Second-Chance Mate:The Alpha Who Took What My Mate Threw Away

Chapter 14 – Wolves, Pups and Breakfast

I woke to the wrong ceiling.

For three panicked seconds I expected the flicker of my apartment’s crappy light, the hum of my fridge, the drip from the bathroom tap. Instead there was quiet, wood beams, and a mattress that didn’t have a spring trying to stab my spine.

Silverpine. Guest room. Not a cage.

The smell hit next—eggs, meat, bread, and strong coffee—followed by noise: clatter, overlapping voices, a kid’s giggle.

Pack, Nyra said, pleased.

I dragged on the soft grey T‑shirt and sweats someone had left on the chair and cracked the door. The hallway was empty, but the noise grew as I went downstairs.

The kitchen doorway was a border.

On one side: me, barefoot, heart thudding. On the other: chaos.

Tessa at the stove, flipping eggs. A giant coffee pot. Caleb and Elias at one end of the table, talking low. Mira leaning against the counter, mug in hand. A dark‑haired boy kneeling on a bench, practically vibrating.

“Is she here?” he demanded. “You said she was here.”

“No yelling at the table, Noah,” Tessa said. “You’ll scare the eggs.”

“I—eggs don’t—” He broke off when he saw me. “Oh. Wow.”

Every head turned. Silence stretched.

Then Tessa smiled like this was the most normal thing on earth. “Morning. Coffee on the left, food on the right. Ignore Elias; he criticizes everyone’s toast.”

Elias lifted his mug. “Welcome to the circus.”

I hovered, fingers tight on the doorframe. “Smells good,” I managed.

“Then get a plate before Noah eats it all,” Tessa said.

“I’m starving,” he protested. “I’m Noah. I almost puked on Caleb’s boots last training.”

“That was one time,” Caleb said.

Our eyes met; something eased in his shoulders. I looked away, grabbed a plate, and loaded it with eggs and toast. Mira slid a mug toward me.

“No Council blips on the border this morning,” she said quietly. “You’re safe to eat.”

“Comforting,” I muttered, but relief loosened my jaw.

I took the empty chair across from Noah. He stared at me, utterly unbothered by concepts like “personal space” or “subtlety.”

“You’re kind of both,” he whispered.

“Both what?” I asked.

“Wolf and not,” he said. “Mira says that’s complicated.”

“It is,” I said. “Don’t try this at home.”

He chewed on that, then blurted, “Did it hurt? When your wolf came out?”

The table went a notch quieter. Old instincts told me to shut down, lie, deflect. His eyes killed that option—fear and fascination tangled together.

“Yeah,” I said. “It hurt. But it was worse when other people tried to make it happen. This time it was me. That helped.”

“I’m scared of my first shift,” he admitted, voice small. “Even though everyone says it’s fine.”

“Being scared’s normal,” I said. “Doing it anyway is the brave part.”

“Like you?” he asked.

The word lodged in my throat. “Like your healer,” I said instead, nodding at Mira. “She has to listen to all of you freak out.”

“Rude,” Mira said. “True, but rude.”

Caleb’s voice cut in, steady. “Your shift won’t be like Maia’s,” he told Noah. “We don’t do what was done to her. That’s the whole reason we’re changing things.”

Something tight in my chest loosened a fraction.

Conversation flowed around us again: Tessa scolding someone for stealing bacon, Elias making dry comments, a teen darting through to grab a muffin and vanish.

For a few minutes, it was just breakfast.

No badges. No white rooms. Just wolves eating and teasing and existing.

Temporary, I reminded myself, lifting my mug. You’re leaving.

Nyra lay with her head on her paws, watching the room with wary contentment.

For now, she said.

For now, I didn’t get up and run.