Page 5

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SONYA

T he smell hit her the second she stepped inside—garlic, roasted rosemary, and something sweet laced with cinnamon.

Comfort. Memory. Home.

But tonight, it stuck in her throat.

Her mother’s voice floated from the kitchen.

“That you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Sonya called back, forcing a lightness into her tone.

She shrugged off her jacket, hung it on the old antler rack by the door, and wiped her boots on the braided rug her dad had made when she was ten.

The cabin hadn’t changed since she was a pup—warm wood paneling, hand-carved furniture, and that ever-present scent of pine and tradition.

Too much tradition.

Her father appeared in the hallway, tall and broad-shouldered with a dusting of silver at his temples that made him look every inch the warrior he once was.

“There’s our girl,” he said, pulling her into a firm hug.

His flannel shirt still smelled faintly of motor oil and forest. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” she lied, pulling back.

“Had a thing on campus.”

“Hope it wasn’t that boy again,” her mother said from the stove, eyes sharp despite the apron and oven mitts.

Elena Hawthorne was the kind of woman who made casseroles like a general strategized war—efficient, unflinching, and never, ever unarmed.

Her ice-blond hair was pinned in its usual knot, not a strand out of place.

Sonya smiled with teeth.

“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs.”

“You know we keep tabs,” her father said, softer.

“That’s pack.”

Sonya swallowed the sigh trying to claw up her throat.

“I’m fine, really. Just tired.”

Dinner was already set when she walked into the dining room—roast venison, greens from the garden, cornbread.

Her stomach flipped.

Her parents had pulled out the good china.

That meant one thing.

An ambush.

She sat anyway.

“Eat,” her mom said, passing the meat platter like it was any other night.

“You’re looking a little thinner.”

“I’m not?—”

“You are,” her dad cut in.

“You forget, Sonya, we still see you. No matter how good you are at disappearing.”

Sonya stabbed a carrot with unnecessary force.

“I’m not disappearing.”

“You’re distancing,” her mom said, and the softness in her voice didn’t quite hide the steel underneath.

“From us. From the pack. From Roman.”

And there it was.

Sonya didn’t reply. Instead, she chewed slowly, methodically, like the food might shield her from the conversation barreling toward her.

Her dad cleared his throat.

“We heard Roman’s been asking for updates. About the boy.”

“His name’s Landon.”

Her mother’s jaw twitched.

“And you’ve gotten close to him?”

“Close enough to do what Roman asked,” Sonya said carefully.

“That’s not what I meant,” her mom snapped, then reined it in with a breath.

“Sonya, this isn’t a game. If that boy is part of the prophecy?—”

“You mean if he’s the reincarnated Lycan king?” Sonya said, voice sharp.

“You believe that crap?”

“It’s not crap,” her father said evenly.

“It’s history. Our people have followed the bloodlines for centuries. The Elders believe?—”

“The Elders believe what Roman tells them to,” Sonya muttered.

Elena placed her fork down with precise, calculated calm.

“You’re walking a dangerous line, daughter.”

Sonya looked up, met her mother’s eyes head-on.

“I know.”

Silence stretched, tense and brittle.

Then her mom said, quieter, “Why won’t you just submit to him, Sonya?”

The words hit like a slap, even though her mother said them gently.

That was the worst part.

Sonya pushed back from the table, suddenly unable to breathe in the tight walls of her childhood home.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“We’re not judging,” her father said quickly.

“But Roman has been patient. He wants you by his side. And we know what that means—for the pack. For all of us.”

“He wants a weapon he can fuck,” Sonya said, voice low and cold.

“Sonya!” her mom hissed, scandalized.

“What?” she snapped.

“You think I don’t see it? That I haven’t seen the way he looks at me since I was sixteen?”

Her father stood then, not in anger, but with that same towering presence that had once made wolves kneel.

“That’s enough.”

“No,” she said, breath hitching.

“It’s not.”

They were quiet now.

Watching. Listening.

“I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked,” Sonya said.

“I trained harder. I fought longer. I followed orders. I swallowed shit because it was my duty. But this?” She shook her head.

“I won’t chain myself to a man who sees people as tools and calls it love. Loyalty or not. I won’t.”

Her mother stood too, arms crossed over her chest. “It’s not about love. It’s about legacy. About keeping our bloodlines safe.”

“And what about my choice? ” Sonya demanded.

“What about what I want?”

“That’s not how it works,” her dad said.

“Then maybe it should be, ” she bit out.

The words echoed into the walls.

For a moment, all she could hear was the tick of the old clock and the wind scratching at the windows.

Her mom looked tired when she finally spoke again.

“You’re walking into dangerous territory, Sonya. You disobey Roman, you don’t just risk your place in the pack—you risk everything. ”

“Then maybe it’s time the pack changed, ” Sonya whispered.

Her father’s face softened.

“If this boy is what they say he is… maybe he will. ”

Sonya blinked.

It was the first time she’d heard either of them acknowledge the prophecy like it wasn’t a convenient tool for control.

Her mother didn’t look away.

“But until then, play the part. Keep Roman calm. Keep your position secure. Don’t throw away what we’ve all bled for.”

Sonya stared at them, these people she loved, these people who still thought survival meant obedience.

“I can’t promise that,” she said.

Her mother’s expression fell.

Her father nodded once, grim.

The rest of dinner passed in silence.

And when Sonya finally left, the stars above seemed sharper, colder than before, like the sky was holding its breath.

She drove home with her jaw clenched, the steering wheel gripped tight, her mind a war zone of loyalty and logic, love and duty.

But under it all, quiet, stubborn, was something else.

Something that made her not put her fist through the wall.

Something like hope.