Seven Years Later
1140 Words
How long can someone carry a secret before it begins to carry them?
Some truths press against the walls of your chest, whispering at night when you're alone. Secrets, when left unspoken, tangle themselves into your breath—like a quiet weight that never quite lifts. Everyone has them. Some are shared. Some aren’t. But how do you know which ones deserve light?
Montserrat stepped into her room, her shoes kicked aside like she wanted to shed the entire day along with them. She exhaled, not quite a sigh—more like a quiet surrender. Tomorrow, she thought again. Tomorrow I’ll talk to him.
She moved through her room like it was muscle memory—closet, clothes, bathroom. The soft hum of running water filled the space, and as steam crept across the mirror, Montserrat leaned her forehead against the tile, letting the warmth pull her thoughts loose.
Bryson Tiller’s “Exchange” came on the speaker, a familiar ache threading through the melody. She sang along, not because she felt like it—more because it was the only way her voice remembered how to feel.
Twenty minutes passed like seconds.
Wrapped in a towel, her damp hair twisted into a messy bun, Montserrat moved slowly. Purposefully. Like maybe if she took her time, the fear would fall away with each drop of water. She slipped on black tights and a plain T-shirt, her favorite slippers, and stepped out into the hall. Her feet carried her down the stairs before her mind caught up.
She stopped in front of the door that had haunted her steps for seven years.
Alpha Benitez. The gold lettering on the wood looked unchanged. But the man behind it—was he?
Why am I afraid? she thought, staring at the door. He’s my father. He wouldn’t hurt me… right?
Upstairs, Laura appeared with a laundry basket in her arms. She paused on the staircase, catching sight of Montserrat rooted in place. Without a word, she set the basket down and walked toward her daughter.
No scolding. No pushing. Just quiet presence.
Laura stood beside Montserrat, her eyes soft with something that looked a lot like knowing. When Montserrat turned, Laura gave a small nod—wordless permission. Or maybe encouragement.
And so, with trembling fingers and a thundering heart, Montserrat knocked.
A beat.
“It’s open,” came Jairo’s voice.
She opened the door slowly. Her pulse was so loud it echoed through the room before her footsteps did.
Jairo stood by the window, watching the sky give itself over to dusk. Stars began to stretch into view, like old truths finally surfacing. He turned around at the sound, surprised but not unkind.
Laura followed Montserrat inside. Jairo offered a slight smile before retreating behind his desk, where he always seemed most comfortable—like paper and plans made more sense than people.
Montserrat took one deep breath. Then another.
Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.
“I…”
Her lips trembled. She closed her eyes.
“I shifted when I was eight,” she said at last.
Jairo’s brows lifted in disbelief.
“It’s called a forced shift,” she continued. “When something traumatic happens, and you shift before your body is ready. I was playing in the forest with Mario. A rogue came out of nowhere. He pushed me out of the way… and the rogue—” her voice cracked, “—killed him.”
She paused, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I didn’t think. I just… shifted. And I killed the rogue.”
Jairo blinked slowly, struggling to wrap his mind around the words. His gaze flicked to Laura.
“You knew?” he asked, his voice sharp.
Laura didn’t flinch. “Of course I did, Benitez. I’m her mother.”
“And how—how did you shift back?” he asked, trying to steady his voice.
Montserrat sat down, suddenly tired.
“There was a rogue and his kids,” she said quietly, eyes on her hands. “They helped me. Taught me. I learned from them… for a while.”
Jairo leaned back in his chair, absorbing it all. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought I’d be trouble. Maybe I thought you wouldn’t understand. Or… maybe I just didn’t know how.”
There it was—that aching silence. The one where love tries to speak but guilt beats it to the punch.
“I haven’t shifted since,” Montserrat added. “And… I’ve never heard my wolf.”
Jairo’s face softened. “I’ve never heard of anything like this. But we’ll figure it out, together.”
He reached across the desk and took her hand. It was warm. Steady. A lifeline.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asked again, but there was no accusation in his voice now—just hurt.
“I didn’t want to add more weight to your shoulders,” she admitted. “It made sense… in my head.”
“How thoughtful,” he muttered, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. Montserrat chuckled.
“I think I’m going to bed,” she whispered, already standing.
Jairo nodded. As she left, he turned to Laura.
“I didn’t mean to come at you like that,” he said, rubbing his temples. “It just—hurts. I don’t know her, Laura. Not really. And that… that kills me.”
Laura reached for his hand. “She’s always tried to do right by everyone else. She thought staying silent would protect us.”
“But at what cost?” he whispered.
“There’s more,” Laura said softly. “She’s twenty-six. No mate. Not even interested in finding one. Even Paloma’s tried. But Montserrat…”
Jairo frowned. That quiet disinterest—it wasn’t just rebellion. It was something else. Something unspoken.
Montserrat flopped onto her bed, her purple sheets cool against her skin. She stared at the ceiling, her heart still racing but lighter now.
That wasn’t so bad, she thought, giggling softly.
The room grew darker, shadows stretching long across the walls. Her eyes closed slowly, and before long, she was asleep—peaceful in a way she hadn’t been in years.
Jairo passed her door on his way to bed. He paused, knocking gently. No answer.
He opened the door just enough to see her curled beneath her blanket, breathing evenly. A quiet smile played on his lips.
He blew a kiss toward the girl he was still learning to know.
And closed the door behind him.
Back in his room, Claudia waited
Not the mate fate had chosen—but the one he'd chosen himself.
And somewhere out there, the stars blinked down, holding secrets of their own.
- Writer
