The boy I loved, the mate I bled for, had withered into a man who could snarl me down, shove me aside, and walk away without a backward glance. A man who booked moonlit voyages with another woman while leaving me behind to scrub his boots like discarded prey.
And at last, I understood.
My father hadn’t cast me out in cruelty.
He had seen the rot long before I ever did.
My gaze fell on the landline—old, forgotten, ignored. But it still worked. My hand moved before fear could stop it. I dialed the number I had carried like an open scar for thirty years.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Then—
“Hello?”
His voice. Older. Rougher. Worn by time. But unmistakable. Still the Alpha of the Mira. Still my father.
My throat closed. I clutched the receiver like a lifeline, tears falling in silent, unstoppable streams.
“…Father,” I whispered, the word breaking free like shattered bone. “…It’s me. Nyx.”
The phone was still warm against my palm when my father finally spoke. His voice carried the weight of a wolf who had spent countless nights calling into emptiness—hoarse, weathered, and tired in a way that sank deep into the bones. And yet, threaded through that fatigue was a steadiness I hadn’t heard since I was a child. A quiet peace that startled me more than anger ever could.
“Come back to me, Nyx,” he said softly, the years roughening every word. “I’ve waited twenty years for this.”
Twenty years.
Two full decades of hollow winters and endless moons. Of standing alone beneath silver skies, my wolf pacing restlessly inside me, trapped behind the walls I had built. Twenty years of silent wars—fought without witnesses—because my pride had been too sharp to bend, my wounds too deep to expose, and my spirit too fractured to return.
My legs weakened, threatening to fold beneath me. Instead of falling, I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed, my body giving in where my heart no longer could. Tears spilled freely, scorching trails down my cheeks, washing away years of forced restraint and swallowed pain.
“I’ll come home,” I murmured, my voice barely there, as fragile as breath drifting through the trees.