She retrieves the volume and flips through it to check the contents. I watch her from the corner of my eye, debating whether I should say something. Thora’s been around forever. If anyone knows about weird supernatural stuff happening to Llewelyn women, it’s her.
“I had the strangest dream last night,” I muse, trying to sound as casual as I can.
She glances at me. “Oh?”
“It felt different than my normal dreams. Realer.” I pause, trying to gauge her reaction. “There were women in a circle, and something was wrapped around them. Like they were bound or trapped somehow.”
“Dreams often reflect our anxieties.” Her tone is pleasant but completely uninterested. “Given everything that’s happened recently, your subconscious is probably processing stress.”
“Right. Makes sense.”
She tucks the documents under her arm and heads for the door. Before she leaves, she looks back at me with what one might call concern, if Llewelyn women did concern. “Don’t stay too late. You’ve been spending too much time in here.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
Great. That went exactly nowhere.
I slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. This is the problem with being Llewelyn. Nobody connects with anyone about anything real. We’re all just politely existing in the samespace, acknowledging each other’s presence without actually caring.
Thora didn’t even ask what the dream was about. Didn’t wonder why I bothered mentioning it. She just offered a practical explanation and moved on with her day like I’d commented on the weather.
And maybe that’s what the vision was trying to show me.
What if we’re not supposed to be like this? What if something made us this way?
I need to talk to someone who actually understands psychic abilities. Someone who won’t just pat me on the head and tell me I’m stressed.
Raegan would know what to do.
My best friend has psychic gifts of her own. She dealt with visions that actually came true, warnings about real dangers. If I could just talk to her, she could tell me whether I’m experiencing something supernatural or having a mental breakdown.
But she’s in Grayhide territory now. And reaching out to Grayhide right now is basically asking to be labeled a traitor.
The Bastian incident destroyed whatever trust we’d managed to build with outsiders. He came here through our exchange program, pretended to be interested in our matriarchal structure, and spent months gathering intelligence. The whole time, he was plotting with an enemy pack to exploit us.
When the truth came out, it broke something in our leadership. My aunt—Matriarch Lydia—barely speaks in council meetings anymore. She just sits there with this blank expression that reminds me way too much of the woman from my vision. The other council members have followed her lead, and overthe last year or so, we’ve retreated into emotional lockdown. My pack trusts outsiders even less than before.
I get it. The betrayal hurt.
But Raegan isn’t Bastian. She’s my friend. We spent hours talking when she was here as an exchange student, sharing things that most Llewelyn women would never share with anyone. She understood my frustration with our pack’s emotional distance without judging me for it. And I understood her complicated relationship with her own family and territory.
She told me about growing up as Oren Blacklock’s sister and about the pressure of being connected to Grayhide’s former brutal leadership. We talked about feeling trapped by expectations, about wanting more than what our roles allowed us to have.
When she left to go back to Grayhide, it felt like losing a limb.
Going to see her without telling anyone feels wrong. Like I’m doing exactly what Bastian did. But who else can I turn to? Nobody here has psychic abilities. Nobody here would even take me seriously if I tried to explain what I saw.
I’m on my own.
My mind drifts to the last time I was in Grayhide territory. Raegan’s wedding to Wyn was a massive event that brought together wolves from multiple packs in Badlands. The ceremony was supposed to break some kind of curse, and watching it happen was like nothing I’d ever experienced. People were laughing, hugging, and showing emotion without any filter.
It made me uncomfortable. But also fascinated.
There was this guy there who caught my attention. Tall, with dark blond hair that stuck up in weird directions like he’snever known a comb. His eyes were green and observant, taking everything in like he was constantly analyzing his surroundings. He had a crooked nose—definitely broken before—and this lean, strong build that gave me the impression that he could handle himself in a fight but didn’t rely solely on physical strength.
I caught him staring at me a few times during the ceremony. Not in a creepy way, more like he was trying to figure something out. Every time our eyes met, something pulled in my chest. This weird recognition made zero sense since we’ve never even spoken.
He moved through the crowd with quiet confidence, stopping to talk with different people but never staying long. I noticed he carried a worn journal in his back pocket and pulled it out occasionally to jot down notes. Someone mentioned he was Grayhide’s historian, which explained the constant observation and note-taking.
