Mother's Journal
918 Words
(Winter’s POV)
The pain woke her.
No warning. No buildup. No time to prepare for it.
It struck deep and immediate, ripping through her chest with a precision that made her breath catch before she was even fully conscious. Winter’s eyes snapped open, her body already reacting, muscles tightening as the sensation burned through her.
For a fraction of a second, instinct told her to endure it.
Winter moved without even thinking about it. Her hand reached immediately for the small vial resting on the table beside her bed, fingers closing around it with practiced certainty. The physician had not hesitated when she’d given it to her.
If it returns, take this.
Winter didn’t question it now. She swallowed the sedative dry, forcing it down even as another wave hit—sharper, deeper, gone just as quickly as it came. But it had been enough. Enough to confirm. She exhaled slowly, her body already beginning to settle as the effects of the sedative took hold, dulling the edges of everything—thought, sensation, awareness.
The pain didn’t linger. But the aftermath always did.
Frost stirred, restless, uneasy beneath her skin.
I do not like this.
“Neither do I,” Winter murmured, her voice quieter now, already softening as the sedative pulled at her.
It dulls everything.
“I know.”
Her limbs felt heavier now, the tension bleeding out of them whether she allowed it or not. Her control remained—but it was distant, wrapped in something slower, softer.
Unwelcome.
But useful.
Winter closed her eyes again, her breathing evening out as she settled back into the bed.
“This will stop it,” she said, more to herself than to Frost.
For now. Frost whined again, unsettled but yielding.
Winter didn’t argue.
She didn’t resist.
Sleep came quickly this time. When she woke again, the world was quiet. Not the heavy silence of night—but the softer stillness of early morning, where the pack had not yet fully stirred. Light filtered faintly through the window, pale and cool against the walls.
Winter opened her eyes slowly, her body already recalibrating.
No pain.
No lingering effect.
Only clarity.
She pushed herself upright, her movements returning to their usual precision as she reached for the clock. Just before seven. Early enough.
Good. The sedative had done its job.
Frost stirred again, clearer now, though not entirely settled.
It felt wrong.
“It was necessary.”
It weakened us.
Winter rose from the bed, her gaze steady. “It gave us control.”
Frost went quiet, not in agreement—but in acknowledgment. Winter moved across the room, already shifting her focus forward. The night had confirmed what she needed to know. Now—she acted.
She crossed to the far side of the room, kneeling before a low chest set carefully against the wall. It was older than everything else she owned, the wood worn smooth with time, edges softened but intact. Winter opened it without hesitation. Inside, everything remained exactly as she had left it.
Ordered.
Preserved.
Untouched.
Her parents’ belongings.
Winter’s hands moved with care now—not hesitation, but precision. She shifted past a few items she didn’t need until her fingers closed around something familiar.
The journal.
Her mother’s.
She lifted it carefully, the weight of it settling into her hands as she stood. The leather cover was worn but intact, marked by years of use rather than neglect. Winter moved back toward the window, opening it to where the light could reach the pages as she flipped it open. The writing inside was steady. Like everything her mother had been.
Winter’s gaze moved over the lines, not searching aimlessly—but with purpose. She had read parts of this before. Not all. Not deeply. Not until now. Her mother had written of her time within the Royal Guard. Of the structure. The discipline. The expectations placed upon those who served closest to the throne.
Of the King.
Of the Queen.
Winter’s expression didn’t change as she read, but her focus sharpened slightly as something caught her attention.
A name.
Not unfamiliar.
Not entirely.
But placed here—it meant something different.
Her eyes slowed over the line, reading it again to be certain.
The King’s son.
Zulan.
Winter stilled.
The name settled into place, connecting itself to something far more recent, far more immediate.
Alpha Zulan.
Bloodstone.
The meeting Dion had gone to. The place he currently was. Her grip on the journal tightened—just slightly. Coincidence was possible. Names were not always unique.
But—Frost stirred, sharper now. You feel it.
“Yes.” This time, there was no hesitation in her answer.
Winter’s gaze lifted from the page, her mind already moving ahead, aligning pieces that had not seemed connected before. The King had kept his family hidden. No one had known where they were. Who they were. Only that they existed. And now—an Alpha.
Strong enough to command a neighboring pack.
Unquestioned.
Unchallenged.
And bearing that name.
Zulan...
Winter closed the journal slowly, her expression unchanged—but her thoughts anything but.
“If he is the King’s son…” she said quietly.
Frost’s presence sharpened immediately.
Then he is not just an Alpha.
“No.”
Winter turned toward the door, the journal still in her hand.
“He’s something far more valuable than that.”
And if Dion was with him—then Winter suddenly had far more than betrayal to consider.
- Writer
