Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Mia
The days after the Howling Ceremony felt like walking a tightrope—slow, careful, breath held.
I'd agreed to stay another month, but that decision didn't bring reconciliation.
It brought a strange, suspended calm. Zane stopped looking at me like I was his last lifeline.
Instead, he watched me with extreme caution, like he was afraid of stepping on a landmine.
He had the kitchen make Lily's favorite honey pancakes for breakfast. He'd "run into" us in the garden, pretending he just happened to be passing by.
At dusk, he'd sit by the fountain, keeping his distance, watching Lily play. Never approaching.
Like a big dog who knew he wasn't welcome, staying obediently outside the boundary his owner had drawn.
Lily's attitude toward him didn't soften. She'd tuck away her smile when he appeared. She'd deliberately pull me in the opposite direction. She'd glare at him with that unfiltered hostility only a four-year-old could muster. But one night, as I tucked her in, she grabbed my sleeve.
"Mommy," she said quietly, "Zane gave me a little wooden horse today."
"I know."
"The horse looks like that big gray wolf he turns into." She paused. "I put it on the windowsill."
"You didn't play with it?"
She was quiet for a moment. "...Maybe a little. But the wheels were crooked, so I put it down."
I bit back a smile. I'd seen her playing with that horse plenty of times.
But I didn't call her out.
The shift happened on the fourth evening.
That day, I was picking wildflowers in the garden with Lily. Zane sat far off by the fountain with a book, pretending to read. I knew he wasn't reading—his eyes lifted from the pages every few seconds, stealing glances at Lily before darting back down like a thief.
Lily knew he was watching too. She deliberately kept her back to him, but I noticed she picked the brightest, most vibrant flowers, arranging them carefully into a bouquet—as if she knew someone was admiring her work.
Then something small happened.
Lily chased a butterfly too far and tripped over a tree root. Her knee hit the stone path, scraping off a layer of skin. She didn't cry—she rarely cried—but her eyes reddened, tears pooling but not falling, her lip caught between her teeth.
Before I could reach her, Zane was already up.
He strode over and crouched in front of her, not touching, just meeting her at eye level.
"Does it hurt?" His voice was soft.
Lily nodded stubbornly. One tear finally fell.
Zane was silent for two seconds. Then he did something that surprised me—he shifted into his wolf form, lowered his head, and gently touched his nose to the scrape on Lily's knee.
His tongue extended, carefully licking away the dirt around the wound with movements so delicate, like he was handling something fragile and precious.
Lily froze. She stared down at this massive silver-gray wolf crouched before her, tending to her injury in that clumsy, animal way, momentarily forgetting to cry.
Then she reached out, hesitated, and lightly touched his ear.
Zane's body went rigid.
Lily touched it again.
His tail began to wag slowly, uncertainly.
"Your ears are so soft," Lily said, her voice still tearful but now tinged with curiosity. "Softer than Aunt Emma's rabbit's ears."
Zane didn't move, letting her pet him.
I stood there watching, emotions swirling.
That night, as I bathed Lily, she suddenly spoke. "Mommy, when Zane turns into a wolf, he's not as scary anymore."
"No?"
"Nope. When he licked my scrape, his tongue was warm and tickly." She thought about it. "And his ears really are soft."
"So you forgive him?"
She tilted her head, considering. "If he hurt Mommy, then I don't forgive him."
My hands stilled. My eyes stung.
"He didn't," I heard myself say. "Mommy doesn't get hurt easily."
Lily nodded and hugged me.
The next day, Zane flew a paper kite in the garden—nothing fancy, just paper and bamboo, but he got it high, almost touching the clouds. Lily stared up at it for a while, then asked with feigned casualness, "Did you make that kite?"
"Yeah," Zane said, not looking at her, his tone as casual as discussing weather. "When I was little, no one played with me, so I made kites. Made them for years. Got better and better."
Lily was quiet for a few seconds. "Teach me."
Not a question. A statement. With that "I've decided, you just need to cooperate" tone—exactly like me.
Zane's mouth twitched, but he controlled himself and didn't smile. "Sure. Tomorrow afternoon, I'll get the materials."
The next afternoon, they sat in the garden for two hours, Zane teaching Lily how to make a kite.
Lily got glue all over her hands, tore the paper three times, and constructed a crooked bamboo frame that looked utterly unflyable.
Zane never frowned, never sighed. He just patiently handed her materials, occasionally reaching over to adjust an angle.
That kite barely got off the ground—flew maybe six feet before diving headfirst into the fountain.
Lily stood at the pool's edge, staring at the soaked kite. Three seconds of silence.
Then she laughed.
It was the first real laugh she'd given Zane in days—a pure, genuine four-year-old laugh, showing two little canine teeth, eyes crinkling into crescents.
Zane stood beside her, watching her laugh like he was witnessing the sun rise in the west.
That night, Lily lay in bed and suddenly said, "Mommy, maybe Zane isn't so bad."
My hand paused while tucking in her blanket. "No?"
"Nope. He makes kites pretty well. Even though he's clumsy and got glue in my hair."
"So you like him now?"
She thought seriously. "Don't know. But—I can keep observing."
I almost laughed.
"Okay," I said. "You observe."
She closed her eyes. After a moment, they opened again. "Mommy."
"Mm?"
"Will he always be good to us?"
That question pierced me like a fine needle. I looked at Lily's eyes, so bright even in dim light—eyes that had inherited Zane's gray-blue tone but carried my spirit.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But that doesn't matter."
Lily thought about it, nodded, then turned over, pulled the blanket to her chin, and closed her eyes.
I sat by her bed, watching her peaceful face, complex emotions churning inside me. Forgiveness was too heavy a word. Too heavy for me to carry yet.
The next two weeks, I became a full-time veterinarian trying to fix a wolf who couldn't howl.
Honestly, it felt absurd. I was the mute orphan who couldn't speak, now teaching a former alpha how to make sound. Fate was definitely laughing somewhere.
I started giving him "lessons" every evening in the garden.
I had him shift into wolf form, then I'd stand facing him, making simple sounds—"Ahhh—" "Ohhh—" "Wooo—" like teaching a baby to talk. He'd open his mouth, follow along, producing broken, hoarse gasps of air. Occasionally, he'd squeeze out a note or two, but mostly just futile panting.
Days passed like this. During the day, I explored the palace with Lily—we discovered a secret room in the library filled with ancient sheet music, found a massive oak tree deep in the garden we could climb, and the old cook would sneak us chocolate lava cakes.
At night, I continued Zane's "lessons," though we made little progress.
Once, I sat on a garden bench watching the sunset paint the sky orange-red. Lily chased a firefly across the lawn, her laughter ringing like silver bells in the twilight. Zane sat on the grass beside me, leaning against a tree, eyes closed, breathing steady.
"You know," I began, not looking at him, "these past few days have been the most relaxed I've felt in five years."
He opened his eyes and turned to look at me.
"Not because I've forgiven you," I added, my tone calmer than expected. "Just because—I can finally breathe for a minute."
He said nothing. But he reached out, tentatively, lightly, and touched my fingers.
That touch was feather-light. I could have pulled away. Should have pulled away. But I didn't.
I just sat there, watching the sun sink lower, feeling the warmth of his fingertips, thinking: This is dangerous. You know this is dangerous. But my body wouldn't listen.
Then all that fragile beauty shattered two weeks later on an afternoon.
That day, I went to the palace wine cellar to fetch a bottle of red—the old cook said she needed a good vintage for tonight's wine-braised beef.
The cellar was massive, dimly lit, air thick with oak barrels and fermenting grapes.
I walked down the narrow corridor, fingers sliding over dusty bottle labels, searching for the one the cook mentioned.
Then I smelled something.
Sweet. Too sweet. Like rotting flowers mixed with chemicals.
Before I could turn, a wet cloth covered my mouth and nose.
That sickly-sweet smell flooded my nostrils and throat.
My brain shut down instantly. The lights began spinning, blurring, fracturing into countless shards.
My knees buckled, body pitching forward, but hands caught me—rough, calloused hands, the kind left by hard labor.
My last conscious thought: I've been fucking played.
When I woke up, I was somewhere completely unfamiliar.
A cave. Cold, damp, reeking of mold. Torches jutted from the walls, orange flames flickering, casting twisted shadows. The air smelled of earth and blood, making my stomach churn.
My hands were bound behind me, rope digging tight into my wrists. A cloth stuffed my mouth, throat dry as sandpaper.
Then I saw her.
Leah.
She stood in the center of the cave, back to me, wearing a filthy black dress. Her golden hair hung in tangled clumps like dead straw. She was much thinner—cheekbones jutting, collarbones protruding like knife edges from her neckline. In her hand: a dagger, blade glinting coldly in the firelight.
She turned around.
I almost didn't recognize her. Her eyes—once lake-blue—were now bloodshot, pupils dilated, burning with unstable fervor. Her mouth curved in a smile, but not a normal smile. Something twisted, carved into her face with a blade.