CHAPTER 6
1613 Words
Dinner had to be made, even after everything.
I didn’t want to think about the older couple in the living room. I didn’t want to think about the way they had looked at me, like I was something they owned. I didn’t want to think about the word they had used. Granddaughter.
My hands shook as I chopped vegetables. The knife hit the cutting board over and over in a steady rhythm. It kept me from thinking. It kept me from screaming.
Luna Elsie usually helped me with dinner, but tonight she was gone. She had gone off with Alpha Joseph as soon as the argument had ended. I didn’t know where. I didn’t care. Their voices had faded down the hall, low and urgent, leaving me with nothing but the hiss of the stove and the hollow ache in my chest.
The kitchen smelled like onions and herbs. The pots clanged softly as I stirred them. The heat from the stove made the back of my neck tingle. My wolf shifted uneasily beneath my skin, pacing and restless. The scent of strangers still clung to the air, sharp and invasive, and I couldn’t scrub it from my senses.
I couldn’t stop imagining those older wolves—my so-called grandparents—watching me, deciding what they had the right to take. Their eyes had been full of recognition and something darker. Claiming. Possession. As though I were a thing and not a person. The thought made my stomach twist. I gripped the wooden spoon tighter until my knuckles whitened. If I focused on the food, on the rhythm, maybe I could hold myself together a little longer.
Jax leaned against the counter, arms crossed tight, jaw set. He didn’t say a word. He just watched me—every flick of my wrist, every tremor in my fingers—as though I might shatter without warning.
I could feel his worry like heat crawling up my spine.
“Stop staring,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on the cutting board.
He didn’t move. “I’m making sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I snapped.
“You’re not.”
The knife came down harder than I meant it to, the blade clattering against the wood. The sound cracked through the kitchen like a gunshot. “I said I’m fine.”
Silence fell. Only the bubbling pot and the scrape of my spoon filled the air. The kitchen felt too small, too hot, like the walls were closing in.
Finally, his voice cut through, low and careful. “You don’t have to talk about it. But you can.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I hissed. My voice broke, jagged and raw. “I don’t even remember those people. I don’t know them.”
He stayed quiet, but his gaze burned into my back, unrelenting.
I swallowed hard. “I knew this place was too good to be true. Someone was going to come and take it all away.”
“They’re not taking you anywhere,” Jax said, his tone hard enough to break stone.
I shook my head, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. “You can’t stop it. No one can. It’s a werewolf contract. You know what that means. You’re a future Alpha. You know exactly what that means.”
“I don’t care what it means,” he growled, pushing off the counter. He stepped closer, each footfall heavy. “I’m not going to let it happen.”
I spun to face him, spoon clenched in my fist like a weapon. “Why would you even want to? It’s just one less burden for you.”
His eyes flashed with something dangerous. “You’re not a burden.”
I looked away, throat tightening. “Yes, I am.”
“You’re not,” he said again, softer but no less fierce.
I didn’t answer. I turned back to the stove, stirring furiously, clinging to the smell of cooking food like it could anchor me. My chest hurt. My vision blurred.
Jax didn’t leave. He stood there, silent and immovable, like a wall between me and the world. And the kitchen felt like a trap we’d both been locked inside.
Later that night I sat on the edge of my bed, a notebook heavy on my knees. The house breathed around me — slow, measured, as if it were pretending to sleep. Everyone else had already surrendered to it. I hadn't.
My pen scraped the page in ragged, careful strokes. Words came out like small wounds: fragments, accusations, things too sharp to speak aloud. Anger pooled at the base of my throat; fear tightened the ribs beneath it. My wolf prowled just beneath my skin, restless and cold, claws tapping at the inside of my bones.
Somewhere in the hallway, a floorboard sighed. I froze. Time thinned.
A knock cut the silence — precise, urgent. Before I could answer, Jax slipped into the doorway. His hair was a mess; his eyes were all knife-edge determination. He moved like someone who'd already decided the outcome.
“Get up.” He whispered. No softness. No invitation.
“What?” My voice sounded small, unfamiliar.
“Come on.” He scarcely closed the door behind him. The sound was another seal. “My parents are asleep. We’re going downstairs.”
“Why?” The word trembled between us.
He came closer until I could see the tight line at his mouth. “We’re going to find out what’s in that contract.”
My pulse spiked so hard I felt it in my molars. “Are you insane? That’s the Alpha’s office. We’re not allowed in there.”
“I don’t care.” The words were flat, dangerous. He reached for my hand like he was pulling me over an edge. “Come on.”
I shoved the notebook under my pillow with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Standing felt like stepping into cold water. “Fine. But if we get caught, it’s your fault.”
He let a small, crooked grin break through — not amusement, but a promise. “Always is.”
We moved through the house like ghosts. Moonlight sketched pale maps across the floor; every shadow looked like a waiting thing. Each step down the stairs was a small betrayal: the wood sighed, the banister whispered. Behind us, the house slept on, ignorant and enormous. Ahead, the Alpha’s door loomed like a closed mouth, and in my chest something fierce and foolish began to rise.
We reached the Alpha’s office. Jax pulled a key from his pocket.
“You stole his key?” I whispered.
“Borrowed.” He whispered back. “Now hurry.”
He unlocked the door, and we slipped inside.
The office smelled like leather and paper. Books lined the walls. The Alpha’s desk was huge, polished, and covered in neat stacks of files.
We started searching.
Drawers opened and closed. Papers shuffled. My hands trembled as I looked through them. My name wasn’t anywhere. Nothing about me. Nothing about a contract.
“Nothing.” I hissed. “There’s nothing here.”
Jax looked frustrated. “It has to be somewhere.”
“It’s not.” I said. “We know what a werewolf contract is worth. There’s nothing we can do about it. It’s binding.”
He slammed a drawer shut. “I don’t care. I’m going to find a way.”
“We can’t.” I said, my voice breaking. “You can’t stop it.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Why?” I demanded, turning to face him. “Why do you even care so much?”
“Because.” He said, stepping closer. “Because I care about you.”
I stared at him. “You care about me?”
“I care about you a lot more than people think.” He said quietly.
“You’re not making sense.” I whispered.
He opened his mouth to say something else — and then we both froze.
A sound.
Footsteps.
Someone was moving upstairs.
“Come on.” He whispered, grabbing my hand.
We ran quietly out of the office and up the stairs to the attic. We pushed open the small window and climbed out onto the roof.
The night air hit my face, cold and sharp. The roof was dark under the stars. We crouched low, breathing hard.
Below us, the packhouse was silent again. No one came.
We sat there, hearts racing.
We still didn’t know what the contract said. We still didn’t know what was going to happen.
Jax sat close to me, his knee brushing mine. His breathing was still fast.
“I’m going to do whatever I can to stop it.” He said finally.
“Why?” I asked softly. “Why do you care so much?”
He turned to me. His eyes were dark and serious in the moonlight.
“Because I care about you.” He said again. “More than you know.”
I shook my head. “You’re not making sense.”
He didn’t answer. He just leaned in slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
My heart thumped so hard it felt like it might break through my ribs. I wanted to pull away. I wanted to fight the feeling. But… I couldn’t.
And then, before I could say another word, he kissed me.
The moonlight spilled across us, silver and cold, and all the fear, all the questions, all the doubt — everything — seemed to disappear for just one moment.
It was as if the world had shrunk to only the two of us.
- Writer
