Chapter 13
YVAINE
Working in a hospital, I met death more often than most humans or werewolves ever would.
Death. The one constant that terrified the masses and seduced the poets.
To me, death wasn’t a metaphor. It was the flatline after a desperate round of CPR, the asystole that stared back from a monitor. It was the rupture of an aneurysm, the malignant recurrence that laughed in the face of remission.
Death was also the quiet implosion in a parent’s gaze when we delivered the tough news. We did everything we could. We became its mouthpiece, its messenger in a sterile gown.
And sometimes, death wore our own faces. A slip of a scalpel. A dosage miscalculated. A decision made a second too late.
Most people never think about mortality until it brushes against their own, until death’s radar locks onto someone they love.
In my family, it had a permanent seat at our table. It had walked side by side with my family since my little brother’s birth. A constant fight between us and death. Between the progress of medicine and the unknown. Between hope and failure.
As I stared at Ian’s bedroom door, I took a deep breath to ease the guilt.
Since I had arrived at my parents’ house two days ago, a four-hour bumpy car ride away from campus and into the mountains, I hadn’t yet built up the courage to visit him. I always postponed, like the cowardly excuse maker I was.
And then, the evening before returning to campus, there I was, with my hand resting on the doorknob.
Uncertain and weak.
I could hear a stable heartbeat and regular breaths coming from inside.
Ian, a ball of perky energy, was forced into bed most of the time, wasting years of his childhood, one after another.
And that was why I stayed. Why I turned down my scholarship in Switzerland. Why Lachlan gave up Scotland.
Because if we left, Ian wouldn’t have us. If we left, our parents wouldn’t just lose one child—they’d lose all three.
When I finally convinced myself to open the door, careful not to make a noise, I spotted the little werewolf sleeping soundly.
His small body under a thin blue sheet covered in snowflakes, was in the same red, Ferrari-shaped bed, in the same colorful room that served as his whole universe.
Walls were hung with drawings and pictures of an outside world he never saw, and big wooden baskets were filled with toys he rarely used.
It was at that moment that the dam broke, and I began to cry like a feeble soul.
Tears of rage, against the injustices of the world. Tears of frustration, because I loved him so much. Tears of anguish, for those years we wouldn’t share together. So many memories that Ian would not be part of. My nails dug bloody half-moons into my palms.
Ian couldn’t see me like this. He would catch my scent eventually and wake up from his peaceful sleep.
I rushed out, closing the door behind me.
Worst sister of the year.
I sank to the floor and leaned my head against the wall. My arms wrapped around my knees, as if a self-administered hug could comfort me.
The setting sun cast deep shadows over the depictions of our gods etched into the ceiling. It was getting late. My father and I had arranged to run in the woods again before dinner.
I sat there for a long time, watching the changing sunrays moving like a ticking clock through the corridor filled with childhood memories.
I could picture smaller versions of Lachlan and me sprinting down the hall.
Our dad had scolded us countless times for breaking or dirtying something, and Mom had high-fived us behind his back.
My phone rang in my pocket, but I ignored it, determined to remain in my gloomy thoughts.
Probably Tiziano or Makena wondering about my whereabouts; I’d shut down the mind-link with everyone, even my wolf. High walls fortified my mind.
When it rang again, I pulled it out. Stillness wrapped around me like fog as I stared at the unknown number glowing on the screen. My vision blurred at the edges.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
But this wasn’t just anyone.
“H-hello?” My voice cracked as I sniffled, eyes closing as I leaned my head back against the door again. Ian was still asleep.
“Hello there, witch!” came the overly chirpy voice that never failed to screw with my heart rate. “Hope you’ve fastened your broomseat, because my revenge is gonna—”
He stopped when I let slip a sob.
In a voice so cautious it startled me, he asked, “A-are you crying?”
I marveled at how my body and mind eased, tension melting from my shoulders.
“Not anymore,” I whispered, running a hand over my wet cheeks. “You interrupted my cryme scene.”
I expected mockery. Some smart-ass comment.
Oddly, neither came.
“Who made you cry?” he asked, voice rough, almost…pissed? “Don’t you have, like, a brother who deals with that crap?”
The genuine concern threw me off.
“Nobody made me cry…” I trailed off, pondering what to tell this perfect stranger.
“If it’s about the flyers and the whole OnlyFans thing, fine.” He exhaled, voice only a fraction louder than the howling of the wind outside. “Don’t worry, I’ll take it off. But seriously, stop crying.”
“Not a fan of tears?”
“My worst enemy,” he grumbled.
I chuckled, craning my neck. “Let me guess, you don’t know what to do when someone cries?”
“I know exactly what to do,” he said. “Run.”
I surprised myself with a laugh. “You must run a lot. I’m sure you make plenty of people cry.”
“That I do.” He perked up like a switch had flipped. “In a wereball match.”
I paused, his early comment coming back to me. “Hey, wait, what do you mean by flyers?” And did he just say OnlyFans?!
LOGAN
Something unfamiliar twisted in my chest when the unknown, irritating-as-hell girl cried.
I made people cry as a non-declared hobby, like my fans when I scored. Players when I smashed their faces in. My gran when she pretended I didn’t visit enough. Girls when I made them come.
But this, here? This was different. This irked me in the wrong way.
That gorgeous voice broken by sobs.
My hand raked through my tousled blond locks as I paced back and forth.
My size wasn’t meant for the tiny space I’d holed up in to call the girl, but I didn’t want my friends to overhear my conversation.
Or to know about her at all, a Comet girl.
I wanted to keep her separate from my life, keep her just for myself.
She didn’t know who I was, and I liked that. I wanted her to treat me like I was just another werewolf. Someone who didn’t fangirl all over me or get obsessed. The more distance, the better—especially if I wanted to keep my secret intact.
But I had to call and gloat about my brilliant revenge-in-progress. I’d put real effort into this one. They haven’t called me Prank King since tenth grade for nothing.
I had to admit, though, the Yvaine girl and her moronic friend had imagination.
Their little stunt was almost impressive, and a cause of great irritation.
My inbox was still crawling with doms and sugar daddies.
Hell, one more warty dick pic from some optimistic old man, and I’d just trash my phone and get a new one.
Ultra-competitive as I was, I never lost. Whether it was winning a game or a girl, victory was instinct. Consequences were optional.
The girl with the most angelic voice had thrown down the gauntlet.
But then, she’d cried.
And I’d rather get Camilla tattooed across my ass than hear her cry.
I swallowed, pawing my neck. I was supposed to win. Instead, I felt like the biggest loser alive.
“Excuse me, what flyers are you talking about?” Yvaine asked again, her tone steady despite the sad edge.
“What? Flyers? Nope.” I popped the p and a shoulder. “Didn’t say that. You misheard me.”
Smooth.
She didn’t argue. Just sighed, quiet and defeated, like she had no strength for verbal arguments. A flicker of disappointment shot through my chest. I liked arguing with her.
Calling Yvaine from Comet different from the other girls sounded like a cliché, but hell, there was no better way to put it.
“But tell me, why were you crying if it wasn’t about the fly—um, never mind. Just tell me why you were crying.” I cleared my throat.
She heaved out a shaky sigh. “It’s just…sometimes there’s too much injustice in the world. I keep telling myself I have the power to change things, to fix them, but sometimes I just don’t. And I hate that.”
“You know…” I rubbed my jaw. “One thing I’ve learned over the years is that we don’t always have control. So I let life happen. Doesn’t mean I like it, but I’ve stopped fighting what’s beyond my reach.” I paused, letting her absorb my words. “Which is very little.”
“I hate not being in control. I’m a control freak!” Yvaine proclaimed.
The hairs on my arms rose. That voice. Assertive and sweet, always edged with a hint of snark.
Every word landed with structure, precise and proper, like a dictation she refused to mess up.
“We all are, in our own way. But even when you can’t control what happens, you can always control how you react. ”
“How?” she asked.
I grinned.
“I go for a run. Call a girl,” I said casually, and Yvaine huffed. My grin widened. “I hang out with my friends or my sister.”
“You have a sister?”
I scratched the black diamond tattooed over my knee. Which tattoo would be her favorite? Does she even like tattoos? “Yeah. Trix’s cool.”
“Are you sure you guys are related?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“Wow, Rudy, I didn’t know you were such a softie.” She giggled.
I swore under my breath, adjusting my pants. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never a softie.”
Those tears must have short-circuited my brain. I’d already shared more information about myself than I had planned, and now, stupid words were spilling out.
“What made you feel like this today?” My tone came out soft, and I frowned at the tenderness. “Not that you need a reason.”
“I don’t?”
“I don’t think so. Life’s already hard enough.”