Chapter 149

Abigail

Mom still hadn’t let me go. Her arms stayed wrapped tightly around me as if letting go might make everything we’d just survived come undone again. Around us, the pack was slowly beginning to stir—wounded, dazed, recovering from the nightmare that had shattered the sacred grounds just moments ago.

I shifted, ready to rise, to help the others—some still trembling, others barely conscious. The poison had nearly severed the bond that tethered us to our wolves. For a terrifying moment, it had felt like we’d lost it completely.

And then I heard the sound of something heavy crashing through the trees.

A branch snapped. A startled curse rang out.

I lifted my head just in time to see Dad emerge from the forest’s edge, dragging someone behind him.

Gingi.

Her coat was torn, her face scratched and bleeding. Her hair was matted with dirt, eyes wide and wild like a cornered animal.

Dad had her by the arms, her wrists already bound in reinforced cuffs. She hissed and tried to twist out of his grip, but he shoved her forward with effortless strength.

She stumbled, almost fell, but caught herself.

When she looked up and saw me, something flickered in her expression—recognition, and something deeper. Something worse.

But before I could understand it, I heard a low sigh.

Theo stood several feet away. His shirt was burned at the edges, his face bruised, and his hands were still trembling—but he was upright. Staring.

At her.

“So...Mom?”

The word shattered the air.

I blinked.

My mom went still behind me.

Gingi didn’t deny it. She didn’t say a word.

Theo took a single step forward. “You... it was you?” His voice cracked, young and raw. “All this time? The experiments. The labs. You knew what I went through, yet never told me.”

His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, as if he couldn’t get enough air.

“I didn’t—” Gingi started, voice brittle. “I never wanted a son—”

“No,” he said, louder now. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to excuse it with that voice like it still means something. You almost killed everyone.”

He looked like he might crumble.

But then he turned toward me. And it was like something inside him snapped.

He ran.

I barely had time to react before he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.

“I thought you were gone,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I thought—when you screamed—I thought—”

“I’m here,” I said softly, hugging him back as tightly as I could manage. “I’m here, relax dumb dumb.”

I didn’t know how long we stayed like that as my Mom watched in shock. It could’ve been seconds. Could’ve been an hour. The world was tilted, broken, reborn. There was no time anymore, not in the way we’d known it before tonight.

Theo pulled back just far enough to look at me, his hands still cupping my face. “You gave it up,” he whispered. “Didn’t you?”

I nodded. “I had to.”

His eyes filled. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded too. “I don’t care. I don’t care if you never shift. You’re still you. You’re everything.”

Behind us, Gingi let out a low, sharp breath, like the sight of us hurt her in a way she hadn’t expected. “I never… I…”

Dad shoved her to the ground at the edge of the clearing. “She’ll be taken to the prison,” he said to the guards. His voice was hard, but behind it, I could hear it—the quiet pain, he was tired. “She’ll answer for every death. Every life she tried to destroy.”

Theo turned toward her, his hand still gripping mine. His eyes were full of something new now—not just sorrow, not just rage.

Pity.

“You were supposed to protect people,” he said. “You were supposed to protect me.”

Gingi didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg.

She just stared at the moonlit dirt, silent.

Dad turned to me, crouched at my side. “How do you feel?”

I had to think about it. The answer wasn’t simple.

“I feel like I’m in someone else’s skin,” I said finally. “Like I remember being more.”

He nodded slowly, brushing the hair from my face. “You are more. You just haven’t figured out what kind yet.”

I leaned into him, refusing to let go of Theo’s hand.

Three of us—tied together in grief and choice and the remains of something sacred.

The rest of the pack was still scattered through the grounds, healing, recovering, crying, reuniting. We almost lost what had made us wolves tonight.

I would remember the price.

I would remember that power didn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispered. Sometimes it let go.

And sometimes it stayed behind, in the silence after the light.

Lauren

The scent of tulips hit me first.

I was barefoot, standing at the edge of the old cabin porch. The light was soft here—filtered through pines and heavy with morning gold. Birds sang like they had no idea the world had almost ended last night.

Mark was inside.

I could see him through the open window, crouched beside the little pot of tulips he and Sophia had planted together seasons ago. The petals looked fuller now—like they remembered her touch. He brushed his fingers along them gently, reverent, like the flowers were made of glass. His mug of tea sat beside him, still steaming.

He didn’t see me. Or maybe he did and just didn’t turn around. Either way, I didn’t move.

Something about watching him like this—quiet, alone, still loving someone who wasn’t coming back—made something in my chest ache. He didn’t look angry anymore. Like the pain had settled into his bones and made a home there.

A breeze moved through the trees, stirring my hair.

“You always look so serious in your dreams.”

I startled and turned.

She stood beside me—white furred, silver-eyed, wrapped in a gown of starlight and moon-thread. The Moon Goddess, or some part of her that knew how to wear a body for my sake. Her expression was amused. Almost smug.

“Would it kill you to knock?” I muttered, crossing my arms. “I’m still pissed at you.”

She tilted her head, grin widening. “Would it kill you to say thank you?”

“For what?” I asked. “For almost taking my daughter?”

She nearly purred. “For giving her the choice. And for letting her walk away. I could have. But I didn’t. You’re welcome.”

I wanted to argue. To yell. But I didn’t. Because she wasn’t wrong. And because even now, even here, my chest still ached from the fear of what I’d almost lost.

“She’ll never shift,” I said, quietly.

“No,” the Goddess replied. “She won’t. And yet she will be more.”

“More than what?”

“More than she was. Than she expected. Than even you imagined she could be.”

I turned away, looking out over the field where Mark sat, sipping his tea again, as if all this divine conversation weren’t unfolding right above his head.

“She’ll still hurt,” I whispered. “It’s all she’s ever wanted.”

“She’ll heal,” the Goddess said. “So will you. So will he.”

I glanced sideways at her. “You always this cryptic, or just when you’re guilty?”

She snorted. “You’d be surprised how many mortals ask for clarity, then run screaming when they hear it. You. I’m talking about you.”

“I’m not most mortals.”

“That’s why I like you,” she said with a smirk. “You hate me, but you still listen.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“No,” she agreed. “You don’t.”

She stepped closer, leaned in like she was sharing a secret. “There’s more coming, you know.”

I stiffened. “More what? Please, girl, I’m so done—”

“Change.” Her eyes glittered with something ancient and sharp. “More truth. More legacy. The curse you severed wasn’t the last thread. Just the first.”

Before I could ask more, before I could demand answers or make her promise never to take another piece of my family, the dream shifted.