The tea scalds my palms through the ceramic, but I hold the mug tighter anyway, letting the heat anchor me to this moment as I climb the stairs toward the guest bedroom where Ricky rests.
The packhouse has gone quiet in the hours since Sarah’s departure. I watched from the window as she loaded a single suitcase into a car that appeared from somewhere in the garage, her movements stiff with humiliation she couldn’t quite hide.
No dramatic farewell, no final threats. Just a woman stripped of everything she’d built, driving away into the darkness while the pack she’d manipulated for months slept oblivious in their beds.
Elena left thirty minutes ago, pronouncing Ricky dehydrated and bruised but structurally intact. The words “no permanent damage” echoed through the hallway like a blessing I didn’t deserve to receive.
I push open the door with my hip, balancing two mugs of chamomile that steam in the cool air of the corridor.
Ricky sits propped against a mountain of pillows, her wild curls freshly washed and wrapped in a towel that makes her look somehow cute.
The bruises on her face have deepened to purple-black in the hours since her rescue, stark against brown skin that has lost its usual warmth.
But her eyes are sharp, alert, tracking my entrance like she has survived something and needs to understand exactly what that something was.
“You look terrible,” she says, accepting the mug I offer with hands that tremble only slightly. “Though I suppose I can’t judge, given that I currently resemble a domestic abuse awareness poster.”
“Don’t joke about that.” I settle into the chair beside her bed, curling my legs beneath me and wrapping both hands around my own tea. “What you went through isn’t material for humor.”
“Everything is material for humor when the alternative is screaming into a pillow until my throat gives out.” Ricky takes a careful sip, wincing as the heat touches her split lip. “So. Werewolves. That’s a thing that exists, apparently. Would have been nice to know before I watched my best friend leap over my head in wolf form and crash through my back door.”
The guilt settles into my stomach like a stone dropped into still water.
“I should have told you months ago,” I say, and the inadequacy of the apology makes my voice crack. “I should have trusted you with the truth instead of constructing lies that put you in danger.”
“Why didn’t you?” The question carries no accusation, only genuine curiosity. “You know things about my past that could get me killed if the wrong people found out. Why was this different?”
I stare into my tea, watching steam curl upward in lazy spirals that dissipate before reaching my face. The chamomile smells like the kitchen at Ricky’s café, like ordinary mornings and safety and a life I thought I’d lost forever.
“Because being a werewolf isn’t just a physical transformation, Ricky.” The words emerge slowly, dragged from somewhere I’ve been avoiding. “It’s an entire world with rules, hierarchies, and expectations.”
Ricky nods, processing the explanation with the same analytical mind that helped her disappear from one life and build another from nothing. “What about Paul and Zane? Where do they fit into this werewolf existence you’ve been hiding?”
The question makes heat rise to my cheeks despite my best efforts to control it.
“Paul is the Alpha of this pack,” I begin, choosing my words with care. “He’s intense and possessive and has a tendency to make decisions without consulting anyone else. Zane is his brother, the Beta, and he’s gentler but no less protective. They’re both territorial in ways that would seem excessive if I didn’t understand the wolf instincts driving the behavior.”
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