Chapter Six
968 Words
The forest was quiet—too quiet, the kind of silence that presses into the skin like cold fingers.
Thalia knelt at the edge of the lake long after Alpha Darius was gone, long after the echoes of everything that happened had faded into the trees. The night around her had stilled completely, as if the world itself was holding its breath with her.
Her own breath, however, came in ragged, uneven pulls.
She stared at the water’s surface, watching her reflection ripple—distorted, tremulous, like she was looking at a stranger she didn’t recognize. Her eyes were red, swollen, and lost. Her lips trembled even though she tried to bite them still.
“Moon Goddess…” her voice cracked quietly, the words barely managing to escape her throat.
She hugged her arms to her chest as a shiver ran through her.
“Why… why does this keep happening to me?”
The question fell into the night, unanswered, swallowed by the stillness.
A breeze brushed across her wet skin, making her shudder. She sank deeper into the water, almost as if she was trying to disappear into it, trying to numb every inch of herself. The lake was cold, but not as cold as the fear sitting heavy in her ribs.
She wiped her face with shaking fingers. Her tears refused to stop, no matter how many times she tried to cover them, hide them, drown them.
“Did I do something wrong?” she whispered, voice filled with a fragile kind of helplessness.
“Am I being punished for something?”
Her words cracked at the edges, collapsing into a soft sob that she smothered with her hand.
She hated the sound of her crying.
She hated how weak she felt.
She hated that she was alone—again.
Wolfless.
Defenseless.
Easily cornered. Easily overpowered.
She clenched her jaw. Her breathing sharpened.
Her mind kept replaying moments she wanted to forget—moments that burned her insides with shame, with fear, with confusion. But every time she forced her thoughts away, they returned, louder, clearer, more suffocating.
“Why me…?” she whispered again, like a plea.
The lake’s surface rippled as if in response, but there was no answer—only the vast, indifferent sky above her, dark and empty. No blessing. No guidance. No warmth.
Slowly, painfully, she dragged herself out of the water. Her muscles ached fiercely, her legs trembling under her weight. The stones beneath her feet dug into her skin as she stepped onto the shore, but she barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere—floating somewhere between panic and emptiness.
Everything hurt.
Her body.
Her chest.
Her breath.
Her belief in herself.
She wrapped her arms tightly around her trembling body, trying to hold herself together.
The forest path that led back to the pack house felt impossibly long. Branches brushed against her arms as she walked, and every sound—every twig snapping, every gust of wind—made her flinch. The fear wouldn’t leave her. It followed her like a shadow, whispering that it wasn’t over, that she wasn’t safe, that she never would be.
Her vision blurred as she moved deeper into the forest, guided only by the faint moonlight filtering through the canopy. Her legs grew weaker, her steps heavier. She stumbled once, catching herself on a tree trunk, but the bark scraped her palm and she winced.
“Keep going,” she muttered to herself through clenched teeth.
“Just get back… before they wake up.”
Her breath turned shallow, but she forced herself forward.
The pack house lights were still off when she reached the clearing, a sign that dawn had not yet arrived. Good. No one would see her like this—shaking, exhausted, falling apart. No one would question why she had disappeared. No one would see the fear she tried so desperately to hide.
She slipped inside through a small back door used mostly by kitchen staff. Her wet hair clung to her skin; her clothes were damp and clutched to her body uncomfortably. Every step she took echoed faintly against the wooden floor, and she winced as if each sound was proof of her guilt.
Her mind replayed whispered threats, warnings, things she hoped never to hear again.
The way her fear had frozen her.
The way her voice had nearly disappeared.
Her breath hitched.
She placed a hand against the wall for balance.
Just a few more steps.
Just reach the stairs.
Just get to your room.
Just breathe.
But her body had reached its limit.
Her legs throbbed with pain, the dull ache turning into a sharp, biting sensation every time she shifted her weight. Her knees wobbled violently beneath her. She tried taking one more step—
—and her leg gave out completely.
Thalia collapsed onto the wooden floor with a soft thud.
It wasn’t loud, but it felt like the world shook around her.
She gasped, rolling slightly to her side as the pain rippled through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will her breathing to steady.
Her chest felt too tight.
Her head felt too heavy.
Her limbs felt too weak to move.
“I’m… fine,” she whispered to herself, even though no one was there to hear it.
She didn’t believe her own words.
Her heartbeat hammered in her ears as her vision darkened at the corners. She blinked hard, trying to stay awake, trying to breathe deeply, but the exhaustion pulled at her like invisible hands.
The world around her dimmed.
The hall blurred.
The ceiling faded.
Her breath slowed.
And with one last shuddering inhale, Thalia finally slipped into unconsciousness—alone, broken, and unseen as the first light of dawn crept silently into the sky.
- Writer
