ELENA
Drake and Rosa’s laughter bounces off the stone walls, hitting my ears squarely. Drake’s bass—as he laughs a bit, and then Rosa’s ridiculous high-pitched laughter. The symphony seeps into my bones, burning the marrow. As I take a step closer, I wonder if I can truly do this.
How will I face him now? For them to be laughing so openly, so comfortably, unbothered by the fact that people may hear them, he must have placed her in my position already. I mean, what is left anyway? She is already the administrator of the pack—he doesn’t even need a fancy wedding. He can do something quick, something private.
I breathe. I can’t let them see that they are hurting me, that the health of their laughter is a knife lodging in a sore spot that has refused to heal. I press my hand to the door, li
