Only Broken

When Silence Finally Speaks.

Claire’s POV

What are those nut jobs doing here?

I try to mask the shock crawling up my throat the second I spot Peter, Christopher, and Liam standing among the crowd of fake mourners.

They’re dressed in black suits, blending into the sea of pretenders—but I can’t help but wonder how they even got in. This funeral was supposed to be private, heavily secured.

As I step down from the stairs, relatives swarm around me like vultures, each trying to kiss my feet just like they did my parents’. I can barely focus. My mind wanders, anywhere but here—anywhere but the suffocating air filled with false grief and selfish whispers.

“God, why does she look like she’s been crying? If I inherited that kind of wealth, I’d be celebrating,” a voice whispers.

It’s followed by a giggle. My fists clench instinctively.

The whispers aren't coming from the crowd closest to me. When I lift my head and glance sideways, I spot them—Aunt Matilda’s daughters. My supposed cousins. Older. One married. Both cruel.

“She’s not even their real daughter,” one of them murmurs with disgust.

“I know, right? She doesn’t deserve any of it. Thank god Mom’s plan to win her over is working. We’ll bleed her dry before she even knows what’s happening.”

They laugh again, and this time the betrayal hits harder. My breath catches and my heart tightens. Yet, I force a polite smile as I turn away from another drunken uncle spewing nonsense.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, walking off before my hands start shaking in front of everyone.

God, I wish I could run away from this house, from this twisted excuse for a family, from all of them. They’re mourning two dead people and can’t even pretend to care about anything other than what was left behind. Is this what being human really means?

Even away from the room, their voices still reach me, cruel and sharp like knives. I want to cover my ears, to scream.

I don't know whether to thank these heightened werewolf senses or curse them. All I want is silence. Peace.

I pace the empty room, nervously fidgeting with my hands, consumed by the storm inside me—so much so that I don’t hear the door open.

Not until I turn around and meet those piercing blue eyes.

Liam.

He says something, moving closer, and I instantly glare. Why is he here? I want to be alone.

“Please leave,” I snap, harsher than I intended. His face falters, a flicker of confusion and concern in his eyes.

“In case you didn’t realize, I came here to be alone,” I add, trying to keep my voice from cracking under the weight of the tears I refuse to shed.

“I realized.” he says softly. “That’s why the first thing I asked was, ‘Are you okay?’”

His words knock the wind out of me.

No one has asked me that. Not since the explosion. Not once.

And the answer is painfully obvious.

I’m not okay.

Back in the other room, the voices of my so-called family echo in my mind again, twisting the knife deeper. I’m trembling. My fingers fidget again—but then I feel something that stops me cold in my tracks.

Liam’s hand closes over mine, large and warm, and for a second I almost pull away. But he gently catches both of my hands, grounding me, his presence anchoring the storm inside me.

I look up, confused... but strangely comforted.

What is this?

“I can teach you how to shut the voices out,” he says, and I frown slightly.

He continues, “I know you can hear them. And I know right now, more than anything, you wish you couldn’t.”

He’s not wrong.

“Just close your eyes for a minute,” he says, that soft smile tugging at his lips.

I hesitate.

“Trust me,” he adds, and for some reason—I do.

I close my eyes.

“Werewolves have heightened senses,” he begins, “but we can learn to control them. To tone them down. You just need to focus.”

His voice is calm and smooth. I cling to it, letting the words wrap around me like a blanket.

“You can choose what to focus on. A thought. A place. A feeling. Even… my voice.”

There’s something in his tone. Concern, yes—but something else too.

“Don’t open your eyes yet. Just listen,” he says again and I nod faintly.

“I lost my mom when I was nine.”

My breath catches. I almost open my eyes but remember what he told me.

“Everyone around me said the right things. They hugged me, cried with me, but… I still felt alone. Lost. Like nothing anyone said could make the pain stop.”

His words slip into my heart like water filling cracks.

“I had my dad, but he was grieving too. I walked away from the crowd to be alone, and I remember—when the silence finally hit me—I cried. I cried like the world had ended. Because for me, it had.”

I feel something shift. A sudden stillness. The voices are gone. All I hear is him.

I open my eyes slowly, blinking in disbelief. The silence… it’s real. I’m in control again.

“So,” he says gently, “I’ll ask again. How are you feeling?”

His ocean eyes hold mine, and the question shatters the last wall I’ve held up all day.

I break.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I step forward and collapse into his arms, hugging him tightly as the sobs finally rip through me.

I cry into his chest, trembling with ever broken sob.

And he just holds me.

No questions. No judgment.

Just warmth. Just silence. Just him.