Page 20 of Lone Wolf (Red Rivals)

CHAPTER 20

Sunny

Later that day, I’ve finally stopped shaking long enough to shower and pull on fresh clothes—just sweatpants and an old tank top—and the sky outside has darkened to the deep indigo of early evening. My hair is still damp, laying heavy down my back as I sit on the edge of the bed in my room, not sure what to do with myself.

I was debriefed shortly after…well, everything that happened. And then Dr. Khatri spoke to me for a while, making sure I was—in her words—not in crisis mode. The truth is, I was too dazed to feel much of anything except worried for Ariadne.

And I haven’t seen her since I left the garage.

A soft knock at my door startles me. My nerves are still raw, I guess. But I force myself to relax. This is Elysium. I’m safe here. This is my home .

And when I open the door, Ariadne stands on the threshold.

She looks…different. Her short hair is still slightly wet from what must have been her own recent shower. She’s dressed simply in black jeans and a dark gray henley, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. But it’s her face that catches me off guard. The rigid control that usually defines her features has softened, the permanent tension around her eyes eased. She looks younger. More human.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly aware of my own disheveled appearance.

“Hey.” Her voice is quiet, a little rough around the edges. “Can I come in?”

I step aside, gesturing her in. “Of course.”

She enters and stands in the center of my small room, hands shoved into her pockets. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I’m not sure what to say. So many questions crowd my mind, but I don’t want to push her, not after what she’s been through today.

“I spent the day with my mother,” she says finally, breaking the silence. “Talking. About…well, everything.”

I sink onto the edge of my bed. “That’s good, right?”

A small smile touches the corner of her mouth. “Yeah. It’s good. Hard, but good.” She runs a hand through her damp hair. “Dr. Khatri was there for some of it. She mentioned she’d talk to you, too.” I give a nod. “I wanted to come see you. To say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For playing along today. For understanding what I was doing with Katy without me having to explain. For—” She hesitates, then continues, “For not believing the things I said to make it convincing.”

The memory of her coldness during that performance sends a chill through me, even though I know it wasn’t real. “You were pretty convincing.”

“I learned from the best,” she says, and something dark flickers across her face. Then she shakes her head as if to clear it. “I’m so sorry for the things I said. The way I spoke to you.”

“I knew you didn’t mean it.”

Her eyes meet mine, searching. “Did you?”

“Oh, yes,” I say firmly. “I know you now, Ariadne. The real you.”

She swallows, clearly moved by my certainty. “Would you…would you take a walk with me? I’d like to clear my head.”

“Lead the way,” I say, grabbing a hoodie and slipping on my shoes.

We walk in companionable silence through the corridors of the dorms, nodding to the few recruits we pass. News of what happened with Katy has clearly spread—I can see it in the way people look at Ariadne: respect and wariness.

When we step outside, the twilight air is cool but not cold, carrying the scent of dew-dampened grass and the night-blooming flowers of Aurora’s garden as they begin to open. We follow the winding path automatically, neither of us suggesting a destination but both heading for the night garden as if by unspoken agreement.

It’s just peaceful here. The white jasmine glows softly in the dusk, its sweet perfume carried on the gentle breeze. The garden is empty at this hour, everyone else at dinner or occupied with evening tasks.

We find a bench and sit, close but not touching. Ariadne leans forward, elbows on her knees, staring at a point in the middle distance.

“My mother called me Sarah,” she says suddenly. “And for the first time, I didn’t correct her.”

I glance at her, surprised. “Does that mean you’re...?”

“I don’t know. With her, it feels right. With everyone else...” She shakes her head. “I’ve been Ariadne for so long. I’m not sure if I know how to be Sarah again.”

“You don’t have to choose right away. You can be both for a while. Figure it out as you go.”

She nods, considering this. “Maybe.” After a pause, she adds, “I told her about you.”

My heart skips a beat. “Oh? What did you tell her?”

She looks down. “That you’re…important to me. That you see past all the walls I put up.”

“I like what I see when I look past those walls.”

Ariadne turns to face me fully. “Sunny…Hadria told me about your sister. That they found evidence she was…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what she’s trying to say.

The grief rises in me again, a wave I’ve been fighting to keep at bay since Hadria broke the news. “Yeah,” I manage. “Mari’s gone. Has been for a while.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her hand creeps across the bench to cover mine.

“Me too.” I take a shaky breath. “All this time, I’ve been searching, hoping…and she was already gone. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

“Will you tell me about her?” Ariadne asks softly. “If it helps,” she adds.

I think it will, and so I do. I tell her about Mari’s laugh, about how she used to sing me to sleep when our parents were fighting. About the way she stood up to our father, even when it meant taking a beating meant for me. About the dreams she had—college, a career, a home with a garden where we could both live in peace.

“She was my whole world,” I say, voice thick with unshed tears. “And when our father sold her, it felt like…like someone had ripped out everything that mattered.”

Ariadne doesn’t offer empty platitudes or meaningless comfort. Instead, she reaches out and pulls me into a tight embrace. Her arms are strong around me, solid and real. I press my face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in, letting her warmth seep into me.

We stay like that for a long moment, holding each other in the quiet of the garden. When we finally pull apart, I feel lighter somehow, as if sharing the weight of my grief has made it more bearable.

“Do you think it ever goes away?” I ask. “The pain?”

Ariadne considers this. “No,” she says honestly. “But I think maybe we learn to build around it. Create new connections, new memories. Not to replace what we lost, but to make room for joy alongside the grief.”

The wisdom in her words surprises me—not because I doubt her intelligence, but because it’s so human, so emotionally intuitive. This is the woman beneath the ice, the one Grandmother tried to bury beneath layers of conditioning and control.

“Is that what you’re doing with your mom? Building something new?”

She nods. “I guess I’m trying to. It’s not easy. There’s so much lost time between us, so many years we can’t get back. But she…she never stopped loving me. Even when she thought I was dead. And even when I came back and pushed her away.” Her voice catches slightly. “I don’t know if I deserve that kind of love, but I’m starting to think maybe I should try to be worthy of it.”

“You are worthy of it,” I say fiercely.

A small smile touches her lips. “You always see the best in people.”

“Not all people. But you, definitely.”

Our eyes meet, and that electric thing passes between us. Ariadne stands suddenly, restless energy emanating from her. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go to the training room.”

“You want to train? Now?” I laugh.

“I need to move. To process some of this energy.”

I understand that feeling all too well. There’s something about physical exertion that helps clear the mind, makes emotional turmoil more manageable. So I follow her into the mansion and down to the training room, which is blissfully empty at this dinner hour.

We don’t speak as we warm up, stretching muscles still tense from the day’s events. Then we move to the mats, circling each other in a familiar dance. There’s no real aggression in our movements—this isn’t about dominance or proving a point. It’s about communication, about speaking in a language all our own, a language that feels safer than words.

Ariadne strikes first, a testing jab that I easily block. I counter with a low kick that she sidesteps with fluid grace. We build a rhythm, movements growing more complex but never losing that sense of controlled conversation.

“You’re getting better,” she says, dodging a combination I throw at her.

“I had a good teacher.”

A smile flickers across her face as she feints left, then sweeps my legs out from under me. I go down but roll immediately back to my feet, laughing despite myself.

“Still got some tricks up your sleeve, I see.”

“Always.”

We continue like this, trading blows that never quite connect with full force, testing and challenging each other without truly trying to win. It’s different from our previous sparring sessions—no audience to perform for, no point to prove. Just the two of us, moving together in a dance that feels increasingly intimate.

At some point, the dynamic shifts. A block turns into a touch that lingers. A grip softens from restraint to caress. Our breathing quickens, but not just from exertion. When Ariadne pins me against the wall, her forearm across my collarbone, neither of us moves to break the hold.

“You’re the only person who sees me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “The real me. Not the weapon Grandmother created. Not the broken girl my mother lost. Just…me.”

“I do,” I tell her truthfully. “And you’re the only one who saw the pain underneath all my jokes and laughter.”

Her eyes search mine, and whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her. She leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. But of course I don’t want to. I meet her halfway, capturing her lips with mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens into something hungrier, more desperate.

My hands find her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. Her body is warm and solid against mine, anchoring me in the present when my thoughts want to scatter like leaves in the wind.

“We should...” I begin, but lose my train of thought as her mouth moves to my neck, tracing a path of fire along my pulse point.

“Shower,” she suggests against my skin. “We’re both sweaty. We could get clean…and dirty, too.”

I laugh breathlessly. “Is that your best line?”

She pulls back enough to look me in the eyes, a rare playfulness dancing in her gaze. “Is it working?”

“Uh, yes,” I tell her, tugging her toward the locker rooms. “Hell-fucking-yes.”