For a second, nobody spoke. Then Talia let out a sharp, amused bark of laughter.

"He manages territory?" she repeated, covering her mouth with her manicured fingers. "Oh, Maeve. You mean he's a groundskeeper? Or does he watch over some desolate dirt farm for a broke backwater pack?"

My father shook his head, looking down at his plate in disgust. "A land manager. So basically an unranked guard with a fancy title."

"I knew it," Talia said, shaking her head with exaggerated pity. "You always had terrible taste. Remember that stray dog you dragged home in middle school? The one that bit Dad's boot? You never grew out of taking in strays. Now you've tied yourself to a nobody who watches fences in the middle of nowhere."

I opened my mouth to speak. The words formed on my tongue—that Kieran didn't watch fences, that he commanded twelve sovereign territories and every garrison from the northern ridges to the coast.

Then I looked at my mother.

She wasn't curious. She wasn't concerned about whether I was treated well, whether I was safe, or whether I loved him. Her eyes held that familiar, cold satisfaction—the quiet relief that my life remained smaller, dimmer, and less impressive than Talia's.

They hadn't asked about my husband to get to know him. They asked so they could place him on their mental scale and make sure Talia was still winning.

I closed my mouth and said nothing. Explaining the truth would only sound like a desperate lie to people who had already decided what I was worth.

"Well," my mother sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "At least he works. Some people just don't have the drive to reach high ranks, and that's fine. We can't all have a Brock."

Brock puffed his chest out slightly, grinning down at his plate. "Hey, every pack needs workers at the bottom. Someone has to fix the perimeter posts."

I reached across the table for the salt shaker. As my arm moved, the cuff of my cream sweater slid back an inch, revealing the dark band resting against my wrist.

The dining room chandelier caught the surface of the metal. It didn't shine bright silver like common steel; it had an oily, dark luster, threaded with faint, iridescent veins that seemed to absorb the light.

Brock’s laughter cut off instantly.

His fork hovered an inch above his plate. His gaze locked onto my wrist, his pupils dilating in shock. The easy, arrogant posture he had held all evening vanished in a second, replaced by stiff, rigid stillness.

His reaction told me he recognized it. Anyone who had gone through the Northern garrison’s intake orientation had to study the royal insignia and lineage crests.

Black Moonsteel.

It was an ancient, nearly indestructible alloy forged exclusively in the royal foundry. It was never traded, never sold, and only gifted to one person in each generation: the direct mate of the Northern ruler.

"Where..." Brock’s voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat, pointing a shaking finger toward my wrist. "Where did you get that bracelet?"

I glanced down at the band. "My husband gave it to me."

"Is that... Moonsteel?" Brock asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The color was draining from his cheeks. "The black runic alloy from the central vault?"

Before I could answer, Talia rolled her eyes and reached across the table, flicking my wrist with a manicured fingernail.

"Oh, give me a break, Brock," Talia scoffed. "You can buy those cheap alloy knockoffs online for twenty dollars. The internet is flooded with fake Northern designs. Every wannabe luna wears them to look important."

Brock blinked, looking between Talia and the dark band. "A knockoff? But the etching..."

"Of course it's a knockoff," my father snapped, scowling at my arm. "Maeve, take that ridiculous thing off. Walking around Silver Pine wearing fake royal jewelry is embarrassing. If someone from the council sees that, they'll think we raised a fraud who’s desperate for attention."

"It’s just tacky," my mother added, shaking her head. "Trying to pretend you have ties to the North when your husband is an unranked farm hand. Take it off before the welcome dinner tomorrow."

Brock’s shoulders slowly dropped from his ears. The panic in his eyes dissolved into an easy, relieved chuckle. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense. For a second, I thought... anyway, good replica, Maeve. Almost looked real in this lighting."

"It's pathetic is what it is," Talia muttered under her breath.

I pulled my sleeve down, covering the dark band. I didn't take it off. I didn't argue. I just let them wrap themselves in their own comfortable blindness.

Dinner ended in an uncomfortable silence. My mother began gathering the empty plates, stacking them with sharp, clattering motions.

"Maeve," she said without turning around from the sink. "Before you go dragging your bags upstairs, you should know. Your old bedroom isn't available."

I paused at the edge of the dining room. "What do you mean?"

"Talia needed more room for her seasonal wardrobe and winter coats before she moves to the Northern post," my mother replied smoothly. "We knocked down the partition last month and expanded her closet into your old room."

I looked at the hallway staircase, then back at my mother. "So where am I supposed to sleep?"

"The attic," my mother said. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, picked up a small brass key from the counter, and tossed it onto the dining table. It landed with a dull clink against the wood. "There are some extra wool blankets in the trunk up there. It’s clean enough."

She turned back to the sink, scrubbing a dish. "Besides, you're only staying for three days. It doesn't make sense to shuffle things around just for a weekend."

I turned my eyes to Talia.

My sister was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. She didn't look up. She didn't offer a half-hearted apology, nor did she suggest sharing her room. She took it as her absolute right to erase my space the moment I walked out the door.

In the past, my stomach would have twisted into knots. I would have swallowed the humiliation, offered a small, obedient smile, and said, *It's fine, Mom. Don't worry about it.* I would have spent the night freezing in the attic just to keep the peace.

Not tonight.

I walked over to the table and picked up the cold brass key. I didn't say it was fine. I didn't smile. I just closed my fingers around the metal, turned on my heel, and headed toward the dark stairs leading to the top floor.

The attic smelled of old cedar, damp insulation, and dust that had settled over years of neglect.

A single naked lightbulb hung from the exposed rafters, illuminating a patch of dark mold creeping along the slanted ceiling. In the far corner sat the narrow twin mattress I had slept on when I was sixteen, stripped down to its faded gray ticking.

The floorboards creaked beneath my boots. As I set my duffel bag down, a soft shuffling came from the doorway behind me.

My grandmother stood leaning heavily on her carved wooden cane, clutching her knit shawl around her frail frame. She looked past me into the drafty room, her faded blue eyes widening in disbelief.

"What is this?" Grandma Evelyn demanded, her voice shaking with outrage. "Why are your bags up here?"

"Mom gave me the key," I said quietly.

"In the storage loft?" Her knuckles turned white against her cane. "With the damp and the draft? You are the eldest daughter of this house. I am going down there right now. Your father will tell Talia to move her coat racks back."

The old impulse rose in my chest. For years, my role had been keeping the peace, smoothing over every slight, and minimizing my own presence so no one else felt uncomfortable.

"Grandma, don't," I began, reaching out to gently touch her arm. "It's fine. It's only three days—"

My voice caught as my mother’s voice carried up through the uninsulated heating vent below us.

"Stop worrying about it, Talia," my mother was saying to my sister in the kitchen. "Maeve never complains. She’s always been easygoing like that. She doesn't keep score. She'll sleep anywhere and be fine in the morning."

I stood frozen in the drafty attic.

Grandma Evelyn turned her head toward the vent, her jaw tight with anger, but I gently guided her back toward the hall. "Go back to bed, Grandma. Please. You need your rest."

"Maeve, child, this isn't right," she whispered.

"I know," I said softly. "Go on to bed. I'll get some water."

Once Grandma made it safely down to her room on the second floor, I continued down the back staircase toward the kitchen.

I stopped on the lower landing as my father’s rough voice echoed from the living room.

"She should be grateful she has a roof over her head whenever she visits," my father said, the sound of his lighter snapping open. "An Omega who can't even shift? In most packs along the border, a wolf-less girl would have been cast out at eighteen. She found some rogue with a patch of dirt willing to take her in, and now she acts like we owe her a guest suite."

The words were harsh, but they weren't new. I had spent my entire adolescence carrying the weight of being the daughter who never shifted.

What drove the cold air into my lungs was the complete silence from the sofa.

Talia sat with her feet curled under her, idly scrolling through her phone while Brock rubbed her shoulders. She didn't say a word. She didn't remind our father who had spent five nights awake with cold towels when Talia caught the marsh fever at fourteen. She didn't mention who had taken the blame when Talia broke pack curfew and totaled the truck, earning the scar on my ribs so Talia wouldn't lose her standing.

Talia knew every sacrifice I had made to keep her golden. And she sat there, soaking up our father's praise, letting him tear me down to make her pedestal an inch higher.

I didn't step into the room. I turned around and walked back up the stairs.

The rain started around midnight, tapping against the warped skylight above the cot. A tiny leak in the corner dripped rhythmically into an old metal pail.

My phone screen lit up on the bedside crate.

*Incoming Secure Video Call: Kieran.*

I slid the green icon across the glass. Kieran’s face filled the screen. He was still in his command uniform, his dark collar unbuttoned, sitting at the wide slate desk in his private study back home.

He looked at me, and within two seconds, his dark eyes narrowed.

"Where are you?" Kieran's voice dropped, flat and dangerous.

The camera caught the peeling wallpaper behind my head and the rough wooden ceiling beams three feet above me.

"At my parents' house," I answered.

"Maeve," he said, leaning closer to his monitor. "You're in an attic. Why are you in an attic?"

In the past, I would have made an excuse. I would have told him the rooms were full, that it wasn't a big deal, that I didn't want him using his authority to intimidate my family. I had spent six months keeping my marriage separate from my past because I wanted to believe my parents could love me without a royal title attached to my name.

I looked at the water dripping into the bucket, then back at the man on the screen who gave me an entire wing of a mountain palace and still asked if the room was warm enough.

"Kieran," I said quietly.

"I'm listening."

"Silver Pine submits their regional hunting permits next month, right?"

Kieran paused. A cold, sharp understanding flickered in his gaze. "The winter hunting permits, the medicinal transport clearances through the northern pass, and the seasonal grain quota. All three require my direct seal."

"Don't approve them," I said.

Silence hung between us for three seconds. A slow, lethal satisfaction smoothed over his severe features.

"Consider it done," he said.

***

The next morning, the breakfast table was laid out with fresh rolls, bacon, and silver pots of coffee.

My mother bustled around the dining table, setting a heaping plate of eggs in front of Brock. "Eat up, Brock. A warrior for the Northern Command needs his strength."

"Thank you, Carol," Brock smiled, taking a forkful. "Once my official station transfer clears next week, Talia and I will be looking at apartments in the capital district."

My father beamed from the head of the table. "Our family will finally have direct ties to the High Council. We might even negotiate a lower tariff on the winter trade goods."

I sat at the far end of the table, nursing a glass of ice water. Nobody had offered me coffee, and I hadn't asked.

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing chime cut through the room.

It came from the encrypted communicator clipped to Brock’s belt—the official device issued only to Northern security personnel.

Brock grinned self-importantly. "Duty calls. Probably the logistics team confirming my security clearance."

He pulled the device from his holster, tapping the screen to unlock the official dispatch.

As he read the first few lines, the smug smile vanished from his face. The color drained from his skin, turning an ashen, sickly gray.

"What is it, son?" my father asked, leaning forward with a proud grin. "Did they assign you to the central garrison already?"

"No," Brock whispered. His hands began to shake, the metal unit trembling between his fingers. "No, this... this makes no sense."

"What does it say?" Talia demanded, leaning over his shoulder.

"Directive 409 from the Sovereign Office," Brock read, his voice cracking with sheer panic. "Effective immediately... all Silver Pine winter hunting permits are suspended. The northern medical supply corridor is closed for indefinite review. All regional trade quotas are frozen."

"What?!" My father slammed his hands onto the table, rattling the china. "Frozen? That's our entire winter reserve! Why would they freeze our permits?"

"It says 'Administrative Review by Order of the High Alpha,'" Brock stammered, looking up in sheer terror. "Dad... if the High Command cuts off our pass, this pack won't survive the winter."

The dining room descended into absolute chaos. My mother dropped a serving platter, my father began barking panicked orders to call the pack elders, and Talia gripped Brock’s arm, screaming questions.

I picked up my water glass and took a slow, calm sip.

On the table next to my plate, my personal phone buzzed with a new text message.

Kieran: *You said stop protecting them. I listened.*