It was the warmth that woke her first. Not heat—warmth. A blanket was tucked gently over her legs. The faint scent of lavender in the air. A quiet humming, soft and almost motherly.
Andrea stirred.
Her body ached, but not like before. This was the ache of confusion. The ache of being filled too quickly with things she wasn't ready to carry.
She opened her eyes.
And blinked.
A young woman sat near the window, a book open in her lap, dark curls falling freely over her shoulders. She looked nothing like the three men from before—softer, calmer. No wolf-like intensity. No, mate bond pulling tight.
Just presence. Easy and still.
"You're awake," the girl said, her voice bright and warm. "I'm glad."
Andrea sat up slowly, eyeing her. "Who are you?"
The girl gave her a crooked smile. "I'm Amalia. The sister of those three overgrown men who keep hovering over you like wolves in heat."
Andrea blinked. "You're... their sister?"
Amalia nodded, setting her book aside. "Half-sister. Same mother. Different fathers. Long story. Complicated family tree. But yeah, I share their blood—and their headaches."
Andrea gave a small, uncertain laugh despite herself. "They're intense."
"Understatement of the century," Amalia said, standing and stepping closer. "But they mean well. Even when they're dramatic about it."
Andrea studied her. "You don't look like them."
"Thanks," Amalia said with a wink. "I take that as a compliment."
Andrea tilted her head. "Why are you here?"
"Because I figured you might want to talk to someone who doesn't expect you to fall into their arms and accept some magical soul-bond fairytale." Amalia softened. "Someone who gets what it feels like to have your whole life flipped upside down in a blink."
Andrea's chest tightened. "They said I'm their mate."
Amalia nodded. "I heard."
"I don't even know what that means," Andrea whispered. "I didn't even know wolves were real until ten minutes ago."
"And now you're apparently the mate of three Alphas," Amalia said. "It's... a lot."
Andrea looked away. "I don't want this."
"I get that."
"I didn't ask for it."
"No one ever does," Amalia said gently. "But that doesn't mean it's not real."
Andrea was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "They said they're not my family. So whatever Mother Theresa wanted to tell me… it's still a mystery."
Amalia hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed, not too close. "Do you want to find out? About your past?"
Andrea looked up sharply. "No."
But the crack in her voice said otherwise.
"You don't have to decide that now," Amalia said kindly. "But just so you know... whatever you are, whoever you were meant to be... You don't have to figure it out alone anymore."
Andrea looked at her. Really looked. And for the first time in years, she didn't feel like she had to run.
*****
Andrea was still sitting on the bed, curled slightly against the headboard, when the door creaked open again. She instinctively straightened, expecting another whirlwind of emotions and wolf-eyed intensity.
But instead, there was cake.
A massive one.
Three tiers. Frosted in soft white with touches of silver and gold. Flowers carved out of sugar. Her name was written across the top in delicate cursive.
The brothers walked in slowly behind it, each carrying something—plates, drinks, even a bouquet of fresh wildflowers. Not too polished. Not too grand. Just... thoughtful.
"Happy birthday," Joseph said, grinning as he set the cake down on the low table.
Andrea blinked. "What?"
"It's your birthday," Matthew added, voice gentler than before. "And no one should go without cake on their birthday. Especially not you."
Lionel stepped forward last, the bouquet in his hand. "We weren't sure what kind of flowers you like... but Amalia said these reminded her of you. Beautiful. And wild."
Andrea stared at the cake. At the flicker of a single candle on top. At the flowers, the smell of chocolate, and the awkward, hopeful expressions on the faces of three terrifyingly powerful men who were trying—really trying—to be kind.
"I..." Her throat tightened. "I've never had a cake before. Not once. Not even a cupcake."
Amalia, seated again by the window, gave her a soft smile. "Then we're starting a new tradition."
"Light the candle," Joseph urged. "Make a wish."
Andrea hesitated.
Then she leaned forward, closed her eyes, and whispered something only the flame heard.
Let this not be a dream.
She blew it out.
The room erupted into clapping—gentle, warm, playful.
Lunch arrived not long after. Trays of warm, rich food—roasted meats, herbed rice, spiced vegetables, butter-soft bread, honey-drizzled fruit. The kind of meal that made Andrea feel like she had somehow stumbled into a royal banquet.
They ate together, all six of them in the room—Andrea, the brothers, and Amalia—seated in a circle on cushions and rugs laid out over the floor. It felt strange, casual, and intimate all at once.
Joseph kept trying to get her to laugh.
Matthew stole the best pieces of fruit and dropped them on her plate when she wasn't looking.
Lionel didn't say much—but his gaze rarely left her, and every time she looked his way, he looked away just a second too late.
Their eyes were intense, unblinking, wolfish, watching. It should've made her uncomfortable. It had made her uncomfortable.
But now...
Andrea found herself getting used to it.
Not just the way they looked at her like she mattered, but the way their presence filled the room like protection. Like heat in winter.
"You said there were surprises," she murmured between bites, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lionel nodded, lifting his cup. "Tonight. Just be ready." Joseph leaned in with a teasing grin. "But first, you'll need a dress."
Matthew smirked. "And shoes."
Andrea blinked. "Wait. Is this a... party?"
Amalia laughed. "No. Not a party. Something better."
Lionel's eyes flicked to hers again. "A beginning."
Andrea looked at each of them, still unsure of who she was or where she belonged.
But for the first time, she didn't feel alone.