VII
1042 Words
I felt myself being drawn from the shadowy fog—the space between life and death, where time didn’t pass and choices lingered like ghosts. It wasn’t a place of pain, but of stillness. A quiet void where souls paused, unsure whether to hold on or let go.
But I knew what I wanted.
I wanted to live.
Not just to breathe, but to exist with purpose. To feel the weight of my own story and let it unfold. I wanted to know my older brother—not just the Alpha, not the man who carried the world on his shoulders, but Logan. And more than that, I wanted him to know me. The boy beneath the bruises. The soul beneath the silence.
He’d asked me something before I slipped into unconsciousness—his voice sharp, demanding, desperate for truth.
Was I going to end up like Austin?
That question echoed through me, even now, as I drifted closer to waking. It wasn’t just a fear. It was a challenge. A plea. A line drawn in blood and memory—one I refused to cross.
But I wasn’t like him.
I had a connection to my wolf. Not just instinct but understanding. We’d made an agreement—he would block my shift until I turned sixteen. Not out of punishment, but protection. We’d leveled with each other in ways that felt natural, like two halves of the same soul finally speaking the same language.
And I’d felt that same connection with Logan.
When he promised to be there for me, to protect and defend me, it wasn’t just words. It was weight. It was truth. It was the kind of vow that settled into your bones and stayed there.
My mind wasn’t weighed down anymore. Not with pain or darkness, anyway. The grief was still there—still raw, still aching in places I hadn’t yet learned to name. But it no longer consumed me. It sat quietly, like a shadow at the edge of light. Present but no longer suffocating.
Then the day I woke up happened.
I was fighting through the fog, clawing my way back to consciousness, when I heard voices. Two of them. Distinct, familiar, and—oddly enough—arguing.
Not about pack politics. Not about my condition. Just… math homework.
I blinked internally, trying to make sense of it. The words floated through the haze like bubbles rising to the surface.
“You carried the one wrong, genius.” That was Logan’s voice. It carried something normal. Something along the lines of irritation and hidden humour.
“No I didn’t! Besides, I hate this subject!” The other voice said. I didn’t know it, but it seemed friendly enough.
The whole thing was so domestic. So normal. So alive.
And somehow, that made it perfect.
I thought back, recalling how Logan admitted to me that his mother, like mine, was tortured and killed by our sire. How he’d told me he’d been adopted—going from pauper to prince in a matter of months. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel jealous.
I felt seen.
Seen by someone in power. Someone who had every reason to be hardened by life but instead chose to make a difference in mine—without ending it. That kind of mercy was rare. That kind of strength, rarer still.
Opening my eyes slowly, I let the world come to me rather than bolting up and causing a ruckus. I wanted to catch them off guard. To see their unfiltered reactions to my recovery. To know who they were when they thought I couldn’t hear them.
The first thing that hit me was the lightness of the room. Sunlight filtered through linen curtains that drifted lazily on an early winter breeze, casting soft golden patterns across the floor. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and pine—clean, but lived-in. Somewhere nearby, a humidifier hummed quietly, blending with the steady rhythm of machines monitoring my vitals.
The bedding beneath me was soft, crisp, and warm. Not the scratchy hospital sheets I’d expected, but something better—cotton, maybe. It smelled like lavender and safety.
I turned my head, blinking slowly as my eyes adjusted. Logan sat at a table along one wall, his distinctive red hair catching the sunlight like flame. He was hunched over a stack of books, pages spread open to dense material clearly meant for the graduating class. I spotted the bold letters AP Calculus and felt a flicker of surprise. Somehow, he was far smarter than I’d ever imagined.
The other guy sat across from him, legs stretched out, posture relaxed. He was built almost the same as Logan—broad shoulders, lean muscle—but his energy was different. His hair was dark brown, tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his hoodie looked like it had seen better days. He had a gruff appearance, but his tone was casual, teasing.
They were arguing. Not about me. Not about pack business.
About math homework.
“You carried the one wrong, genius,” Logan said, his voice tinged with irritation and hidden humor.
“No I didn’t! Besides, I hate this subject!” the other guy shot back, groaning dramatically.
The whole thing was so domestic. So normal. So alive.
And somehow, that made it perfect.
Minutes later, after the doctor came in to check me over—his voice calm, his hands efficient—he left behind a clipboard of instructions and a quiet nod of approval. Then they approached the bed.
The other boy stepped forward first, offering a crooked smile and a nod. “Paul Grey,” he said. “Logan’s Beta.”
His voice was warm, confident, and just a little sarcastic. The kind of tone that made you feel like you were already part of the joke.
I blinked up at him, still adjusting, only for him to hit me with his brother was my age and could use a good friend.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a ghost in someone else’s story.
I felt like I belonged.
- Writer
