Ashes and Echoes
996 Words
News of the explosion spreads through the small town like wildfire, reaching even the quiet corners of cafes, shops, and whispers in the streets.
At the Red Moon Packhouse, Peter sits at the head of the breakfast table, surrounded by his family. The clink of cutlery against china fills the silence—until one of his trusted warriors approaches.
Peter’s brows crease the moment he sees him. It’s the warrior he personally assigned to watch over Claire.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Alpha,” the warrior says, bowing respectfully, his face tense.
Peter sets his fork down, already feeling a chill settle over the morning. Beside him, Malia lifts her gaze, suspicion etched into her features.
“There’s something you need to know,” the warrior continues, and the heaviness in his voice sends a ripple of unease through the room.
Peter nods once. He won’t dismiss Malia—she deserves to hear this too.
“There was an explosion at the Williams mansion,” the warrior states.
Peter’s spine straightens, his expression hardening. Malia’s fork clatters against her plate.
“It’s been confirmed… Mr. and Mrs. Williams were involved in the explosion.”
Peter’s jaw clenches. “What about Claire?”
The question escapes him before he can even think. His voice carries urgency and something raw—something unmistakably paternal.
“She was far from the explosion.” the warrior assures quickly. “Unharmed.”
Relief crashes through Peter’s chest. His shoulders drop slightly, and unknowingly, so do Malia’s.
“Good. Return to your post. I want a full report as soon as it’s compiled,” Peter dismisses.
The warrior bows and exits quietly.
Silence lingers for a beat too long before Peter turns toward his family. Christopher looks between his parents, concern clouding his young face. Malia’s expression is unreadable.
“You assigned warriors to protect her." she says slowly, laying down her fork as her appetite vanishes.
Peter sighs. “You know I couldn’t leave her unguarded. Not after everything.”
“You think I don’t understand that?” she replies, eyes narrowing. “You think I’m heartless?”
Peter doesn’t answer. Instead, he searches her face—hoping, waiting.
“You did the right thing, Peter,” Malia says softly.
He looks up, stunned.
“I’m not saying I forgive you,” her voice whispers inside his mind through their link. “I’m still angry. But she’s one of us now. Like it or not, she’s a part of the pack. And as Luna… I protect what is mine.”
He nods slowly, gratitude swelling in his chest.
This might not be forgiveness. Not yet. But it’s a start.
And for now, that’s all that matters.
He has a daughter to protect.
---
Two Weeks Later
A private funeral is held at the Williams estate for Caroline and Richard Williams. The mansion is cloaked in mourning, yet the scent of false sorrow hangs thick in the air.
Relatives—close and distant, familiar and forgotten—fill the hall. Even those who never returned a phone call now wear black and sip wine as if mourning came naturally to them.
But in truth, they’re only here for one thing.
The will.
Upstairs, Claire sits in her bedroom, wrapped in silence. A black lace gown clings to her frame as she perches on the edge of her bed. Her hands are limp in her lap as eyes stare into nothing.
Downstairs, laughter hums beneath soft piano music. Words like “they were such good people” pass through false lips.
Hypocrites.
She couldn’t breathe among them. So she chose isolation—chose the only place in the house where her grief could be hers alone.
They aren’t her real family anyway. Not in the way that matters.
All they care about is what her parents left behind.
How can people be this cruel?
A tear slips down her cheek. She swipes it away just as someone bangs loudly on her door.
“Claire, sweetie? Are you in there?” Aunt Matilda calls, voice muffled.
“There are guests waiting downstairs. The media wants a glimpse of you.”
Claire’s hands ball into fists.
Tell them to go to hell.
But she doesn’t say it. As much as she wants to scream, she holds her tongue.
Aunt Matilda isn’t like the rest. Since the day of the explosion, she’d been the only one who treated Claire with genuine care. She’d planned the funeral. Handled the legal chaos. Stood between Claire and the vultures.
It’s possible her parents left Matilda in charge of her, and shouting at her won't be a good start to a good relationship.
Claire sighs and wipes her face. She rises then walks over to the mirror. Her reflection stares back—tired, hollow, but strong.
She forces herself to breathe.
They want a photo. A story. A shot of the broken heiress crying at the top of the stairs.
But she won’t give it to them.
I grieve in silence.
The door creaks open. Aunt Matilda’s worried frown eases as she sees her.
“Come, sweetheart,” she says gently.
Claire nods and follows.
They head downstairs together then stop at the top of the stairwell.
All heads turn.
She hears the gasps followed with the cameras flash. Their eyes are hungry—searching for the tears, the trembling lip, the collapse.
But Claire doesn’t give them that satisfaction. She keeps her gaze low until the last second where she reminds herself to be strong.
Then, inhaling sharply, she looks up—calm, proud, unreadable and begins to descend.
Aunt Matilda leads her down with grace, but Claire’s gaze flicks toward the crowd.
And that’s when she sees it.
Her pulse kicks up. Every step she takes suddenly feels heavy, uncertain.
Because standing at the back of the room— Is someone she thought she'd never see again.
And they’re not supposed to be here.
Not now. Not ever.
- Writer
