Chapter 13: Nox's POV
1127 Words
What does a dead wolf look like?
Scattered hair, eye bags, three migraines in two minutes, a half buttoned shirt and a little drunk.
Yes, a dead wolf looks like me.
Not that I was ever much alive to begin with lately. Everything feels muffled—like the world is underwater and I forgot how to swim.
I haven’t slept in… who even knows. Time’s been a blur. Days and nights bleed into each other, and I’m pretty sure my body's running on pure spite. And caffeine. And alcohol. And guilt.
My mother assured me that it would be easy since I never gave Tamsin a mark. Oh, she spoke tales of how easy it would be to forget especially since I was in love with Zara to begin with.
Let me tell you something? No love compares to that of a fated mate. I heard those words a thousand times and now I understand.
I’m just sitting there, in my study that smells like ash and old leather, staring at nothing like a total i***t.
My hands are clenched tight around the arms of the chair. I don’t even realize I’m digging my nails in until there’s this metallic tang in the air—ah, blood. Just in time.
Cyan growls in my head, pacing, restless like he’s about to rip the walls apart.
"A bitter soul makes a bitter wolf," he sings sarcastically. "How does it feel, huh? Your bed being warmed by your mother's pet? You can't even go to your room. Why? Because it's not Tamsin waiting on you."
Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy.
Tamsin’s name echoes in my head more times than I want to admit. The bond—whatever was left of it—is shredded and frayed, but it still burns.
Like ghost pain. And yeah, I saw her today.
She was laughing. With Lior.
Lior.
Of all people.
They've been hanging around in quiet places too. Like his room? At night?
Oh, they were just sorting files. Yes, two adults stay up late in a closed room to sort files.
This time however, they were standing by the garden, her head tilted back, that laugh like a windchime I’ll never stop hearing.
It should’ve been me beside her. And I just stood there like some haunted freak behind the window curtain, watching like a creep while Cyan lost his damn mind.
"Go to her," he snarled.
But I didn’t move. Because what would I even say? "Sorry for gutting your heart? Wanna hang out?"
Yeah. No.
So instead, I keep dying in slow motion in my study. Alone. Again. Until there’s a knock at the door—two soft taps that sound like they were meant to lull a beast back into sleep.
I beg for it to be anyone but Zara. Heck, be the devil, but Zara shouldn't walk in that door, or I swear to God...
"Come in," I rasp, voice like sandpaper.
My mom glides in like she owns the room. She probably does, to be honest. She’s wearing this long midnight blue robe thing that shimmers when she moves.
Her silver hair’s braided back perfectly, like every strand signed a contract to behave. And she smells like wildflowers… and ice...if ice had a smell.
“Still up,” she says like it’s a fact, not a question.
She sets down a tray with two mugs of tea. Steam curls up like smoke signals from another life. “You’re burning yourself out again. No rest, no direction. That girl still has you by the throat.”
I don’t answer right away. Just glare into the fire that isn’t even there. "Her name’s Tamsin."
She lifts a brow. “Names don’t matter when they’ve already been forgotten.”
Ever the cold woman, I see.
I flinch, and she sees it. But instead of backing off, she just starts pouring the tea like we’re having a normal mother-son catch-up.
"I spoke with Zara," she says casually. "She’s been patient. Loyal."
“I didn’t ask her to be.”
“No. But I did.”
I glance up, finally meeting her eyes. Her smile’s soft, but not the nice kind.
It’s the kind that sneaks up behind you with a knife in its hand and kisses your cheek before it plunges the blade.
“You need a Luna who will carry your burdens. Not break you. Some women… some wolves… they’re made for love. Others,” she raises the mug to my lips, “are made for war.”
I take the tea without thinking. It’s sweet at first. Then bitter. Always bitter. I don’t ask what’s in it. I never do. It’s better that way.
Cyan stirs, uneasy. His voice is quieter now. "She wants something. She always does."
My mother settles into the space beside me like she belongs there more than I do.
Like she’s the real Alpha and I’m just some placeholder.
"Tamsin was… a beautiful tragedy," she murmurs, brushing imaginary lint from my sleeve. “But you’re Alpha, Nox. Not a boy chasing fairy tales. That’s over now."
I should argue. Should throw the tea across the room and yell that I’m not some pawn she can move around. But I’m tired. So damn tired. So I say nothing.
She leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead like I’m six years old and not the leader of this whole damn pack.
"Be the wolf I raised," she whispers. "Start thinking of producing an heir. Time flies before you know it."
And then she leaves.
But just before the door shuts, I see Zara standing at the staircase. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp enough to slit throats.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink.
But she does nod.
At my mom.
She most probably complained about my recent behaviour to her. That's why she came here to lecture me.
As if it were that easy.
Something cold unfurls in my gut. A flicker of doubt. Cyan lets out a low growl that fades before it really starts.
"She’s waiting for orders," he mutters.
But I brush it off.
Because if I let myself go there, if I let myself think too hard about the way my mother controls the room, the pack, me… I’ll spiral.
And I’ve already got too many damn threads coming undone. Too much unraveling.
Later, I sit in the same chair, staring at the untouched second cup of tea she left behind.
The fire’s still dead. The study’s cold. And the ache in my chest hasn’t gone anywhere.
Somewhere across the packhouse, Tamsin’s probably asleep. Or laughing. Or dreaming about a future that doesn’t have me in it.
I removed myself from her future anyway. Why does that matter?
- Writer
