Chapter 2:
1368 Words
The sun barely pierced the edges of my bedroom window, spilling pale light across the floor in thin, reluctant streams. The night's firelight was gone, the music and laughter swallowed by memory—but the ache it left hadn't faded.
I lay on my side, curled up beneath the covers, heart hammering in a rhythm that felt too fast, too loud. My body remembered every glance, every touch I hadn't wanted, every cruel smirk and whispered laugh that had set my stomach twisting. My wolf shifted restlessly beneath the surface, clawing at me from the inside, furious and trapped just like I was.
I buried my face in the pillow, willing the world to disappear.
But the memory didn't go away. Paxton's smirk, the casual way he had used me to fetch for Hillary, the fleeting glance that had made my heart betray me—it was there. Sharp, bright, impossible to ignore.
I wanted to hate him. I wanted to burn the memory from my mind. I wanted to scream at myself for ever falling into this trap.
And yet... even now, in the pale, unforgiving light of morning, I clung to it.
A part of me, the weakest, most pitiful part, still hoped he might glance my way, even accidentally, and see something there. Something more than what I was—the joke, the shadow, the girl who did everything he commanded.
I pushed myself up on trembling arms, hair falling in wild strands over my face. The floor was cold beneath my feet, the chill biting at my ankles, grounding me in the harsh truth: nothing had changed.
The world had moved on, as it always did. Paxton and Hillary would be out there, laughing, sparkling, moving through the morning like the night had never happened. And I? I was left to stitch myself together from scraps of pride, humiliation, and a hope that was slowly rotting inside me.
I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging the small remnants of comfort close. My wolf growled low inside me, a sound only I could hear.
"Why do you stay?" she asked, voice sharp, frustrated, echoing the words I couldn't speak.
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
Because the truth was simple, pitiful, and devastating: I stayed because even broken, humiliated, and ignored, I loved him.
Paxton Lincoln.
And love, it seemed, was the cruelest chain of all.
I dressed slowly, each movement deliberate, as though the simple act of putting on clothes might armor me against the world. But no fabric could shield me from the memory of last night, from the heat of humiliation still burning in my veins.
My hands trembled slightly as I brushed my hair, trying to tame the wild tangs that reflected my inner chaos. I caught my reflection in the mirror—a pale girl with wide, haunted eyes, lips pressed too tightly together, cheeks still tinged with the remnants of shame.
Even in the harsh light of day, I looked fragile. And fragile was exactly how Paxton wanted me.
I forced myself to breathe, counting silently. One... two... three... every inhale a battle, every exhale a reminder that I couldn't escape him, not yet.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. My mother's voice, cheerful and unaware of the night's events, called softly.
"Lya? Breakfast is ready. Come down when you can."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. Another task, another performance. I needed to move, to function like the rest of the world, even when my heart felt shattered.
As I walked down the stairs, the sunlight spilling through the windows did nothing to lift the weight on my chest. The house smelled like toast and coffee, mundane and ordinary, a stark contrast to the storm of the previous night.
I forced a smile when my mother greeted me, her warmth a cruel reminder of everything normal I didn't have with Paxton.
And yet, despite the day, despite the calm and the ordinary, my mind kept wandering back to him. Paxton. His smirk, his glance, his laughter with her.
Hillary.
I hated that I was still thinking about her, that the ache in my chest deepened at the memory of their closeness. But worse, I hated that part of me—helpless, desperate—still hoped that maybe, just maybe, I would catch a flicker of his attention today.
And then the thought came, sharp as a knife: when had it all changed? When had the boy who had once cared for me, who had once teased me with kindness and looked at me like I mattered, turned so merciless? When had Paxton Lincoln, the one I had loved for two long years, become someone who could hurt me so deliberately, so effortlessly, for the amusement of another?
I sat at the table, fingers curling around the edge, knuckles white. Every sound in the kitchen—the clink of a spoon against a cup, the scrape of toast on a plate—felt magnified. My wolf growled softly inside me, restless and furious.
"Lya..." she whispered, almost pleading. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
Because I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop.
Even if it destroyed me, I couldn't let go.
And so, I sat there, a quiet shadow in the morning light, aching and humiliated, waiting for a world—and a boy—that would never notice me the way I wanted.
The sun had climbed higher when I stepped outside, trying to breathe in the morning air like it could erase last night. But the forest smelled the same—pine and damp earth—and the memory of Paxton's laughter clung to the shadows between the trees.
I spotted them immediately. Paxton leaning casually against the edge of the training field, Hillary at his side, her golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo. They were laughing at something, heads bent close together, the kind of closeness that made my chest tighten so sharply it felt like it might shatter.
I froze at the edge of the clearing, silent, small, pretending I wasn't there. My wolf snarled low in my chest, a growl of fury, of shame, of aching helplessness—but I didn't move. I couldn't.
Hillary's gaze flicked up suddenly, sharp and calculating, and I felt her eyes like a blade cutting across me.
"Well, well..." she purred, loud enough for Paxton to hear. "Look who's finally come out of her little cave. Feeling brave today, Lya?"
My stomach clenched, my hands balled into fists at my sides. I wanted to vanish. I wanted to scream. I wanted to do anything other than stand there like the shadow she saw me as.
Paxton glanced at me briefly, and my heart betrayed me—just for a fraction of a second, I thought he would intervene. That maybe he would tell her to stop. But no. He didn't. Instead, he smirked.
"You're early," he said, his voice calm, teasing. Not soft. Not kind. Just... sharp. Calculated. And I knew what it meant: he had no intention of saving me.
Hillary laughed, tilting her head, enjoying the cruel spotlight she had drawn me into. "Oh, she's cute when she's nervous, don't you think, Pax?"
His hand brushed hers lightly, almost lazily, and my chest twisted with a pain that was equal parts envy and despair. My wolf snarled again, but I pressed my lips together, keeping quiet, keeping small.
I should have left. I wanted to run. But some traitor part of me—my heart, my obsession—kept me rooted in place. Waiting. Watching. Hoping.
Paxton's eyes flicked to me again, just long enough to make me ache, to make me tremble from the weight of unspoken commands. And even though his attention returned to Hillary in the next heartbeat, the brief glance was enough. Enough to remind me that I was tethered to him, bound by something crueler than chains.
I stayed. Silent. Hidden in plain sight. Humiliated, aching, desperate.
Because even when he looked at her, even when he humiliated me, even when he never wanted me... I couldn't stop hoping he might see me someday.
- Writer
