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“No, it’s not that.” His tone softens. “You don’t use your magic well enough yet, and some of these radicals are big enough to overpower you physically.”

“My children are always nearby,” I remind him, gesturing toward the ceiling. “That’s not something I need to worry about.”

I move to push past him, but his hand shoots out to block the doorway. The gesture is gentle but immovable, like trying to move a marble statue.

I groan in frustration, wishing I could teleport like Angie or the other powerful supernaturals.

I’ve tried to grasp that particular magic, but something always holds me back.

It’s like there’s a barrier in my mind that I can’t break through.

Angie and Anora, my Blackwood cousins, seem to be one with their magic, wielding it like extensions of their own bodies.

Me? I feel like the magical equivalent of the kid who gets picked last for dodgeball.

“Look,” Damon says, his voice taking on that reasonable tone that makes me want to punch him, “give me a week. I know someone who can help with a better security system - something that can work with you while you’re at the border.

But until then, you need to stay where you’re safe. Where your children are safe.”

His expression darkens. “I won’t watch you suffer through another loss.”

As much as I want to argue, I know he’s right. The memory of Verde and Petra’s death still feels raw, like a wound that won’t heal. I mourned for seven days, unable to eat or sleep, feeling their loss like phantom limbs.

“Okay, okay,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. The thought of losing another child sends a sharp pang through me. No matter how much my children believe in honorable death, no matter how much I support their convictions, I can’t handle another loss. Not yet.

“I promise you’ll like who’s coming to help,” Damon says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I roll my eyes again. “No one likes me except some human nerd who works at the hotel bar. Ackley has a love for arachnids and keeps a bunch of tarantulas as pets in his apartment on the community lands. Kade and Leah have had to counsel him about them breaking out and scaring the other tenants.”

Ackley’s a decent guy, I suppose. He doesn’t seem bothered by my children, which puts him in a very small category of people.

We’ve spent some time together lately - nothing romantic, since I don’t have the fated scent that would mark me as someone’s fated mate.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to seek happiness, even if it’s not the earth-shattering, soul-deep connection everyone else gets to experience.

Though Moria acts weird around him. She doesn’t trust humans, especially ones who aren’t technically part of Wintermoon. But I figure that’s just her protective instinct kicking in.

I trudge back to my desk, defeated, and flop down in my chair with enough force to make it spin slightly. Above me, I can hear Moria moving through the ventilation system, probably trying to get back to her favorite spot so she can drop down the moment Damon leaves.

Speaking of Damon, he heads for the door, but pauses with his hand on the frame. “Make sure to take any reports that come in. Though I doubt we’ll get many at this hour.”

“There hasn’t been a report all day,” I snap. “I want to protect Wintermoon, not file paperwork.”

“Give me a week,” he repeats, then disappears into the night.

The station falls silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional skitter of Moria’s legs in the ceiling. I look up at the vent, and sure enough, her eyes shine in the darkness like twin emeralds.

“Coast is clear, baby,” I murmur.

She wastes no time dropping down, her large form somehow graceful despite her size.

She lands on my desk with barely a sound, then quickly makes her way to me.

Her legs wrap around my shoulders, and I feel her settle into her favorite position.

The weight is comforting, familiar, like a security blanket with too many legs.

I relax in my chair, one hand automatically moving to stroke the soft fur on her back.

She snuggles against me, her body warm and pulsing with life.

It’s moments like these that make the isolation bearable - when it’s just me and my children, no judgment, no fear, no humans screaming about the “monster spider lady.”

“I miss you too, Moria,” I whisper, continuing to pet her. “But you get to sleep on me every night when I’m home. Your brothers and sisters are getting jealous.”

I say it teasingly, with a small giggle that feels foreign in the sterile station. Moria responds by tightening her grip slightly, her way of showing affection.

My thoughts drift back to Damon’s words about having theories on why the fated scent can’t be detected on me.

Part of me wants to hope - maybe there’s someone out there for me.

Maybe Fate didn’t just create me to be the eternal guardian, forever alone, forever watching others find their perfect match.

I love my children, would die for them without question, but I want to know what love feels like. Real romantic love, the earth-shattering, universe-aligning kind that makes people write terrible poetry and do stupid things in the name of devotion.

The unfairness of it all presses down on me, suffocating and inescapable. Everyone else gets their person—their fated mate who completes them on a molecular level. Even some of my children are paired, instinctively knowing which of their siblings is their perfect match. But not me. And not Moria.

We’re the odd ones out, the ones Fate apparently forgot to write into her grand plan of universal love.

I close my eyes and lean my head back, feeling Moria’s steady breathing against me. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I send up a silent prayer to Mother Fate, the goddess who created all of us.

Mother Fate, please show me some mercy, just a little. Or at least show Moria. I want to see one of us happy.

The station remains silent, offering no answers. Just me, my unpaired child, and the endless stretch of night shift ahead of us.

But for the first time in weeks, I find myself wondering if maybe - just maybe - things might change soon.