Page 104 of Full Moon
Chapter 45
Torben
My little wolfkeeps forgetting that we can sense her before she even steps inside.
The moment she's close, it's like a pulse that echoes through our bond—a soft warmth that saysshe's here, she's safe, she's coming home. She doesn't realize we've already felt her approach, so she lingers outside the window, thinking she's unseen, peering through the frosted glass as if deciding whether or not to join us.
I can picture her out there, hesitating, watching us move around the kitchen like she's afraid to disturb the peace we've created. Finally, the door creaks open, and she steps inside. Her presence fills the room like the first break of sunlight after a long, frozen night. We all turn to her, and she's smiling, holding the remains of her bread bowl, her fingers tearing at it absentmindedly as she chews.
"Rose got ya?" I chuckle, keeping my tone light.
But the moment the words leave my mouth, her smile falters. The joy slips away like sand through fingers, and the room seemsto hold its breath with her. The air thickens with tension I can feel pressing against my skin.
"There's a lot to fix in both packs," she says, her voice softer now, weighted with unspoken burdens that have been building since she first set foot in the north. She shakes her head and tears off another piece of bread, chewing mechanically, like she's trying to swallow bitterness alongside the grain.
Diaval, always direct, cuts straight to the heart of it. "What needs fixing?"
She raises a hand, silencing him before he can probe further. "Packs have and need structure. That doesn't mean you abuse or torture the weaker wolves." Her eyes light up with that familiar fire—the one that blazes to life when she's angry or determined, the one that warns anyone who thinks they can hurt her people without facing her wrath. "Everyone has a purpose. Everyone has value." I can feel her anger bleeding through our bond, sharp and raw, searing me as if it's my own.
I cross the room in a heartbeat and pull her into my arms, holding her close, grounding her, grounding us both. She leans into me, her body tense beneath my hands, and I can feel the tremor in her fingers as she clings to the remnants of the bread like it's the only thing tethering her to reality.
"What happened?" I ask, knowing it's better to face the wound now than let it fester. If we don't, she won't sleep tonight, and neither will any of us.
"Alec called Rose a lesser wolf," she whispers, but there's no softness in the growl that escapes her throat. It's laced with the kind of fury that only comes from someone who's been hurt too many times, who's seen too much cruelty disguised as tradition.
"What did he mean by a lesser wolf?" Khal asks softly, sliding closer to offer her a cup of chamomile tea laced with honey. His concern is genuine, but it's more than that—he wants to understand, to peel back the layers of what Alec said and why it cuts so deep.
Feray's gaze hardens, a glint of ice-blue flickering in her eyes as her wolf rises to guide her thoughts. "There are ranks in a pack," she explains, gesturing toward herself. "Luna or Alpha at the top. Then you have Betas like Alec, Dorian, and Jurian—advisors who help maintain discipline. Deltas take care of the wounded and the ill, check the borders. There are more of them than any other rank."
She takes a deliberate bite of her bread, giving herself a moment to compose the rage I can feel building beneath her skin like pressure in a sealed container. When she continues, her voice carries the weight of years of suppressed anger. "Omegas aren't like the stories people tell. They're the bottom rung, the weakest. Not sought after by Alphas unless they're a fated mate, and even then, it's rare that they're treated well." Her hands shake, and I tighten my hold on her. "They're abused. Sold as slaves. Treated like they're worth less than nothing."
A low, feral growl rumbles from her chest, vibrating through my bones and igniting every protective instinct I possess. I hate seeing her like this—so close to the edge, the past scraping raw wounds that never truly healed.
Easton steps in, refilling her cup, his presence a calming balm. "What do you wish to do about it?"
"Order is the key to survival," she mutters, leaning into me as if seeking strength from my body heat. "But just because someone isn't as strong as I am doesn't mean they deserve to be treatedhorribly." Another growl escapes her, sharper this time, tinged with the bitterness of scars she's carried for years.
"I was treated like dirt because I didn't have magic. Like I was nothing. Like I didn't deserve to exist." Her body trembles, but it's not fear—it's rage, pure and blistering, simmering just beneath the surface. "And now I find out my own packs have been doing the same thing to others. Under my watch. With my name attached to it." I can feel the storm building inside her, and I know that if she doesn't control it, she could hurt someone without meaning to. Her power is still new, still unpredictable, and anger has a way of making everything worse.
"Deep breath, Feray," I whisper, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. You're no good to anyone if you lose control. Innocent people could get hurt." She takes a shaky breath, fighting to rein in the tempest inside her. I offer her one last reassuring squeeze before gently urging her toward Easton.
"Let him take you up for a bath. Make sure you're okay after that storm squall." I manage a small smile and pat her on the ass, lightening the moment just enough to coax a faint smile from her. "He's worse than a mother hen, always worrying." As she leaves, her high-pitched squeal echoing from the stairs as Easton presumably does something inappropriate, I feel the weight of her emotions settle inside me like stones in still water.
This isn't over.
Not by a long shot.
"That was close," Diaval muses, cocking his head as Feray's laughter drifts down from above.
His casual demeanor doesn't match the unease twisting in my gut. We're always walking a razor's edge between calm and chaos where Feray is concerned—especially lately, with everything she's learned about her past, about the councils, about the systematic cruelty that's been woven into the very fabric of shifter society.
"We need to come up with a solid plan to fix the internal workings of her packs when everything is over," I say, the words heavy with frustration. I shake my head, staring down at the tea Easton handed me earlier. "I never would have believed someone could abuse such a sweet woman the way they did." My chest tightens, and I huff out a breath, trying to shake off the lingering anger. The tea is a poor substitute for the fire in my veins, but I sip it anyway, letting the honey and chamomile work their magic.
Khal speaks without lifting his eyes from the blade he's using to clean under his nails. "It's no different with my people. They actually kill off the weaker hatchlings before their first year." His voice is flat, almost detached, but I can see the shadow in his eyes—the old wounds that never quite scarred over. "Khol saved me from that fate by taking my place in the trials. I owe my brother everything." When his phone pings, he rolls his eyes and waves it dismissively. "I'm considering calling in all this bullshit debt early. Use it to build something better when this is over."
There's a honed edge to Khal that wasn't there before—a sharpness born of necessity since he's been separated from his twin. I see so many parallels between him and Feray. Both of them were sheltered and protected by older siblings who bear the scars of battles their younger siblings never knew they fought. Siblings who took on the roles of parent and protector long before they should have.
Khal's become bolder without Khol to shield him, more aggressive, yet there's a steadiness in him that reassures me. He doesn't let his instincts dictate his actions, even when his blood runs hot.
