THE FATHER TALK
740 Words
Lysander barely remembers the drive.
He only remembers the pull.
Elora had texted him that morning—We talked. My family is taking your offer.
Relief had hit him so hard he’d needed to sit down.
Now, as his car slows in front of her home, his chest feels tight in a different way. Not panic. Not anger.
Need.
He exhales slowly, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
This is what they mean, he realizes.
This is how strong mate bonds are.
The way his body reacts before his mind. The way his wolf has been restless since yesterday, unsettled without her scent, without knowing she’s safe.
But he knows something else too.
It isn’t just the bond.
Bonds don’t create feelings—they guide you toward what was already there. They don’t invent loyalty, or anger, or love. They reveal it.
And this—this protectiveness, this certainty, this ache to see her—is his.
He was meant to find Elora.
The thought is surreal. Dangerous. Too big to say out loud yet. Especially to her. She’s already carrying enough weight.
He steps out of the car—and freezes.
There’s something pinned to the fence.
Lysander frowns and pulls it free.
You won’t be accepted for long.
People like you never change.
His jaw tightens.
He flips the paper over.
One word, written clearly. Deliberately.
Slut.
Something in him goes cold.
This isn’t just cruelty. It’s familiarity. Casual. Learned.
This is her reality, he thinks.
This is the reality of exiled wolves.
Justice doesn’t have to be cruel.
And if it is—then it isn’t justice.
“Elora?”
Her presence hits him before her voice ever could. Warm. Familiar. Comforting in a way his wolf immediately latches onto.
“Lysander?” she says, surprised. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
He doesn’t answer.
He closes the distance in two strides, wraps his arms around her, and pulls her into him. The kiss is instinctive—deep, grounding, necessary. Like breathing after being underwater too long.
She lets out a small sound of surprise before pulling back, breathless.
“Nice to see you too,” she says lightly. “What’s going on?”
Lysander lifts the note between them. “I saw this.”
Her expression falls.
“Oh… that,” she says quietly. “That’s just how it is, I guess. I just—” Her voice tightens. “I don’t want my family to feel unsafe. But I think it’s already too late for that.”
His hands curl at his sides.
“We’ll put a stop to it.”
She shakes her head gently. “People are stubborn. Stuck in their ways. You can’t stop it that fast.”
“They’ll stop,” he says, anger threading his voice, “when they have no choice.”
She studies him for a second, then her eyes drop.
“Okay—why does your hand look like you fought?”
He glances down, then shrugs. “Sparring. No big deal.”
She narrows her eyes but lets it go.
“So,” he adds, forcing a smile, “you’re really willing to move onto castle grounds?”
She takes the note from his hand and folds it once, neatly. “Well, as you can see—it’s the better option. And,” she adds, softer, “I want to see you too. Come on. We’ve been outside too long.”
Inside, the house greets him the way it always does—warm, lived-in, quietly alive.
Fleur offers him a nod and a familiar smile. Jasper greets him with a simple, “You made it,” like Lysander’s presence is expected now. Normal.
The ease of it surprises him.
They trust me, he realizes.
The thought makes something settle in his chest—something dangerously close to pride.
After a moment, Jasper gestures toward the hallway.
“Lysander,” he says, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “I’d like a word.”
Lysander stiffens.
His wolf goes very still.
A word.
That’s never just a word.
He follows Jasper, pulse ticking faster than it should, half-expecting a stern lecture about intentions, propriety, or boundaries.
Instead, Jasper just walks beside him, calm and steady.
Lysander swallows.
Okay, he thinks grimly.
This is it. The father talk.
And for the first time since this all began, the future feels intimidating in a completely different way.
- Writer
