Chapter 7
Holt
The door shuts behind me, shutting out the warmth and coziness. And her.
An icy wind tears through me.
But I barely feel it, because now, I really see it.
She’s been hurting.
All these years, she’s been hurting.
I never understood.
When I left, I thought I was sparing her.
She was just a kid—bright, ambitious, too good for a thing like me. She’d forget me in a moment, then find a boy her own age.
Some college boy who’d make her laugh and buy her nice things.
That was the story I clung to. The one that let me sleep.
But the way she looked at me—
God.
That wasn’t anger. That was a wound that never healed.
And I put it there.
I don’t often let myself think about the minutes after I walked away from her that night. It’s easier to remember the fear of losing control than what came next.
I heard her call my name.
Once.
Twice.
Over and over—sharp, uncertain, then thin with worry.
I crouched behind the tree line half-shifted, heart pounding against ribs that weren’t fully human anymore, listening to the girl I cared about try to figure out why I’d disappeared like a ghost.
Her footsteps crunched on the path as she turned in circles, trying to follow where I’d gone. She wasn’t crying—Lila never cried easily—but the hurt in her voice carried farther than any sob.
I could’ve stepped out.
Could’ve told her the truth.
Could’ve done a dozen things that weren’t cowardly.
Instead, I stayed there until her voice went quiet and her breathing steadied, and I listened to her walk away alone.
By morning, I’d packed a bag and left town so fast it was like she imagined me.
For years I held onto the excuse that I’d done her a favor.
I told myself it was mercy. That she was better off without someone dangerous, someone who couldn’t always trust his own skin.
But mercy doesn’t leave a girl standing alone in the woods, thinking she wasn’t enough.
And that’s what she remembers tonight.
The realization hits so hard I have to grab the porch post to stay upright. My stomach knots. Her voice is still in my head—Congratulations, you did anyway.
I can’t breathe around it.
Snow gathers in my hair, melts down my collar. I don’t move.
Because the truth is burning through me now, merciless and clear:
I left to protect her.
And I destroyed her anyway.
My beast howls inside me.
It chose her as its mate, and my dumb human side wrecked everything.
My skin burns as it starts to break out of me.
All it wants to do is run and run until the pain stops.
But I catch sight of the stables, half-buried under the snow.
I should feed the ponies so she doesn’t have to.
I can do something good at least.
The ponies shift inside, their hooves muffled against the straw.
But when I slide the door open, they freeze. Two small, shaggy shapes, eyes rolling, breath clouding the cold air.
“Easy,” I murmur.
They know better. One stamps, the other backs into a corner, muscles jumping with fear. They can smell what I am. Without Lila, they don’t trust me.
“Easy,” I try again, softer this time, but it comes out harsh. The wrong kind of voice.
Their fear crawls under my skin. I step back, close my eyes, force the beast as far down as it will go.
When I open them again, they’re still watching me.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, barely sound at all.
The chestnut blinks first. Her ears flick.
I stay still—just breathing, letting them hear it, letting them feel that I mean no harm.
Slowly, the tension eases off them.
The filly stretches her neck, nostrils trembling, then nudges my sleeve.
Warm breath touches my wrist, quick and shy.
“That’s it,” I say. My voice cracks. “You can trust me not to hurt you at least.”
I stroke her muzzle.
I move slowly, so I don’t break the spell. The buckets hang on the wall, cold metal clanking. The smell of oats rises when I pour, sweet and dusty.
The gelding watches, ears flicking, then steps forward. The filly follows, brushing against my arm as she reaches the trough.
They eat. Careful at first.
I stand there listening to their peaceful munching, delaying the moment when I have to drag myself away from Lila’s place for good.
Then—
The lights fizzle.
Go out.
Darkness drops like a curtain.
Did I cause it, somehow?
Then I hear the wind tear at the roof and know it’s the lines.
Power’s gone.
The ponies keep eating, unbothered.
My eyesight adjusts immediately. I go to the light switch and flick it a couple of times for good measure.
Nothing.
If I know the power company it’ll be out for a good few hours—at least ’til morning.
She’ll be inside, in the dark.
Maybe afraid.
The thought rips at my insides.
I have to get back to her—
My beast has me at the door before my thoughts have time to catch up.
Wait, I tell it.
I’m the last person she’ll want to see.
Mate needs help.
She needs light—that much I can give her.
I saw something at the back of the stable.
I root around… Lanterns and a bunch of candles.
I take the lanterns, stuff the candles in my pockets.
I’ll knock and leave them on the porch.
That’s all.
A small thing. The only kind I have left to give.
Snow drives at my face as I cross the yard.
The windows are dark. No shadow moving inside.
I set the lanterns on the porch and lay the candles beside them, one by one.
I hesitate, hand hovering over the door. Every part of me wants to knock. To see her face one more time, even if she slams it shut again.
But I promised myself I wouldn’t make it worse.
I crouch, slide a candle inside one of the lanterns and light it—just so she might see its fragile light if she looks out.
Then, heart clenching, I turn and walk into the deep snow.