(Aria's POV)
I don't mean to fall asleep.
I lie down "just for a minute" to test the bed and wake up hours later, disoriented.
The sky outside is darker now, streaked with orange where the sun is starting to sink. City lights blink on, one by one.
For a blissful half second, I forget where I am.
Then the memory hits—the ceremony, the rejection, the border, Damien.
My chest tightens.
I swing my legs out of bed, wincing at how stiff I feel. Apparently, emotional devastation is a full-body workout.
A faint murmur drifts from the main living area—Marta talking to someone, the soft clink of dishes.
I follow the smell of food.
Dinner is simple but good—rice, vegetables, grilled chicken with spices I don't recognize. Marta hands me a plate without comment and nods toward the couch.
"Eat. Then you talk to him," she says.
"Him who?"
She gives me a look.
Right.
Damien.
I sit and pick at my food, watching the city below. Humans drive home from work, crowd into buses, laugh on sidewalks. They have problems—bills, bosses, relationships—but none of them know what it feels like to have your soul ripped in half in front of a room full of people.
Lucky.
The study door opens.
Damien steps out, jacket off now, white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. There's ink on one of his forearms—a dark, intricate design that disappears under the cuff.
I tear my eyes away before I can stare.
"Sleep well?" he asks.
"As well as anyone can after their entire life explodes," I say.
"Good," he replies.
I blink. "That's your definition of good?"
"You slept," he says. "Your body is not shutting down. We can work with that."
In a weird way, it's reassuring.
"So," I say, setting my plate down. "You mentioned training. Is this like pack training? Running laps, push-ups, getting yelled at by someone with a whistle?"
"No whistles," he says. "No group humiliation. Just you, me, and a few basic principles."
"Principles like what?"
He sits in the chair opposite again.
"Principle one," he says. "You are not weak. You are… blocked."
"Blocked is just a polite word for useless," I mutter.
"Blocked," he repeats, ignoring me, "means power with no outlet. Pressure with no valve. Eventually, that explodes. In your case, probably at the worst possible time, in the worst possible way."
A chill skates across my skin.
"I've waited eighteen years with nothing," I say. "Why would anything suddenly change now?"
His gaze flickers.
"Because you were pushed to your breaking point," he says. "Rejection. Exile. That kind of shock shakes loose old seals. I felt it when I arrived at the border."
"You… felt me?" I ask, wary.
"Your wolf," he corrects. "Raging behind a wall. That kind of rage doesn't come from something small."
My mind flashes back to the shower—those massive paws, those eyes.
Goosebumps prickle along my arms.
"Principle two," he continues. "Fear is information. Not a master. You can acknowledge it without obeying it."
"I've been obeying fear my entire life," I admit.
"Then we unlearn that," he says simply.
"That easy?"
"Nothing about this is easy," he says. "But it is simple. You do the work, or you don't. You decide whether you remain the girl the pack threw away… or become something they'll beg not to anger."
The part of me that's petty, wounded, and furious at Liam purrs at that.
"Principle three," he adds, "you don't have to forgive anyone to move forward. You just have to stop letting them live in your head rent-free."
"I don't know," I say. "Feels like Liam should pay rent. He's occupying prime real estate."
A ghost of a smile touches Damien's mouth and vanishes.
"Tomorrow at six," he says. "We start with your mind."
"My mind?" I echo. "Not, like, punching bags?"
"You can't control a wolf you're afraid to face," he says. "Tonight, you rest. You will likely have nightmares. If you do, remember where you are. This building is secure. No one will touch you unless I allow it."
Again with the unless I allow it.
Comforting.
Also mildly terrifying.
"What about you?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Do you sleep?"
He tilts his head. "Sometimes."
"Do you have nightmares?"
His eyes go distant for half a second.
Then the shutters slam down.
"That's not relevant to your training," he says.
Which is not a no.
Before I can push, Marta appears, wiping her hands on a towel.
"If you're done discussing trauma bonding," she says crisply, "the girl needs rest."
I blink. "Trauma—"
"It's a term," she says. "Look it up. Later. For now, bed."
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do," she cuts in. "You've just severed a mate bond. Even for a so-called weak wolf, that takes a toll. If you don't sleep, your first lesson will be you fainting on the floor. I don't feel like mopping you up."
Damien doesn't argue.
"Listen to her," he says. "She's usually right."
"Usually?" Marta sniffs. "Try always."
I stand, suddenly exhausted again.
At my door, I hesitate.
"What if I wake up and this is all gone?" I ask. "The bed. The shower. The view. You. What if they change their mind and drag me back?"
"No one comes in without my knowledge," Damien says calmly. "Nightfall's Alpha doesn't have the reach he thinks he does."
"You sound sure."
"I am," he says. "Sleep, Aria. When you wake, we make sure your nightmares don't own you."
It's such an odd promise that I nod without thinking.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling for a long time.
The city hums below.
My chest aches.
Eventually, I drift off.
The nightmares come, as promised.
I'm back in the hall, Liam's voice echoing as he rejects me, the pack's laughter swelling. Except this time, the pain doesn't stop. It builds and builds until I'm sure my body will rip apart.
I try to scream and no sound comes out.
Then the dream shifts.
I'm in the forest at the border.
The sky is red. The trees are on fire. Wolves made of shadow and smoke circle me, eyes glowing, teeth bared.
Run, my mind yells.
I can't move.
My feet are rooted.
The shadow-wolves leap—
—and something huge slams into them from the side.
A wolf.
My wolf.
Massive. Silver fur tipped in black. Eyes glowing gold with fury.
She rips shadow apart like paper, snarling, claws flashing.
When the last shadow falls, she turns to me.
We stare at each other.
You took long enough, I say in the dream, though my mouth doesn't move.
You took long enough, she replies, voice a deep vibration in my bones. You let them call us weak.
I didn't have a choice, I think.
You always have a choice, she says. You just didn't like the cost.
Her eyes soften.
Now you've paid it.
She steps closer, pressing her massive forehead to mine.
Heat pours through me. Strength. Rage. Something like love.
Her presence wraps around me like armor.
Then she pulls back.
Wake up, she growls. He's waiting.
I jerk awake, heart pounding, sweat cooling on my skin.
Sunlight filters through the curtains, pale and early.
For a moment, I lie there, clutching the sheets.
Then I realize two things:
One, my headache is gone.
Two, when I reach inward, the door in my mind is still there—but the lock is cracked.
Not open.
Not yet.
But damaged.
Breakable.
"Okay," I whisper into the quiet room. "Okay."
I swing my legs out of bed, adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
If Damien Blackwood wants to start training at six, fine.
For the first time, I'm ready to meet him halfway.
Because buried under the grief and anger, a new truth settles in my chest like a burning coal:
I am not the weak girl they threw away.
I am the wolf they should have been afraid of.
And with Damien's help—or in spite of it—I'm going to make sure they learn that the hard way.