Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Iwent to Cole's office.
I woke up that morning knowing exactly where I was going and why. I was done waiting for answers to find me.
His door was closed. I didn't knock. Just pushed it open and walked in.
Cole looked up from his desk. Papers in front of him. Pen in hand. The surprise on his face lasted half a second before it smoothed into something more guarded.
"Lumi."
I closed the door behind me. The room shrank. Too small for both of us and everything that hung unspoken in the air between us. I didn't sit. Didn't soften. Didn't give him time to redirect the conversation before it started.
"What am I?"
Not who. Not why. What.
Cole didn't answer. His body answered first. I watched it happen—the way his shoulders tightened, the way his jaw locked. He looked away from me. Then his eyes closed, like he was bracing for something painful.
The bond spiked. Sharp. Sudden. It cut through me like a blade, and I knew—I knew in that moment that he had the answer. That it was sitting right there behind his teeth, and he was choosing not to say it. Whatever the truth was, speaking it would hurt me. Not speaking it was hurting both of us.
"Cole." His eyes stayed closed. "Look at me."
He did. Slowly. Like it cost him something.
I stepped closer. "Everyone knows something." My voice was steady. Calm. I wasn't here to cry or beg or fall apart. "I see it in the way they look at me."
He said nothing.
"Everyone is watching me." Another step. "Twilson. Silas. You. Like you're all waiting for something to happen."
Still nothing.
"And no one will tell me why."
I stopped in front of his desk. Close enough to see the tension in his hands, the way his fingers had gone white around the pen he was still holding.
"I'm not asking for comfort," I said. "I'm asking for clarity. You owe me that much."
Cole set down the pen. For a long moment, he just looked at me. Weighing something. Deciding how much he could say. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful. Precise. Every word chosen deliberately.
"Your body will change."
I waited.
"It happens when the pack bond completes. When all the connections are fully formed and stabilized." He held my gaze. "It's biological. Built into what you are."
"What kind of change?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He exhaled slowly. "What I can tell you is that it's unavoidable. It's not a choice. It's not something you can prevent or delay indefinitely."
"And once it starts?"
His jaw tightened. "It can't be stopped."
The words landed. Biological. Unavoidable. Unstoppable. Facts. Cold, clinical facts. No metaphors. No softening. Just the bare bones of a warning stripped of everything that might actually help me understand.
"That's not an answer."
My voice came out harder than I intended. But I wasn't scared. I was angry.
"You're telling me something's going to happen to my body. Something inevitable. Something I can't control." I planted my hands on his desk. "And you won't tell me what it is. What it looks like. What I'm supposed to do when it starts."
"I've told you what I can."
"You've told me nothing. Half a warning isn't a warning—it's a threat."
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or guilt. "I'm not trying to threaten you."
"Then stop talking in riddles and give me something real."
Cole stood. The movement was abrupt. He pushed back from his desk, put distance between us. Moved to the window and stood with his back to me, hands clasped behind him.
"It's all I can give you right now."
"That's not good enough."
"It has to be."
I stared at his back. At the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension coiled in every muscle.
The bond pulled between us. I felt it—that thread connecting us, humming with something that demanded acknowledgment.
My body wanted to close the distance. Wanted to touch him, force him to turn around, make him look at me while he refused to explain.
I took a step toward him.
He took a step away.
The rejection stung. But it wasn't rejection.
Not really. I could feel the difference through the bond.
He wasn't pushing me away because he didn't want me close.
He was keeping distance because he didn't trust himself to maintain it otherwise.
The restraint was costing him. I could see it in the way he held himself.
Rigid. Controlled. Like he was fighting something that wanted very badly to break free.
"Cole." He didn't turn around. "Whatever you're protecting me from—I can handle it."
"This isn't about what you can handle."
"Then what is it about?"
Silence. I watched his hands clench behind his back. Watched his head bow slightly, like the weight of something was pressing down on him.
"It's about timing," he said finally. "About making sure you're ready. Making sure the bonds are stable enough to support what's coming."
"You keep saying what's coming. Like it's inevitable. Like it's already in motion."
"It is."
"Then why not tell me? Why not prepare me?"
He turned. The look on his face stopped me cold. He was wrecked. Not angry, not guarded—wrecked. Like holding back was tearing him apart from the inside.
"Because some things can't be prepared for." His voice was rough. "Some things have to be experienced to be understood. And if I tell you too soon—if I put words to it before you're ready—"
He stopped. His hand came up. Reached toward me. Then dropped back to his side.
"I can't," he said. "Not yet."
I could have pushed harder. Could have demanded more, refused to leave until he broke and told me everything. Part of me wanted to. But I looked at his face—at the anguish written across it, the visible cost of holding back—and I understood something.
This wasn't cruelty. It wasn't control.
He was trying to protect me. Trying to give me time. And whatever he knew, whatever he couldn't say, telling me would hurt him as much as it would hurt me.
"You're asking me to trust you," I said quietly. "To walk into something blind and just hope it doesn't destroy me."
"I'm asking you to trust that I wouldn't let it."
"How can I trust that when you won't even tell me what it is?"
He had no answer for that. I could see him searching for one—some way to bridge the gap between what he knew and what I needed. But there was nothing. Just silence and the bond stretched tight between us.
"Fine," I said. "Keep your secrets. But when this thing happens—when my body changes and I don't know what's happening to me—I want you to remember this moment. Remember that I asked. That I gave you the chance to prepare me."
I turned toward the door.
"Lumi."
I stopped. Didn't turn around.
"It will require others," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "When it happens. You won't be able to face it alone. The pack—your mates—they'll need to be there. It's not something you can do by yourself."
I looked back at him over my shoulder. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"It's supposed to make you understand. This isn't about control. It isn't about keeping you in the dark for the sake of power." He held my gaze. "It's about making sure you survive it."
The word hit me like ice water. Survive.
"People have died from this?"
He didn't answer. But his silence was answer enough.
I left without another word.
With every step, I felt the bond between us stretch. Tight. Strained. Like a rope pulled to its breaking point.