His mate and his ruin

CHAPTER FOUR

The scream tore out of me before I even opened my eyes.

I bolted upright, gasping for air. My skin was clammy, my heart drumming so hard it hurt. For a second, the world was still spinning flashes of trees, snarls, claws scraping dirt all burned into my mind like a fever dream.

I could still feel them chasing me.

The heavy thud of paws, the raw panic choking my throat, the sound of my own heartbeat drowning everything else.

Then the moment I fell that cold, paralyzing fear and just before the bite came, I woke up.

I pressed a hand against my chest, trying to steady the rhythm. “It was just a dream,” I whispered to myself, my voice barely there. “Just a stupid dream.”

The morning light pushed through the curtains, soft and honey-colored. It fell over the photographs on my wall, me and my parents at the lake last summer, Mom pretending not to cry at my middle school graduation, Dad grinning like a proud fool. My pulse finally began to slow.

The nightmare melted away the moment I spotted the small suitcase by the door. The one I’d packed last night. That single sight pulled me back to reality.

Today wasn’t just any day.

Today was concert day.

The thought alone made me sit up straighter. I reached for my phone 7:43 a.m. Not bad. I could already hear faint sounds downstairs: clinking plates, the faint hum of music.

I pulled on my pink colored crop top, soft denim jeans, and slipped into my white sneakers. My hair was a little wild, but I tied it back quickly, humming under my breath.

The same song that had been stuck in my head since last night Lunasons’ “Blame the Moon.”

When I came downstairs, the house was alive with movement. Dad was already by the car, arranging bags with his usual precision, while Mom flitted about the kitchen, multitasking like she was running a small nation.

“Morning, sunshine,” Mom said without looking up, stirring something on the stove.

“Morning,” I said with a grin. “Smells amazing.”

Dad appeared behind her with a mug in hand.

“You ready for the road, birthday girl?”

“It’s the day after my birthday, Dad,” I teased, reaching for a piece of bacon from the plate.

“Birthdays last at least a week in this family,” he said with a grin.

Mom laughed softly. “And you know your dad,he’ll find an excuse to celebrate you.”

“I’ll allow it,” I said, smiling into my coffee.

After breakfast, the house buzzed with energy. Suitcases zipped, drawers opened and closed, laughter drifted down the hall. I helped Mom pack the snacks and bottled water, double-checking everything twice just to feel useful.

By the time we stepped outside, the sunlight was bright and soft at once, the air humming with warmth. Dad’s black Tesla Model 3 gleamed in the driveway, freshly washed, sleek as ever.

Mom tossed her bag into the trunk and adjusted her sunglasses. “All set?”

“All set,” Dad said. “Octavia, you get the aux. No complaints about my driving.”

“That’s already a complaint,” I said, hopping into the passenger seat.

Mom rolled her eyes, climbing in behind me. “We haven’t even started and you two are already bickering.”

Dad grinned. “Tradition.”

The drive started smoothly.

The city faded behind us in a blur of buildings and traffic lights, replaced by open highways framed with endless trees.

The car filled with music Lunasons, obviously and Dad drummed along the steering wheel with a little too much enthusiasm.

Mom laughed. “You two are going to wear that album out before we even get there.”

“Not possible,” I said, singing along.

The wind slipped through the half-open window, warm against my face. I leaned my head back, smiling. It felt like freedom the kind that stretches wide and golden and makes your chest ache in the best way.

Somewhere between songs, Mom reached forward with Tupperware. “Snack break?”

I took a chip. “You’re the real MVP.”

“Correction,” Dad said, turning into a rest stop. “I packed half of those snacks.”

Mom gave him a look over her sunglasses. “You mean the ones I bought, washed, and portioned?”

I giggled. “Team effort?”

He huffed, pretending to sulk. “Unbelievable. No respect for fathers anymore.”

Mom and I exchanged amused glances, and laughter filled the car again full, bright, unguarded.

We stopped at a diner around noon the kind with red booths and a jukebox that probably hadn’t worked since the ‘80s.

The waitress insisted on taking a Polaroid for us, and I kept the photo tucked in my hoodie pocket.

Back in the car, the mood was lighter than ever. I reclined the seat slightly, watching the trees blur past. Dad’s playlist shifted to old classics; Mom hummed along softly. Every so often, Dad reached for her hand on the console, and she’d smile that quiet, secret smile she always saved for him.

My heart ached in the best way.

I took a few photos on my phone my parents holding hands, the road stretching endlessly ahead, the sky painted in blue and gold. This was the kind of day you wanted to trap in a jar and never let fade.

A few hours later, we were halfway there. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting honeyed streaks across the windshield. The air smelled faintly of salt a promise of the ocean somewhere ahead.

“So, Miss Photographer,” Dad said, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “You’ve taken at least fifty pictures. Planning to sell them to National Geographic?”

I grinned. “Maybe. I’ll title it Surviving My Parents: A Road Trip Memoir.”

Mom laughed so hard she snorted. “That’s actually good.”

Dad groaned. “Remind me to trademark that before you go viral.”

I laughed with them, the sound bubbling out effortlessly. For a while, it felt like the world existed only in that car three voices tangled in music and sunlight.

Then

The laughter faltered.

Something a flicker of movement caught my eye. A deer darted across the road.

Dad’s reflexes kicked in instantly, but the tires screeched as he swerved. The car jolted hard. Mom’s gasp cut through the music. My seatbelt bit into my shoulder.

“Dad!”

“I’ve got it—”

But the tires lost grip.

The world tilted.

A sound metal twisting, glass shattering, a scream I couldn’t tell was mine filled my head.

The last thing I saw was my mother’s hand reaching for me and the flash of sunlight on the hood

before everything went black.