Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Zane
I stood under the shower head, letting the hot water pound against my wounds—Ethan hit hard, that bastard. My ribs were bruised to hell, and the cut above my left eye was still bleeding. But honestly, compared to the last five years, this pain felt like a mosquito bite.
Steam rose around me, fogging the mirror. I stared at my reflection—eye sockets sunken like I'd just crawled out of a grave. Mia was right. I looked like a lunatic.
A lunatic playing an out-of-tune guitar at one in the morning, ice water dripping down his face.
But I didn't give a damn.
Because she brought me home.
She let me through her door.
The realization burned in my chest, hot enough to make me shake. I stood there under the spray, forehead pressed against tile, eyes closed, repeating it over and over. She's alive. She's okay. She's in the next room.
Took me about twenty minutes to clean up and bandage the worst of it. I pulled on the T-shirt she'd left by the door—black cotton, loose at the collar, with faded letters across the front. "I Survived the Tour."
I looked down at the words and let out a bitter laugh.
Damn right.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, the living room lights were dimmed.
She sat on the couch, tea in hand, legs tucked beneath her, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt.
Her hair fell loose around her shoulders.
She wasn't looking at me—her gaze was fixed on the city lights beyond the window, lost in thought.
I stood in the hallway, suddenly unsure what to say.
"Wounds taken care of?" She spoke first, her tone as casual as asking a stranger about the weather.
"Yeah."
"Good." She took a sip. "Guest room's at the end of the hall, right side. Fresh sheets. Leave before eight tomorrow morning."
My chest tightened, but I forced myself to ignore it.
"Mia—" I took a step forward.
"Don't." She raised her hand, stopping me cold. "Don't come closer. Stay right there."
I froze. About fifteen feet separated us—a coffee table, a floor lamp, and five years of silence.
"I need to apologize," I said, my voice so hoarse I barely recognized it. "For everything. For not believing you, for listening to Leah's lies, for sending you down that road—"
"Enough." She cut me off, her tone flat as slicing bread. "I know why you came looking for me."
I went still. "What?"
She set down her tea and looked up at me. Those eyes—eyes that once shone like stars in the moonlight—were now calm as stagnant water. No anger, no resentment. Just a cold clarity that sent chills down my spine.
"You want me to help restore your voice," she said. "Isn't that right?"
I felt like someone had punched me in the chest.
"No—"
"Don't play games, Zane." Impatience crept into her voice. "You traveled all the way to Silverpine Kingdom to personally recruit a singer. When she refused, you didn't give up. You snuck backstage. You followed me. You dragged me to Mist Forest—you did all that just because you missed me?"
"I—"
"Your pack hasn't had a Howling Ceremony in five years. Your alpha strength is fading. Your throne is slipping." Each word was a scalpel, precise and cutting. "You need my voice to restore your power. That's why you came."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
She was right. Part of what she said was true. My pack did need her. My power was fading. My throne was in jeopardy. But that wasn't why I stayed.
"No," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I didn't come for you because you can restore my voice."
She raised an eyebrow—an expression that screamed "keep talking."
"At first, yeah, I came to restore my voice by inviting Vela," I admitted, raising my hands in surrender. "But when I found out Vela was you... that you were alive... nothing else mattered. Whether I could howl or not didn't matter. I stayed because of you."
"Because of me?"
I held her gaze.
"I owe you an explanation," I said. "I've regretted every single second of the last five years. Because every morning I wake up, the first thing I see is the look in your eyes when you let go. Because I—"
I stopped. Took a breath.
"Because I need you to know—I never stopped loving you."
Silence.
Her expression didn't change. No emotion, no softening, not even a flicker. She just sat there like a statue, looking at me with those terrifyingly calm eyes.
Then she laughed.
Not warm laughter. A mocking laugh—the kind you give a clown telling a bad joke.
"You love me?" She repeated the words like tasting something strange. "That's the funniest joke I've ever heard."
The words hit like a hammer to my chest.
"I—"
"You know how I spent the last five years?" Her voice finally shifted—not with anger, but with weary exhaustion, like she'd told this story too many times. "I crawled out of that river with nothing. No money, no home. I sang in filthy dive bars until my throat bled, just to earn one meal."
I felt my eyes burning.
"And you," she looked at me with that heartbreaking calm, "you were in your palace, enjoying everything with Leah."
"I wasn't." My voice came out barely audible. "I banished her the day I learned the truth. I—"
"So what?" She interrupted. "You banished her—does that erase what you did to me? You believed her lies, not me. You made me publicly apologize to her. You sent me to my death. Can all of that be erased with 'I'm sorry'?"
I had no answer.
She was right. Those things happened. The damage was real. An apology couldn't undo any of it.
I looked down at the floor patterns, feeling my knees go weak.
"I'm sorry," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I know it's not enough. I know nothing I do can make up for it. But I still have to say it—I'm sorry."
She didn't respond.
Ten seconds of silence. Each one felt like a century.
Then she spoke, her voice back to that eerie calm. "I can help you."
My head snapped up.
"But I have conditions."
"What?" The word came out desperate, almost pathetic.
She leaned back against the couch, hands folded on her knees, composed as a negotiator at a business table.
She paused, her gaze studying me with chilling scrutiny. "After I help you restore the Howling Ceremony, we're even. Don't come looking for me again. Don't disrupt my life."
I felt a knife twist in my chest.
But I nodded.
"Deal," I said, my voice barely recognizable.
She stared at me for a few seconds, as if confirming I meant it. Then she nodded and stood.
"Good. Then it's settled." She walked toward the hallway, pausing beside me. "Guest room, end of the hall, right side. I have work in the morning. Remember to leave early."
"Mia—"
She stopped but didn't turn around.
"Thank you for taking me in tonight," I said.
She was silent for a beat.
"Don't thank me," she said, her voice carrying something complex. "I just didn't want you dying in the street and causing me trouble."
Then she walked into her room. The door clicked shut behind her.
I stood there, staring at that closed door, feeling the knife wound in my chest slowly bleed out.
But she agreed.
She agreed to come back with me.
That knowledge worked like painkillers, temporarily numbing the wounds. I turned toward the guest room and pushed the door open—
The room was small but tidy. Single bed, nightstand, lamp, light blue curtains. White sheets with the fresh scent of detergent.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. Then I noticed a photo frame on the nightstand.
I picked it up, tilting it toward the lamp—
A photograph. Mia holding Lily, standing in a garden, sunlight pouring over them, both smiling. Mia's smile—that genuine, unguarded smile—was something I'd never seen before. She looked so happy, so content, so whole.
My fingers traced the glass edge, stopping on Lily's face.
Her eyes.
Those gray-blue eyes.
My eyes.
My throat tightened. My eyes burned.
I set the frame down and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. There was a crack running across it, shaped like a winding river. I stared at that crack, thinking about the river five years ago, about her falling into darkness, about her final words—
"I reject you..."
I closed my eyes and let the darkness swallow me.
The next morning, the doorbell woke me.
I opened my eyes and took a few seconds to remember where I was.
I sat up, rubbed my face, heard footsteps and voices from the living room.
"...okay, I understand. Yes, I'll head over now..."
Mia's voice. She was on the phone. She sounded professional, efficient—completely different from the woman on the couch last night.
I got up quietly, cracked the door open, and peeked out.
She stood in the entryway wearing a crisp white blazer over navy wide-leg pants, hair pulled into a sleek low ponytail, simple gold earrings. She looked—damn, she looked breathtaking.
She hung up and turned, saw me.
Her expression didn't change. "You're up?"
"Yeah."
"Fresh toothbrush and towels in the bathroom. Coffee and toast in the kitchen. Eat and leave. I'm in a hurry."
She picked up her purse from the table, opened the door, and walked out.
The door closed behind her, leaving me alone in the empty living room.
I stood there, listening to her footsteps fade down the hallway until they disappeared completely.
Then I sighed and headed to the bathroom.
After washing up and choking down two burnt pieces of toast, I stood in the middle of the living room, unsure what to do.
She said to leave after eating.
But I didn't want to leave.
I knew I should. She set the terms, I agreed—it was that simple. But I just—I just couldn't make myself walk out that door.
My gaze swept the apartment. The living room was small but cozy. Gray couch, wooden coffee table, abstract paintings on the walls—probably picked up at some secondhand market. In the corner stood an upright piano, sheet music scattered across the lid.
I walked over and looked at the manuscripts. Her handwriting—same as five years ago, messy but powerful, with corrections here and there, little note markings everywhere.
I picked one up and read.
"You said you loved me, but your love was a cage.
I learned to fly inside it,
then I flew away."