Chapter 8
Caspian’s frustration boiled over, his voice sharp with anger. “Claire, why are you so stubborn? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”
H
His words cut deep, but I stood my ground. He was right. I had wanted this–desperately, foolishly. For years, my only obsession had been to become his Luna. I loved him so much that I lost my self–respect, so much that I stayed by his side without a title, even while carrying our child. I had loved him so much that I let him lead the pack that was meant to be mine. And even when the whispers and rumors about him and Ophelia filled the pack, I never dared question him. My love for him had become a burden, exhausting me and leaving me hollow.
I no longer had the strength to continue this endless, suffocating entanglement.
With a heart that felt like it was breaking, I finally turned away from him and the pack house that had once been my home.
Caspian stood frozen, his gaze burning into my back as I walked away, as if he couldn’t believe I was truly leaving. But this time, I didn’t look back.
my
The villa that bore my name awaited me just outside the pack’s territory, nestled in a secluded town. It had been a gift from my late mother before she passed away, a place that now felt like a refuge for wounded soul. The moment I stepped inside and fixed my luggage, the memories of Kylo overwhelmed me. His clothes, his toys, his favorite books–they all haunted me as soon as I saw his things inside my luggage.
I brought everything from the pack house, every little thing that reminded me of Kylo. His favorite things were the small blanket he used to carry around and even the drawings he made of the three of us–me, him, and a faceless figure that was supposed to be his father. They were all here, surrounding me, suffocating me,
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t accept that Kylo was truly gone. The pain was too much, a raw, festering wound that refused to heal. I shut myself away in the villa, the world outside ceasing to exist. Days blurred together as I cried until my eyes were too dry to shed any more tears.
Time lost all meaning. I ate when the gnawing hunger became unbearable and slept when exhaustion claimed me. But more often than not, I was neither hungry nor tired. My wolf, usually a comforting presence, had retreated deep within me, her grief mirroring mine. The bond we shared, once so strong, now felt distant and strained, as if she, too, had given up.
Eventually, my body couldn’t take the strain. I collapsed, the world spinning into darkness. My last thoughts were bitter–there was no one left who cared for me, no one to mourn if I died alone in this place. It seemed fitting, in a twisted way. Perhaps I would finally find peace.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
When I finally awoke, the sterile scent of antiseptic filled my senses. My eyes fluttered open, and I recognized the surroundings instantly–the infirmary of the Bloodvenom Pack. The memories of Kylo struggling to breathe and coughing weakly came rushing back, choking me with their intensity. Caspian was there, sitting beside the bed. He was silent, his expression unreadable as he watched me. The moment he saw I was awake, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he called for the wolf healer, his voice soft yet commanding. Shortly after, Beta Clayton arrived with a bowl of oatmeal–my favorite. It was the same comfort food I used to crave when I was sick, back when my mother was alive.
I glanced at Caspian, the memories of the past too painful to ignore. I remembered how, when I was ill as a child, I’d beg him to make oatmeal for me. He would scowl, always reluctant, but in the end, he’d bring it to me with a gruffness that belied his care. I used to cling to him then, laughing as I‘ teased, “You‘ re the best Brother!” He‘ d look away, ears red, and feed me with that same reluctant tenderness. Back then, my heart had fluttered with hope, foolishly believing he might have felt something more for me.
Later, he shattered that illusion. He confessed it was all because my mother had forced him. It was all just my wishful thinking.
Now, as he sat beside me, I didn’t know why he was here, why he was taking care of me. But I wasn’t going to let myself fall into the same trap again.
When he offered me the oatmeal, I turned away, refusing to take it. The spoon clattered noisily against the bowl as he set it down, his patience fraying. “Claire, look at how thin you‘ ve become,” he said, his voice edged with concern but also something darker–frustration, perhaps.
“All this,” he continued, his tone harsh, “for that man‘ s child… Is it really necessary?”
