Chapter Twelve
1572 Words
Duriel’s POV
"Yo, check out that new protein supplement," I said quickly to Lorenzo, my voice unnaturally loud.
Lorenzo caught on immediately. "Yeah, bro. Been hearing mad good things."
Kennisha's footsteps got closer. No wolf hearing to catch our conversation. Just normal human steps.
"Gains are important," Lorenzo said, his eyes darting between me and Kennisha's approaching figure.
I grabbed a random weight, lifting it like everything was completely normal.
"Twelve more hours," I muttered under my breath.
Kennisha was almost within earshot now.
My wolf was coming in three months. But right now? Just human hearing. Just human moves.
"The Alpha's requesting your presence," Kennisha said to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
She shrugged, playing innocent. "No clue."
Lorenzo turned to me. "Catch you later," he said quietly.
And just like that, he was gone.
Kennisha turned to me, her eyes sharp. My girlfriend. Not happy.
"So," she said. "What y'all really talking about?"
I kept lifting weights. Casual. Cool.
"Nothing," I said.
"Bet," she responded. "Spill."
"Twelve more hours," I muttered.
The gym felt like it was closing in.
"You gonna tell me what you and Lo were talking about?" Kennisha pressed.
I kept lifting weights. Steady. Controlled.
"Just gym talk," I said.
Her eyes narrowed. "About her?"
"Her name is Kionna," I said sharply. "And yeah, we were talking about her. She has a name. Use it."
My tone was defensive. Protective.
Kennisha's eyes flashed. "Defensive much?"
"Twelve more hours," I muttered.
The weight felt heavy in my hand.
Kennisha wasn't going to let this go.
"Why you so pressed about Kionna?" I challenged.
Kennisha's jaw tightened. "She doesn't belong here. She's not pack material."
"She's literally the Alpha's daughter," I shot back.
"You know what I mean," Kennisha said. "She's different. Weak."
I dropped the weight. Something in me shifted.
"Kiki's stronger than anyone here," I said. "And she's gonna have her wolf soon."
Kennisha's eyes narrowed. "You call her Kiki?"
"Twelve more hours," I muttered.
The gym felt charged. Dangerous.
"That's not your name to use," Kennisha said, her voice cold. "Only her family calls her that."
I kept my stance. Steady. Controlled.
"Her family trusts me," I said. I walked over to the punching bag. Slow. Controlled.
"Doesn't mean you get to be familiar," Kennisha pressed. "You're her guardian. Not her friend."
PUNCH. "I know my role."
PUNCH. "Exactly."
PUNCH. "Protection."
The bag swung. Chains rattling.
"Twelve more hours," I growled.
My knuckles were white. My breathing heavy.
"She doesn't deserve to be here," Kennisha pressed. "Everyone knows she's the best fighter," Kennisha said, her voice dripping with venom. "But being a strong fighter doesn't make her pack material. Her eyes are white," Kennisha sneered.
"No," I corrected immediately. "Ice blue. Crystal blue."
PUNCH. "Her eyes are ice blue."
PUNCH. "Not white."
PUNCH. "Crystal blue."
Each hit punctuated my words. Harder. Faster.
"You think I don't know how different she looks?" Kennisha pressed. "Little Miss Perfect with her ghost-white skin?"
PUNCH. "She's beautiful."
PUNCH. "She's powerful."
PUNCH. "And she's gonna be an incredible wolf."
The bag swung. Chains rattling.
"Everybody acts like she's so special," Kennisha spat. "Like being albino makes her some kind of exotic princess."
PUNCH. "She's more than that."
PUNCH. "She's stronger than you know."
PUNCH. "The prophecy isn't just talk."
"Twelve more hours," I growled.
"The Council's hunting all eighteen-year-old she-wolves," Kennisha said. "Not just her."
PUNCH. "She's still different."
PUNCH. "Her bloodline matters."
PUNCH. "The prophecy is important."
The bag swung violently. Chains creaking under the force.
"You call her Kiki," Kennisha said suddenly. Not a question. A statement.
I stopped punching.
"That's what her family calls her," I said carefully.
"Not you," Kennisha pressed.
"Twelve more hours," I muttered.
The gym felt suddenly silent.
"You think calling her Kiki means something?" Kennisha challenged.
I didn't respond. Just kept punching.
PUNCH. "She needs protection."
PUNCH. "That's all."
PUNCH. "Nothing more."
The bag swung violently. Chains creaking under the force.
"You're lying," Kennisha said. "To me. To yourself."
I stopped punching. Turned slowly.
"Twelve more hours," I said quietly.
Kennisha's eyes were calculating. Watching. Waiting.
The gym felt like a pressure cooker. One wrong word. One wrong move.
And everything could explode.
Kionna's POV:
The afternoon sunlight slanted across my bedroom, casting long shadows over the carefully packed bags. Piper's words about Duriel still echoed in my mind.
"Someone you know. Someone close."
Brandon and I weren't just an arranged marriage anymore. We'd fallen in love. Built something intentional.
But a true mate bond? That was different. Supernatural. Deeper than any human connection.
Duriel knew me better than anyone. Watched over me since we were kids. Always there. Always protecting.
If Duriel was my true mate... could I really reject him? The spiritual connection would be devastating. My wolf would recognize him before my human mind could process anything.
If he was my true mate, I couldn't break him. Couldn't cause that spiritual fracture Piper warned about. Rejecting a true mate wasn't just breaking a bond - it was destroying a soul.
"Afternoon, Sunshine," Mom said, entering the room. Her pregnant belly was prominent, interrupting my thoughts.
She handed me a box.
"Hey, Mommy," I returned the smile, hugging her neck.
"What's in there?" I pointed to the parcel.
"Well, you won't know until you open it," she grinned.
I tore into the present, my mouth flying open at the contents. My mother's first Gold N Hot Marcel stove set. Cutting shears. Hair clippers. A purple smock.
Tears flowed down my cheeks.
"Oh Mommy, thank you!" I bounced on the bed.
She giggled. "You think I'm gonna send you out there with materials that'll break after one use? No, my sunshine is gonna have the best."
The iron crimper gleamed. Pure enameled cast iron. Strongest titanium.
"Twelve more hours," I whispered.
My mother rubbed her protruding belly and smiled. "Your grandmother passed this iron set to me when I graduated cosmetology school," she smiled. "It was given to her by her instructor. Your great-grandmother didn't support her idea of becoming a hairdresser. She believed omegas only had one purpose and that was to serve the apha."
Mom settled onto the bed, her hand resting on her pregnant belly.
"In those days, omegas were viewed as mere housekeepers. Some were even treated as bed warmers. It was very rare to come across an alpha who didn't agree with such barbarism. Most Alphas continued to abuse and torture their omegas, sometimes even resulting in killing them."
I listened, horrified. "Oh no, that's awful."
A single tear escaped her eye. "Fortunately, your great-grandmother didn't have a cruel alpha. But omegas weren't allowed to do anything except house and yard work. Your great-grandmother believed no one would take your grandmother seriously in pursuing her career."
"So Grandma Melanie went rogue?" I asked.
Mom nodded. "It wasn't easy. At night she worked as a stripper just to take care of herself while going to cosmetology school. She caught the attention of an instructor from a neighboring pack who took her in and asked her alpha about letting her work in the salon."
"Wow," I breathed.
"The instructor welcomed her, made her an apprentice. Eventually, she became the salon manager and the instructor even sold the shop to her. When I completed my apprenticeship, she passed this set to me. And now, I'm passing it to you."
I ran my fingers over the titanium shears, the enameled cast iron of the Marcel stove.
"I'll treasure this with my life," I promised.
"I'm proud of you, my golden angel," Mom said, her hand resting on her pregnant belly.
Tears flowed violently down my cheeks. "Mommy."
The Marcel set sat between us - more than just hairdressing tools. A legacy of women who refused to be confined. Who chose their own paths.
My mind drifted momentarily to Piper's words about Duriel. About true mates. About choices.
"Your grandmother didn't just leave her pack," Mom continued. "She chose herself. Her dreams. Her future."
The afternoon light caught the iron crimper, making it shine like a weapon of possibility.
"Sometimes," she said softly, "choosing yourself means making hard decisions. Decisions others might not understand."
Her eyes held a knowing look. As if she could see the thoughts spinning in my mind about Brandon. About potential true mates. About New Orleans.
"Twelve more hours," I whispered.
The set gleamed. A symbol of survival. Of defiance.
Mom's hand covered mine, warm and steady. "These tools aren't just about hairdressing. They're about survival. About making your own path."
I picked up the purple smock, running my fingers over the fabric. "I never knew Grandma's story was so complicated."
"Most powerful stories are," she said. "Especially for wolf women. We're always balancing between tradition and our own desires."
Her words hung in the air. Loaded with meaning.
The Marcel set gleamed between us. A silent witness to generations of women who refused to be defined by anyone else's expectations.
My mind drifted again to Duriel. To Brandon. To the agreement, we'd made about true mates.
"Sometimes," Mom said quietly, "the path we plan isn't the path we end up walking."
"Twelve more hours," I whispered.
The afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across my packed bags. The Marcel set gleamed, a testament to generations of women who chose their own destiny.
Choices. Survival. Legacy.
"I love you, Mommy," I said.
Her smile was everything I’d miss.
- Writer
