The Edge of Things
999 Words
Chapter Four:
Dillion’s POV
The week before Lori came home was quiet.
Not peaceful—just quiet. Like the hush before a storm or the stillness right before the Alpha's howl. And in my father’s house, silence was never a blessing.
He summoned me back to the pack with a two-sentence letter and a driver at my school’s gates.
The council has questions.
You’re needed at home.
No “please.” No “I miss you.” Not even a “how are you.”
So, I came.
Out of obligation. Out of curiosity. Maybe out of a flicker of stupid, aching hope that he’d changed.
He hadn’t.
I stood in the grand foyer of the Everhart estate, bag still in my hand, as the silence of the house crawled over my skin.
No sign of Lori. No warm, perfectly fake smile. Just… silence.
And my stepmother, lounging on the velvet settee with a glass of lemon water and a tight-lipped expression like she’d been sucking on regret all morning.
“Where’s Lori?” I asked, unsure why I even cared.
She looked up from her glass, lashes fluttering like she hadn’t heard me.
I asked again.
She set her drink down with a soft clink, then turned her face toward the hallway. “Ask your father.”
So I did.
He was in his office, as usual—papers spread across the desk, books stacked in uneven towers. When I stepped inside, he didn’t look up.
“Father—”
“She’s on assignment.”
My brow furrowed. “Assignment?”
“In the Solara Pack. Two weeks.”
I waited for more.
That was all he said.
Two weeks.
Five words.
Then he went back to his paperwork.
Just like always.
I didn’t push it. I didn’t ask why Lori was sent to another pack or what she was doing. If it was connected to her lies, her guilt, or if she was running from something only she and the council knew.
Because the truth was, I didn’t care to know.
Not anymore.
Whatever was coming—whatever reason the Moon Goddess brought me back here—it would come whether I was ready or not.
And Lori wouldn’t stay gone forever.
Lucien’s POV
She was everywhere.
In the corners of the courtyard, walking past the library window, her scent trailing behind her in the halls like it belonged there.
I hated that I noticed it.
Hated that my wolf reacted.
I didn’t want to see her. Not her soft mouth, not the scar under her jaw, not the new strength in her posture or the way her gaze didn’t flinch anymore. I didn’t want to remember the past, or how she used to smile when I said something dumb, or the way she once knew exactly how to calm me when my shifts got too wild.
I didn’t want to feel anything for her.
But I did.
And that pissed me off.
Especially today.
Training was brutal.
Not because of the drills.
Because of her.
We’d been paired for the first time since the fight. I thought it was punishment.
But watching her move?
It felt like hell.
Dillion wasn’t soft anymore.
She was sharp.
Precise.
She dodged without blinking. Hit without hesitation. Her body moved like she’d trained with ghosts—silent, fast, deadly.
“Focus,” I barked.
She glanced at me. “I am.”
It was the first thing she’d said to me in two days.
We circled.
The air between us was thick with heat—anger, history, something else neither of us wanted to name.
I lunged.
She twisted, and for a split second, our hands tangled.
Her fingers brushed mine.
My chest seized.
Just a touch. But something inside me jolted, so violently I nearly stumbled.
Her scent hit me harder this close. Cinnamon. Smoke. Night air.
My grip faltered.
What the hell is this?
She pushed me off, stepping back quickly. Her guard shot up like a wall between us.
I couldn’t stop staring.
Her face was flushed. Lips parted. Not because she was out of breath.
But because she’d felt it, too.
I clenched my fists, turned away.
“You’re sloppy today,” I snapped, even though she wasn’t.
She didn’t answer.
She just looked at me.
Like she saw right through me.
Later, we were stuck in the weapons room together, cleaning blades after training.
I could feel her behind me. Close enough to smell. Close enough to want.
My heart raced like a traitor.
She moved past me to grab a towel, and our shoulders brushed.
Heat surged down my spine.
Goddess, what is wrong with me?
I hated this. Hated her.
But my body didn’t seem to understand the difference between hate and hunger anymore.
I turned to speak—sharper than necessary—but she’d stepped too close.
And we collided.
Literally.
Her hand pressed against my chest to steady herself.
I froze.
So did she.
Our faces were inches apart.
Her breath hitched.
I should’ve stepped back.
But I didn’t.
Her eyes flicked to my lips.
I saw it.
And then—stupid, reckless, insane—I leaned in.
So did she.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t sweet.
It was heat and frustration and every unsaid thing we’d buried under lies.
Her lips were soft but fierce.
Her hand curled in my shirt, and mine slid to her waist before I could stop myself.
We kissed like we were trying to forget.
Trying to destroy.
Trying to remember.
And then she broke it, stepping back so fast you’d think I’d burned her.
Her hand lifted to her mouth, fingers trembling.
I stood there, stunned, breathing hard, my wolf howling inside me.
She looked at me with those wide, broken eyes.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t confuse guilt with want.”
Then she left.
And I just stood there.
Wanting her.
Hating it.
Hating her.
Hating me.
- Writer
