JC POV
I ran through the forest, Haylie's lifeless body cradled tightly in my arms. The wind whipped past me, but I didn't stop—not for a second. My legs burned, and my chest heaved with effort, but none of it mattered. I needed to get to the mountains.
Her body was still warm, the faint scent of her lingering beneath the harsh tang of death. It gave me hope—she hadn't been gone long. There was still time.
Klinton could help. His father and their bloodline held ancient powers, a connection to both the wolves and the spirit world. I had seen it before—him calling back a wolf's spirit and reuniting it with its body. It was rare, almost impossible, but not unheard of. If anyone could bring her back, it was him.
I refused to let her go.
I looked down at Haylie's pale face, her once radiant features now shadowed with the emptiness of death. My grip on her tightened, determination flooding every fiber of my being.
"I'll bring you back," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I promise."
But this wasn't just about saving her. My mind burned with thoughts of vengeance. Melody and my brothers—those who had done this—would pay. Once Haylie was safe, I would end them.
The mountains loomed in the distance, their jagged peaks piercing the sky. I pushed forward, faster, harder, driven by the single hope that I wasn't too late.
My body screamed in protest, weakened by my wounds, but I pushed forward, refusing to stop.
The pain burned through me, and my breaths came shallow, but I didn't care. Rest would have to wait. I'd stop only when I knew Haylie was okay.
The woods gave way to the mountains, and I started the grueling climb. My bare skin scraped against rough rocks, a reminder of the shredded clothes left behind when I transformed.
I'd come forward naked, but Klinton would have to forgive me.
The settlement came into view as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The huts were built from straw and grass, their design blending into the natural landscape.
This pack lived like the wolves of old, away from the modern world, embracing a life of simplicity. It reminded me of the stories of Pocahontas, except this was no fairytale.
As I neared the camp, every movement felt heavier. Haylie's lifeless body weighed on me—not just physically, but emotionally. My legs dragged, my wounds partially healed but still draining my strength. When I finally stumbled into the clearing, the camp froze.
All eyes turned to me. The men, the women, even the children—each gaze felt like it bore into me.
The awkwardness of my nakedness only added to the tension. My cheeks burned as I tried to ignore the stares, clearing my throat.
"I'm looking for Klinton," I said, my voice hoarse from exhaustion.
Silence. They stared at me blankly, as if I'd spoken a foreign language. My stomach twisted with frustration, but I tried again.
"Does anyone know the chief's son?" I asked, louder this time.
Still, no response—just murmurs in their native tongue. A few women stepped closer, their curious eyes darting between me and Haylie.
Their attention made me shift uncomfortably, crossing one leg over the other in a vain attempt to shield myself. The weight of their stares—and the situation—was unbearable.
Then, a familiar voice broke through the tension.
"Isn't it my old friend I hear?"
Relief washed over me like a cool breeze. My eyes scanned the crowd until I saw him. The villagers parted, and Klinton stepped forward.
He hadn't changed a bit. His long, dark brown hair fell to his shoulders, and his tan skin gleamed in the fading sunlight. His athletic frame was evident even beneath the loose brown shirt and cream shorts he wore. Barefoot, he strode toward me with an easy smile that made my heart feel lighter.
"Klinton, I need your help," I said, my voice cracking as he approached.
His smile faltered, his gaze dropping to the lifeless form in my arms.
Haylie POV
Seeing my father and Matthew fight so viciously churned my stomach and tore at my heart. I sprinted toward them, desperate to stop them from hurting each other, but as I reached out, they passed straight through me, as if I weren't there. Invisible.
I fell to my knees, a sob breaking from my chest. "Why won't you stop?" I screamed, my voice shaking with anguish. But it was no use. They continued their brutal struggle, tearing at each other limb by limb.
A sickening snap echoed through the air. My gaze whipped toward the sound, and my blood ran cold.
My father lay on the ground, lifeless, his empty eyes staring at nothing.
A cry escaped my lips as I clamped my hand over my mouth, unable to stop the sobs that wracked my body. This was the first time I had ever seen my father's death—truly seen it.
Blood dripped down the side of his face, pooling beneath him. A jagged metal pipe jutted through his chest, piercing his heart. He had fallen onto it during the fight.
The sight was too much to bear. I turned away, closing my eyes tightly, but the pain didn't stop. It clawed at my chest, threatening to swallow me whole.
The ground beneath me began to shift. For a moment, I was too overwhelmed to care. But when I dared to open my eyes, my vision blurred with tears, I realized the scene had changed.
I was sitting on soft grass. The familiar surroundings brought a lump to my throat as I stood shakily. It was Aunt Delia's red wooden house. But something was off—different. The colors were more vibrant, the air lighter, as though I had stepped into a memory.
A knock broke the stillness.
Turning toward the sound, I saw my mother standing at the door.
My breath hitched as I took in the sight of her. She looked younger, yet her face was etched with pain. I moved closer, scanning the area for my wolf companion, but it was nowhere to be found.
The door opened, and Aunt Camelia stood in the frame. She looked so young. Her blonde hair was tied in a messy bundle atop her head, and she wore a loose shirt that revealed one shoulder, paired with jeans and sneakers.
"Haylie?" Aunt Camelia said, her voice laced with concern. "What happened? Shouldn't you be at your wedding?"
My eyes darted to my mother. Her tears fell freely, streaming down her cheeks. She barely managed to choke out the words.
"The wedding is off," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Matthew killed Kayson."
My heart shattered.
I wanted to reach out, to hold her as she stood there trembling. Her sobs wracked her body, her puffy eyes and flushed cheeks a testament to the storm of emotions inside her. She looked so broken, so small.
Aunt Camelia stepped forward and wrapped my mother in her arms, holding her tightly.
I hugged myself, my arms wrapping around my upper body as if to shield me from the rawness of the moment. How I wished someone could hold me like that.
For the first time, memories began to surface. I could remember my parents. I could remember where I came from.
My attention snapped back to the present as Aunt Camelia spoke.
"Come in," she said softly. "I'll make us some tea."
My mother nodded, sniffling, and the two women broke their embrace before stepping inside.
I followed, my heart heavy yet drawn to the memory unfolding before me.
As I stepped inside, I was struck by how different the house looked in this time. The colors were vibrant, almost glowing with life. The walls were adorned with photographs—images of my mother, Aunt Delia, and Aunt Amora.
Through my tears, I frowned, puzzled. Where had all these photos gone? In my time, when Aunt Camelia and I moved into this house, the walls were barren, devoid of any such warmth or history.
"Come, sit down," Aunt Camelia's voice broke through my thoughts.
I shifted my gaze to see my mother lowering herself onto the sofa. My heart clenched. I could remember now—those sofas had been in another room. Everything seemed rearranged, unfamiliar, yet painfully familiar all at once.
Wiping the tears from my cheeks, I moved toward the sofa, sitting beside my mother. She didn't react; she couldn't see or feel me. Still, I stayed close, my gaze fixed on her.
"Olivia, what happened?" Aunt Camelia asked softly, taking my mother's small, trembling hands into her own.
My mother looked up, her eyes red and swollen. Her voice was shaky, barely above a whisper.
"Matthew found out about the baby... and him," she said, tears streaming down her face. "We fought, and I left."
Her words faltered, and sobs wracked her body as she struggled to continue.
"But when I ran into the garden, I heard something. I... I went back." Her voice broke completely, the weight of her grief bearing down on her.
I wiped my own tears away, but they kept coming, as unstoppable as the pain in my chest.
My mother's voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with agony. "When I got there... Kayson was on the ground. Dead."
Her words hung in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating and unbearable.
I felt my own sobs escape me as the memory of my father's lifeless body on the ground replayed vividly in my mind.
The pain was sharp, raw, and unrelenting. I closed my eyes tightly, letting the tears flow freely down my cheeks.
I couldn't blame my mother for the way she felt—her pain was my pain, and it burned with a deep ache that seemed impossible to soothe.
When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer sitting on the sofa. Instead, I found myself in a different room, one I didn't recognize and hadn't known existed in this house.
The room had an almost otherworldly quality, with the faint scent of herbs lingering in the air and walls adorned with faded symbols I couldn't quite make out. I looked around, confused, before my gaze settled on a scene unfolding before me.
My mother stood at the center of the room, surrounded by my aunts—Amora, Delia, and Camelia. They held hands in a tight circle, their faces focused and solemn as they chanted ancient words that were foreign to my ears.
The energy in the room was palpable, almost electric, and a sudden wind began to swirl around them. I braced myself, planting my feet firmly on the wooden floor, struggling to stand as the force of the energy grew stronger.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw my mother's body begin to glow softly, an ethereal light radiating from within her.
My eyes widened as a ghostly figure emerged—a majestic brown and white wolf. The spirit creature exuded a quiet strength and elegance as it stepped out from my mother's body, only to dissolve into the air moments later.
"That must have been her wolf," I whispered to myself, my voice trembling with awe and disbelief.
The chanting continued, rising and falling like waves crashing against a shore. My heart raced as I saw something else—a mark on my mother's neck, one I hadn't noticed before, began to fade, its edges blurring until it vanished completely, as though it had never been there.
Then, as if the universe wanted to show me one last wonder, I saw my own wolf, Snow. She appeared as a ghostly figure, her white fur shimmering like freshly fallen snow under the moonlight. Snow emerged gracefully from my mother's body, her presence both powerful and serene.
I watched in stunned silence as Snow's spirit, too, dissolved into the air, leaving a profound stillness behind.