Expectations Burn Hotter in Texas
Lina POV
“You’ll fly tonight.”
His voice snapped through the quiet like a whip.
I startled, the book slipping from my hands and falling spine-first onto the rug. I blinked, pulled out of a world of mist and magic, swords and loyalty—everything my real life seemed to lack these days.
I’d lost track of time again.
The old study still smelled faintly of leather and cedar, the sun spilling through the window in long golden bands across the dark wood floors. I’d curled up in the reading chair hours ago with a novel I’d read a dozen times—an escape, a comfort. Something I could rely on.
Dylan’s boots hit the floor like accusations as he stepped closer.
He looked down at the book like it offended him. “Still hiding in fantasy, Lina?”
I reached for it automatically, sliding it to my lap, but the sting had already landed.
“It’s just a story,” I murmured.
He scoffed. “Right. And you’d rather live in stories than face your real life. Maybe that’s why you still haven’t shifted.”
I flinched.
“I told you,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “I’ve been trying.”
Dylan crossed his arms. “You keep saying that.”
My jaw clenched. “Because it’s true.”
“Is it? Because from where I stand, you’ve spent the whole afternoon pretending to be someone else in some made-up kingdom instead of preparing for the clan dinner or facing the fact that everyone’s expecting you to shift tonight.”
I stood slowly, setting the book on the arm of the chair. “I have prepared. The table’s set. The house is clean. I have planned and coordinated dinner with the Sigmas in the kitchen - we should absolutely have enough to host the whole clan and the elders.”
He just stared.
I hated that stare. That hollow, disappointed stare.
“You’ll be at the dinner,” he said finally, voice cold. “And you’ll shift afterward. No excuses this time.”
“I’ve done the rituals. The prayers. The breathwork. I’ve seen the shamans, Dylan. I’ve done everything.”
“And none of it matters if you’re not what they think you are.”
I froze. What you think I’m not, I corrected silently.
His lip curled slightly. “You’re supposed to be my Luna. Mate to the Alpha of the Blackridge Clan. But what we have—if it even is a bond—it’s…weak. You haven’t taken the skies. You haven’t proven yourself. And everyone knows it.”
The ache hit low and deep. Not a new wound—just another bruise on top of a thousand others.
He turned and walked out, the screen door slamming shut moments later in the hallway beyond. I stood there in the stillness, the quiet rushing in around me like a wave.
My hand drifted to the mark on my shoulder. My mate mark. The mark tying me to Dylan, meant to express our undying love and devotion for each other.
It had never burned the way it should have. Never pulsed or flared like the elders said it would.
It barely shimmered now—just a dull silver ring, like ash pretending to be fire.
I closed my eyes, willing something—anything—to happen. To feel heat. To feel change.
But there was nothing.
Just the hum of the old air conditioning unit kicking on, and the soft rustle of the pages on my open book.
