Freya’s POV

The moment I blink my eyes open, a sharp, relentless thudding inside my head greets me. My hands instinctively rise to clamp against my temples as I groan. Maybe a hot shower will help clear this—clear all of it. Maybe it can rinse away more than just sweat. Maybe it will scrub off the pain, the haunting memories, and the reality that refuses to become a distant nightmare.

Because every piece of it actually happened.

Standing beneath a stream of scalding water, I let it cascade over my skin longer than necessary, the heat biting just enough to keep me anchored to the present. No temperature, no boiling intensity, can sear away betrayal. But today, I need control. Today, I’m walking away from Silvyr Hallowen. Today, I leave with Alistair, my mate not by choice, but by duty—going to the Red Moon Pack.

When I step back into my room, towel wrapped snugly around me, I come to a sudden halt.

"Mom?"

Seated at the edge of my bed, my mother’s gaze drifts across the chaos of my room—clothes, books, fragments of the life I used to know scattered without order, like remnants of a forgotten era. She doesn’t glance my way immediately.

"Have you forgotten you need to pack?" Her words pierce the silence sharply despite the tremble in her voice. Her eyes betray the truth—red, puffy, stained with tears she’s unwilling to let fall now.

“I’ll get to it,” I reply quietly, my tone deliberately void of emotion. “Right after I’m dressed.”

Her silence lingers, heavy yet probing. Even without speaking, I know she’s staring past what I’m trying to portray, past this calm mask I’ve constructed, pulling apart every layer until she reaches the wreckage I’ve buried deep.

She sees everything. She always does.

She knows this isn’t supposed to be happening—that none of this was ever part of anyone’s plan for me. Maybe that’s why I haven’t even touched my bags yet. The weight of what they represent feels unbearable.

“How are you holding up? Did you manage to sleep at all?” she asks hesitantly, her sympathy slipping through despite her effort to sound composed.

So many responses bubble inside me: accusations, cries for an explanation, pleas for an escape. But I’ve already decided—no more complaints, no more worthless questions. They lead nowhere. Instead, I square my shoulders. I’ll face everything head-on.

“Yes, Mom,” I answer flatly. “I slept just fine.”

I pull on a simple dress—neither soft nor delicate, just sturdy fabric that won’t crease under pressure. I pick it deliberately, hoping it reflects something I want to be today: unyielding. As I grab the first bag to begin packing, her gentle voice interrupts again.

“Let me help,” she offers, her tone tender this time. “You look… worn out.”

I pause long enough to meet her gaze. Her lips tremble despite her attempts to keep them steady, and her eyes glisten with unspoken worries. It’s that act she always puts on—the brave mother routine, trying to hold everything together for me when it’s clearly as hard for her as it is for me. I know where I get that trait from.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say softly. “But I’ve got it.”

She exhales slowly, sitting as if the exhaustion finally claims her. “I just wanted to see how you were. That’s why I came.”

The atmosphere around us grows dense. The silence between us, though absent of spoken words, speaks volumes. And then, without breaking it further, I refocus on my task, stuffing clothes into the suitcase one after another.

---

At some point, I realize I’m alone. My mother is gone. I didn’t notice when she left; the guilt that follows sharpens inside me, a sudden jab. Maybe I should’ve said something less dismissive.

“She probably deserved it,” murmurs my wolf, Nyxa, judgmental but not without an undertone of empathy.

Still, I know better than to yield to softness now. If I break down, if I cling to comfort, I might collapse completely. Crying in her embrace like a child might feel tempting, but I can’t afford to crumble. Not today. Today, I need to be unwavering.

Minutes pass before the soft padding of her footsteps returns. This time, she taps lightly before pushing the door open.

“Breakfast is ready,” she announces quietly, lingering near the threshold.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I deflect, keeping my focus straight ahead. “I can’t stomach anything right now.”

She doesn’t leave. “You hardly ate yesterday. The ceremony had you running around nonstop…” Her voice falters momentarily, and the word ceremony cuts through me like freezing steel.

Everything freezes. My hand gripping the shirt in front of me, my mind twisting against the barrage of images: the ceremony, mating, Jareth.

I’d pictured waking this morning in his arms—in the warmth, safety, and love only he ever gave me. Instead, I had woken alone. Sable had been the one with him.

The silence behind me remains unyielding, broken only by her footsteps moving closer. “Please, Freya. Just a little food. You can’t face this day on an empty stomach.”

All the accumulated pressure finally cracks something open inside me, and my voice comes out sharper than I intend. “I’m not sitting at that table, Mom. Not with her there—and not with him. If I see either of them, I can’t promise I won’t just… lose it.”

The weight of what I’ve admitted sends another silence cascading over the room. I don’t look back, but I wonder if she finally comprehends the storm I’ve been concealing. My voice, usually composed, has betrayed me. Even so, when her arms enfold me, I stiffen but don’t push her away. Her touch doesn’t erase the pain, but it roots me, a fragile tether holding me together in this chaos.

“She’s not coming,” my mother murmurs into the stillness. “Sable. She won’t be there.”

Of course, she won’t. She’s likely elsewhere—maybe wrapped up in Jareth’s arms again, enjoying whatever lovers indulge in after a blissful night.

The thought lands heavily as I nod rigidly. Without another word, I follow my mother halfway out the door, my footsteps dragging but deliberate.

Then, she pauses, glancing over her shoulder, and tries, once again, to mend what’s irreparable. “Freya… she’s your sister. Your twin. No matter what’s happened, she’s still—”

I halt immediately, my voice taut with finality. “Mom, do you want me to come to breakfast or not?”

Her words dissolve instantly, trapped in her throat. She doesn’t press further. I don’t need a sermon about forgiveness, not now—not while every shred of me still burns from betrayal. She nods instead, wordless, and together we descend the hallway silently towards whatever waits at the table.