Page 27

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

A ZALEA

Once there at the orphanage, I stop, staring up at the building I once called home. Heart pounding, I pause at the sight of the dilapidated building looming before me. Paint peeling, windows like hollow eyes, and yet it tugs sharply at my heartstrings. Children play out the front, and for a second, I watch them. This place dredged up so many memories, yet I can’t seem to conjure up one good one.

As if sensing my presence, the noise of play momentarily hushes. The place should be condemned, yet the kids all stop as I step over the little brick fence.

Tiny feet patter against the cracked pavement, and then they’re upon me—a tide of small bodies with bright eyes and eager hands. They swarm around me, their little fingers plucking at the hem of my shirt, warm smiles and giggles piercing the air.

“She’s back, Ivy is back!” They screech out excitedly.

“Ivy! Ivy!” bubble up from the lips of children, their calls threading through the air like a lifeline back to my past. I feel their small hands tugging at my sleeves, their unspoken pleas for attention wrapping around me with an intensity that is both heartwarming and heartbreaking.

Katrina bursts out the front door, her expression one of concern and surprise.

“Katrina!” I gasp, my voice catching on the wave of emotions that crashes into me. I navigate through the throng of tiny bodies, their energy buzzing like electricity in the air, until I collide with the familiar warmth of her embrace.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she breathes out, her arms enveloping me. She steps back, her eyes scanning me with a nurturing scrutiny reserved for those who have known your darkest moments.

Her fingertips ghost over my shoulder, where fabric has slipped to reveal more than it should—more than I want. The lash marks, remnants of my time here, peeking out. She meets my gaze, a sorrowful smile gracing her lips as tears pool in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She stifles a sniffle.

In her eyes, there’s an apology, one that needs no words, for the kindness she gave could never undo the hurt we endured—but oh, how it helped.

The warmth of Katrina’s embrace lingers as she holds me just far enough to search my expression, her concern palpable. “How’s Abbie?” she asks, the words carrying more than a question—a hope that the world hasn’t been too cruel to us.

“She is okay,” I tell her. She nods, relief softening the creases of worry that had etched themselves into her features.

Katrina’s arms encircle me once more. “You look good, sweetie,” she murmurs, and I feel the genuine warmth in her voice washing over me like a gentle tide.

As she releases me, a small, insistent pull at the hem of my shirt draws my attention downward. A pair of wide eyes, brimming with innocent curiosity, gaze up at me. It’s Jack, his youthful energy irrepressible despite the harshness that surrounds us. With a practiced ease borne from years of looking after the younger ones, I scoop him into my arms. He is lighter than I remember, a reminder of the scarcity that still plagues this place.

“Hey, Jack,” I greet him, my smile broadening at the sight of his joy. His fingers find a strand of my hair, playing with it, tugging gently.

“Where is Abbie? She didn’t come to visit us?” Jack’s voice wobbles, making my heart clench. He pouts, a gap evident where his two front teeth used to be, making his words lisp slightly.

I set him down and kneels to his level, my gaze softening. “No, she couldn’t come,” I say. He nods sadly.

Katrina then ushers us inside. She strides towards the kitchen, and I hear the familiar click and hiss as she turns the kettle on.

I slip into the kitchen, my hands instinctively reaching for the mugs hanging on their hooks, chipped and mismatched from years of use. They clink softly as I set them out. Kyson’s gaze weighs on me, silent, yet his concern screams at me through the bond, but I push aside the discomfort it brings, focusing instead on the task at hand. “Let me,” Katrina says, but I slap her hands away, knowing my way around this place like the back of my hand.

“It’s fine, just sit down.”

She resists only for a moment before acquiescing with a weary exhale, the fight seeping out of her as she collapses into a chair. Her fingers trace the grain of the wooden table, worn smooth by countless meals and meetings.

“Kyson mentioned you’re looking after the children now,” I continue, filling the silence that threatens to consume us. A nod is her only reply, the gesture heavy with the burden she carries, one I’m all too familiar with.

“Yep.” Katrina’s voice cracks. “But the Alpha cut back rations again. This place is falling apart, and Dad is sick, so I am back and forth.” Her eyes, dull with fatigue, flicker to mine.

I hand her a steaming cup of tea. Her fingers wrap around it, Kyson accepts his own mug with a nod.

“No one to help?”

“Margaret comes over when I ask,” Katrina replies, her voice laden with contempt. “But you know how she is.”

I nod, understanding all too well the type of woman she is. Margaret was one of Mrs. Daley’s friends, and she hated children, even her own. Just hearing her name has memories clawing its way to the forefront of my mind.

“Careful, you!” Margaret’s voice had been sharp as a blade, slicing through the air. But it was too late; my small, trembling hands fumbled and tea splashed onto the floor. Her hand cracked across my cheek, a stinging punishment for a simple accident. My skin burned with the impact, tears welling but never falling. I had learned early that showing weakness only invited more pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” I had whispered, the words barely escaping as I scrambled to clean the mess.

Shaking off the memories of the past, I focus on Katrina’s furrowed brow and weary eyes. “Margaret...” I trail off, unable to mask the distaste in my voice. Her presence would offer Katrina no relief, only adding to the weight she already carried.

“Anyway, don’t worry about it,” Katrina forces a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers trace the rim of her mug absently, as if finding solace in the familiar circular motion.

“Margaret’s help isn’t the kind you need,” I say softly, setting down my own cup.

“I’ve asked the Alpha to employ someone but he said no. I swear I could run this pack better than that twat, he keeps saying he hasn’t got the money to put in this place.” She takes a sip of tea to moisten her lips before continuing. “I checked his finances for him the other week again and he has gambled everything. So with Dad getting worse, I have no choice but to ask her.”

With the weight of her burdens etched into the lines of her face, Katrina gazes out the window at the overgrown yard, a small sigh escaping her lips. Her hands, which have known the roughness of relentless work, tremble slightly as she clutches the mug.

“What’s wrong with your father?” The question slips from my mouth, my voice barely above a whisper.

She turns back to me. “Dementia,” Katrina confesses, the word falling heavily in the space between us. It paints an all-too-clear picture of the struggle that lies behind her tired gaze. “He needs a full-time carer now, but I can’t with this place, and mum is just as bad, so she is no help.” She pauses, her shoulders slumping as if the admission siphons the last bit of strength she has. “And I haven’t got the funds to pay for one.” She smiles sadly.

“I don’t know how you girls kept up with all the chores here either,” she says, shaking her head. The motion sends a few strands of her hair, the color of faded autumn leaves, drifting across her tired eyes. Her gaze sweeps over the mess as if seeing it for the first time.

“We didn’t have a choice,” I tell her. She nods, understanding etched into the lines of her face as she stares at me.

“I’m sorry, Ivy,” she murmurs.

“Azalea,” Kyson corrects her gently from where he stands.

Katrina’s brow furrows for a moment before smoothing out as she nods in acknowledgment, her lips curving into a sad smile. It doesn’t matter what name she uses. She had tried to be a buffer between us and Mrs. Daley’s cruelty. And despite her Beta heritage, Katrina’s hands were tied, her good intentions constantly thwarted by the Alpha’s blind eye.

“Don’t be, and it’s not your fault,” I reassure Katrina, my voice steadier than I feel.

“I could have done more,” she murmurs, her gaze drifting to the floor.

Before I can say anything else, movement at the periphery snatches my attention. A small form detaches itself from the fray of children—a little boy with wide, searching eyes that seem too ancient for his youth.

“Tyson?” The name slips from me, a whisper that carries the weight of a thousand unshed tears and I nearly break down at the sight of him. He has some disability that was never diagnosed because Mrs. Daley believed you could beat disobedience out of a child and saw his speech impediment as disobedience.

He motions toward his mouth, trying to speak, but it comes out in grunts and growling. Abbie and I believed Mrs. Daley would have killed him by now. I kiss his cheek and squish him too, which makes Kyson glance at me funny; I shake my head. He has no idea who this boy is to Abbie.

Grunts and growls spill from his lips, his small face contorting in frustration. My heart clenches as I reach for him, lifting his shaking body into my arms. He nestles against me, his babbling softening into quiet whimpers.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his forehead. Memories surge unbidden, a torrent that rips me back to a night seared into my soul.

The shrill cries of an infant wrench me from sleep. Abbie is already on her feet, fear etched across her features as she bolts down the attic steps with me right behind her. Tyson’s wails pierced the air loudly. While Mrs. Daley’s voice is a venomous hiss, commanding silence. “Shut up! Just shut up!” The threat in her tone is palpable.

Abbie reaches Tyson first, throwing herself protectively over his makeshift crib, which was a fruit box, just as Mrs. Daley raises her cane. The thwack of wood against flesh echoes through the room, each blow meant for Tyson absorbed by Abbie’s quivering frame.

I lunge forward in panic and shove her with all my might. Her attention snaps to me, rage contorting her features. She strikes—again and again—until darkness claims me. Only later would I understand the cost of that intervention; my back was raw from the whip, but Tyson and Abbie managed to get out of the room safely. After that, Tyson slept in our bed with us until he started sleeping through the night. I still remember Abbie begging Mrs. Daley to let her keep him with us, but she refused.

“Azzy?” Kyson pulls me out of the memory as his voice flits through my head and blink the images away to see Katrina staring at Tyson.

“I never know what he is trying to say,” Katrina says as he squeezes his fists, shaking as he becomes frustrated, and gurgling loudly.

My fingers dance through the fruit bowl, bypassing fruit that’s seen better days, until they close around a firm apple. I briskly wipe it against my shirt, polishing its surface. “Apple,” I say gently, holding it out to Tyson. Memories of deciphering his sounds, his own form of communication, flood back—a language only Abbie and I seemed fluent in.

His eyes light up with recognition, and he snatches the apple, his small hands enveloping it. Excitement bubbles out of him in a string of babbles as he scampers away, the apple now a prized possession.

“Apple,” Katrina echoes, her voice carrying a trace of weariness. She’s been trying; I can tell. I nod and take a sip of my tea.

“He likes the crunching noise they make, and he hates cornflakes, so don’t give him those. He will have a meltdown, Tyson doesn’t like the texture once the milk is added,” I tell her, and she quickly jumps up and grabs a notepad from the fridge. She jots it down, and I tell her a few more noises he makes and what they mean.

“Man, I wish you and Abbie could stay here a while to show me,” she says. Kyson shakes his head instantly, and I don’t think I could even if he let me. Too many bad memories here, and I know this place would give me nightmares when I go home.

“I have to take dad for brain scans next week. I am hoping the Alpha will come over like he said. He said he would watch them for me,” she sighs.

“Brock? What did you have to give him to convince him to do that?” I ask, and she blushes, not looking happy about that. I click my tongue, already knowing the answer.

“No one else?” I ask her, and I can only imagine what she had to do for her to get him over to watch all these kids.

“We can try to help you find some help?” Kyson offers, and she looks at him, hopefully.

“Please. No one is willing to help, and I have my exams coming back up.”

“You’re back studying accounting?” I ask her.

“Trying. When I get a chance, that is, it’s online,” she says. I smile sadly before I place my cup in the sink and nod, knowing we will have to leave soon.

“Do you mind if I look around?” I ask her, and she shakes her head.

“Of course not, but upstairs is a little messy,” she says. Walking back to the main hall and into the living room, I see the kids huddled around the tiny box TV in the corner.

“How many kids are here now?” I ask her.

“111,” Katrina answers. I sigh, looking around. The place is falling apart, and I suddenly wish I could take them with me. Katrina can’t look after them by herself, and this place has seen better days. I swallow, taking the set of stairs, while Katrina tries to settle the kids who are becoming rowdy with afternoon tea approaching.

Ascending the staircase, the heavy air grips my lungs. Each door I pass reveals a room steeped in dust and disarray. Beds unmade, personal belongings strewn without care—a stark contrast to the order imposed on us during our time here. It’s as if the rooms are holding their breath, waiting for someone to care enough to breathe life into them once more.

Kyson’s footsteps echo behind me. “What are you doing?” he asks, his tone laced with confusion—or is it concern?

I find it hard to answer, the sights before me dragging me back through time. Memories flash before my eyes: Abbie and I tiptoe through the hallways, avoiding the squeaky floorboards and carrying piles of laundry that threatened to topple over. The same corridors now lay silent, save for the ghosts of our whispered voices trying to evade Mrs. Daley’s wrath.

“Remembering,” I reply finally, my voice distant even to my own ears.

Reaching the end of the hallway, I pause before the attic stairs, my heart thundering against my ribs. That was mine and Abbie’s room. How often were we forced to crawl those stairs after our lashings or our chores? It felt like a lifetime ago, yet also yesterday, everything is still so fresh.

Kyson touches my arm, and I jump, stuck in my memories. “Are you alright?” he asks before turning to Liam and Trey. He nods toward the stairs and they go back down them.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, blinking back tears. He looked like he wanted to say something, but I grip the broken banister and force myself to climb the steps to the attic. The door handle jiggles in my hand as I push it open.