chapter 35
Dante left just after six that morning.
He didn’t rush it. He never did with her.
He stood by the door of the northern residence, adjusting the dark coat that marked him as duty-bound again, the Alpha heir slipping back into place over the boy she had come to know. Still, his eyes softened when they found her.
“I have to go,” he said quietly. “Meetings. Training oversight. A situation near the outer border.”
Her chest tightened even though she nodded. “I know.”
He hesitated, then added, “There are guards posted around the residence and the back grounds. They won’t bother you. They report directly to me.”
She frowned slightly. “So… I’m not allowed outside?”
“You are,” he said immediately. “Anywhere within the perimeter. Yard, clearing, Circle. Just not beyond the outer fence without me.” His voice gentled. “I don’t want you feeling trapped.”
She studied his face, then nodded again. “Okay.”
He stepped closer, careful not to touch her unless she invited it. “I’ll be back late afternoon.”
“Be safe,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, warmth. “Always.”
And then he was gone, guards falling into step behind him, the weight of the world settling back onto his shoulders.
The house felt bigger without him.
Too quiet.
Ferial wandered the back yard sometime later, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as the cold crept in. The northern residence opened into a wide stretch of fenced land—bare trees, hardened soil, patches of grass fighting to survive. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was open, and that was enough.
She sat on a low stone bench near the back wall, knees pulled to her chest, breath fogging in the air.
She missed them.
The thought came sharp and sudden—her grandparents, her grandmother’s constant murmuring, her grandfather’s heavy presence even when he was angry. The smell of old cooking oil and worn fabric. The broken couch she had cried herself to sleep on more times than she could count.
And Abdie.
Her chest ached as memories spilled in uninvited.
She remembered Abdie leaning against a wall, arms crossed, smirk ready.
Abdie telling her, “You walk like you’re apologizing for existing,” and her snapping back, “At least I walk, you just stand in the way.” Abdie stealing food from markets and swearing it “fell into his hands.” Abdie knocking twice on her window at night just to make sure she was home.
She could almost hear his voice.
You’d survive anywhere, Ferial. You just don’t see it yet.
She pressed her face into her sleeve, blinking back tears. Wolves, fate, mates—none of it had prepared her for the quiet grief of missing the life she hadn’t realized she loved so fiercely.
By the time the sun dipped lower, the cold had seeped into her bones. She retreated inside, exhaustion weighing her down. She crawled into bed fully dressed, wrapping herself in blankets until only her eyes peeked out.
She didn’t eat.
Part of her was afraid to ask. Afraid of being watched. Afraid of doing something wrong in a house that wasn’t truly hers.
When the door opened late in the afternoon, she stirred.
Soft footsteps.
“Ferial?”
Dante’s voice.
She turned her head slowly. He stood near the doorway, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly wind-tossed, fatigue etched into his face. But when he saw her bundled under the blankets, something in him softened immediately.
“Hey,” he said gently, moving closer. “I’m back.”
She managed a small smile. “You’re late.”
“I know.” He set a large paper bag on the side table. “I brought food.”
She blinked. “You… brought food?”
“Yes,” he said, like it was obvious. “Takeaways.”
She frowned. “Take… what?”
He chuckled quietly and sat at the edge of the bed. “Food you buy already cooked. Wolves started doing it for patrol shifts. There are stalls set up near the training grounds outside the district. Humans and wolves working together, surprisingly.”
He began pulling things out of the bag. Containers. Wrapped items. Bottles.
“This is spiced chicken flatbread,” he explained, opening one.
“This one’s rice, beef and vegetables.
This is something sweet—don’t ask me what it’s called, my mother would be offended if I guessed wrong.
Maybe some desert.” He lifted two bottles.
“Fruit juice. This one’s mango. This one’s… something red.”
She stared at the spread, overwhelmed. “You did all this… for me?”
He glanced at her. “You hadn’t eaten. The guards informed me.”
Her throat tightened.
He shifted closer, careful again, not crowding her. “You don’t have to eat everything. Or anything. But I wanted you to have the option.”
She sat up slowly, pulling the blankets tighter around herself. “Thank you.”
They ate quietly for a few moments. She picked at the food at first, then slowly found herself actually hungry. Dante watched without comment, relief flickering in his eyes when she took real bites.
After a while, he spoke softly. “Can I ask you something?”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“What was school like for you… in the district?”
Her hand stilled.
She thought about lying. About softening it.
Instead, she told the truth.
“It was overcrowded. Loud. Half the teachers didn’t care because we were human. The other half cared too much and burned out.” She shrugged. “We shared books. Sometimes chairs. Sometimes classrooms lost power for weeks. You learned fast or you got left behind.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“We weren’t taught to dream,” she continued quietly. “We were taught to behave. To count. To read signs and curfews. Education was… survival-based.”
He swallowed. “I didn’t know.”
She gave a sad smile. “You weren’t meant to.”
He leaned back slightly, staring at the floor. “My schooling was nothing like that. Private tutors. Combat theory. History. Languages. Strategy. Politics.” He shook his head. “And friends who stayed because they wanted to, not because they were trapped with me.”
“Are you still close to them?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Very. They’re… my sanity. They treat me like Dante first, heir second.”
She smiled faintly. “That sounds nice.”
“It is.” He glanced at her. “What did you do outside of school?”
She laughed softly. “Survive. Help my grandparents. Argue with Abdie. Sit on rooftops and complain about everything.” Her eyes warmed with memory. “We made games out of nothing. We talked about leaving even though we knew we wouldn’t.”
“And now?” he asked gently.
“And now I’m here,” she said honestly. “Trying to understand how my life became this.”
He reached out then—not touching, just resting his hand on the mattress near hers. “You don’t have to stop being that girl. Not for me.”
She met his gaze. “I don’t want to lose her, but part of her is the district as well.”
“You won’t,” he promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”
"Stop saying that. You only say that to make things go away."
She exhaled, leaning back against the pillows, exhaustion finally easing. Outside, patrols moved, the world kept turning. But inside the room, there was food, warmth, and someone who listened.
And for tonight, that was enough. Maybe not enough to stop the loneliness and heartache of missing everyone, but enough to steady her wild heart.