Lorelai
I wake to the smell of baked bread and chamomile.
For a moment, I am suspended in a warm, comfortable haze. The surface beneath me is soft, the blanket over me is light but warm. It is a peacefulness so profound it feels alien.
Then memory crashes back in.
The severing. The forest. The crushing cold and the suffocating void where my bond used to be. Nolan’s howl of agony echoing in my soul.
My eyes fly open. Panic seizes my throat.
This is not my room. The walls are not cold, dark stone but smooth, light-colored wood. Sunlight streams through an open window, painting a golden rectangle on the floor. There are herbs hanging from the rafters, drying in the warm air. It is a place of peace. I have never been more terrified in my life.
I bolt upright, a gasp tearing from my chest. The room spins. The emptiness inside me pulses, a deep, nauseating ache. He found me. He dragged me back and put me in a prettier cage.
My wolf, silent for so long, stirs with a whimper of pure fear. *He is here.*
The door creaks open. I scramble back, pressing myself against the headboard, my hands coming up in a useless gesture of defense. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone.
A man steps inside. He is not Nolan.
He is tall, but his presence does not fill the room with oppressive power. It is a quiet strength, like an old oak. His hair is the color of dark honey, his eyes a warm, clear brown. He carries a simple wooden tray with a steaming mug and a small bowl on it.
He stops just inside the doorway, seeing my panic. He doesn’t command me to calm down. He doesn’t glower. He simply waits.
“Easy now,” he says. His voice is the one from my delirium. Deep and calm, like the warm stone I collapsed against. “You’re safe.”
“Where am I?” My own voice is a dry rasp, barely a whisper.
“Sunstone territory,” he answers, taking a slow step forward. He sets the tray on a small table near the bed. He makes no move to come closer. “My name is Rhys.”
Sunstone. I crossed the border. I am free. The relief is so intense it makes me feel sick.
“You are… the Alpha?” The title tastes like poison.
His expression is understanding, not offended. A small smile touches his lips. “I am. But that word seems to weigh heavily on you. Here, it just means I’m the one who worries about the leaky roofs and the stores for winter.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending. An Alpha who speaks of service, not dominance? It does not compute. Nolan spoke only of strength, of loyalty, of the power he wielded over all of us.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, the question a shield I have used for three years.
He gestures to the tray. “For you to drink some of this broth. Our healer, Cora, insists. She says you were running on nothing but will.”
I look at the bowl. My stomach clenches with a hunger I hadn't realized was there. But I have learned that nothing comes for free in a wolf pack. Especially not from an Alpha.
“And in return?” I press, my voice shaking slightly.
Rhys’s brow furrows in genuine confusion. “In return for… broth?” He thinks for a moment. “In return, you will hopefully feel a little stronger.”
He seems to understand that his presence is a threat, no matter how gentle he is. “I will leave you to it. Cora will be in later to check on you. The clothes on the chair are clean, if you want them. Yours were… well, they saw a hard night.”
He gives me a small, respectful nod and turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say, the word escaping before I can stop it.
He pauses at the door, turning back.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why are you helping me?”
He meets my gaze, his brown eyes clear and honest. There is no hidden agenda there, no possessive gleam. Just compassion.
“Because you collapsed on my land. Because you were hurt. Because it was the right thing to do.” He offers a small shrug, as if the answer were the simplest thing in the world. “Rest. You are a guest of the Sunstone Pack. No one will harm you here.”
Then he is gone, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch is not the sound of a lock. It is the sound of privacy.
I wait, listening for the heavy tread of guards outside the door. I hear nothing. Just the distant sound of children laughing and the low murmur of conversation.
Slowly, shakily, I get out of the bed. My legs tremble, but they hold me. I am wearing a simple linen shift. On the chair, as he said, is a folded tunic and trousers of soft, faded brown cloth.
I ignore them and creep to the window. Peeking around the edge, I see a small village square. It is nothing like the cold, imposing formality of the Shadowmoon settlement. Here, the buildings are made of warm wood and river stone, built around a central green. Shifters are milling about, some mending nets, others weaving baskets. A group of pups are chasing each other around a large, sun-drenched boulder, the very one I collapsed beside.
No one is marching. No one is shouting orders. A woman laughs, throwing her head back, and the man beside her smiles, placing a gentle hand on her arm. The entire scene radiates a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun overhead.
It is so different it feels like a dream.
My gaze falls on the food. Hesitantly, I limp to the table. The broth is simple, made with wild vegetables and herbs, but it smells divine. I lift the mug. Chamomile tea. Nolan hated the smell of it. Said it was the scent of weakness.
I take a sip. The warmth spreads through my chest, a small comfort against the gaping coldness inside me. I drink it all. Then I eat the broth, my hands shaking so much I spill half of it. It is the best thing I have ever tasted.
Later, an older woman comes in. She has kind, crinkled eyes and hands stained with herbs. This must be Cora.
“Ah, good,” she says, her voice a gentle rasp. “You have some color in your cheeks.”
She does not ask my name or my story. She simply checks my pulse and looks into my eyes. “You are healing. Physically, at least.”
She looks at the empty bowl. “The spirit takes longer. The Alpha said to tell you that you can stay in this cabin for as long as you need. It is our guest house. When you feel up to it, you are welcome to join us for meals in the great hall. Or not. The choice is yours.”
“The choice… is mine?” I repeat the words. They feel foreign on my tongue.
Cora pats my hand. Her touch is firm and comforting. “Every choice is yours here, little one. What you eat, when you sleep, whether you speak or stay silent. This is your place of healing. We will not disturb it.”
Over the next few days, I learn that they meant it. No one bothers me. Food is left on a stool outside my door three times a day. I spend hours just sitting by the window, watching them. I watch Rhys play with the pups, letting them climb all over him, his deep laugh echoing in the square. I see him listening intently to an elder, nodding with respect. I see a pack that moves not out of fear of its Alpha, but out of love for each other.
One evening, I feel the familiar pull. A young boy, no more than five, trips and falls hard on the green. His cry of pain is sharp. I see the bloody gash on his knee from my window.
Instinct takes over. A soft light pools in my palms, the urge to soothe, to mend, so powerful it is a physical need.
Then Nolan’s voice echoes in my head, cold and sharp. *Your sentimentality is a weakness. Stop playing with broken things.*
The light in my hands flickers and dies. My hands tremble.
The boy’s mother rushes over. She does not scold him for crying. She scoops him up, murmuring soft words, and carries him to her cabin. Within minutes, Cora is there. They do not have my gift. They must clean the wound, stitch it, bind it.
I watch, my hands pressed against the window, the useless light trapped beneath my skin. The phantom pain in my soul where the bond used to be throbs with a dull ache.
Nolan broke more than our bond. He broke the best part of me.
A few days later, I feel strong enough to walk outside. I slip out of the cabin at dusk, when the square is mostly empty. I just need to feel the earth beneath my feet. To breathe air that is not contained by four walls.
I find myself drawn to the large, flat stone in the center of the green. It still radiates a gentle warmth.
“It’s called the Sunstone.”
I jump, whirling around. Rhys stands a few feet away, his hands held up in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”
I clutch my arms around my chest. “What is it?”
“An old story,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “They say the first Alpha of our pack was born on this stone, warmed by the sun itself. That its heat is a remnant of that first spark of life. We believe it holds the heart of our pack.”
I look at the stone, then back at him. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you were drawn to it,” he says simply. “Because you needed a safe harbor, and the heart of my pack offered you one. You are under its protection now. And mine.”
I finally find the courage to ask the question that has been burning in my mind. “You know trackers will come. From Shadowmoon.” I do not say his name. I cannot.
Rhys’s expression becomes serious, the gentle Alpha replaced by a protector. “I know. Their scent is all over you. Cold and sharp, like winter frost.” He meets my eyes, and for the first time, I see the steel beneath his calm exterior. “This is a neutral territory. We are not a pack of warriors, but we defend our own. And anyone under our protection is our own.”
He is offering me sanctuary. Real sanctuary. Without conditions. Without demands.
“My name,” I say, my voice barely audible. “It’s Lorelai.”
It is the first piece of myself I have offered to anyone. A tiny, fragile seed.
Rhys’s face softens into a genuine smile. It reaches his eyes, making them shine. “It is good to know your name, Lorelai. Welcome to Sunstone.”
I look from his honest face to the warm stone, glowing in the last rays of the setting sun. I feel the constant, gnawing pain in my soul lessen, just for a moment. The howling void seems a little less vast. My wolf, who has been hiding in the deepest part of me, peeks out, curious.
It is not healing. Not yet. But for the first time since I shattered my world, it feels like the beginning of one.
