My father never left much space for that kind of freedom. Didn’t tolerate that kind of defiance or rebellion from anyone, least of all his heir. My childhood was built on lessons in restraint and expectation. Every day was a test of control, of how perfectly I could measure up to his impossible standards. It was never asked of me, it was demanded. And I did my best to be what he wanted of me, rarely stepping over the line he’d drawn.
Then came my first shift. A year early. The moment it happened we both felt the undeniable change. My dominance outmatched his and our power dynamitic shifted in a way he never anticipated. It rattled him, though he never admitted it. The leash he’d held me on loosened after, but not because he wanted to ease his grip. It was because he had no other choice. He knew he couldn’t win anymore.
Even then, I tried not to push too far. Some part of me, the boy who’d spent his childhood idolizing him, still wanted theman’s approval. Still wanted to make his father proud, no matter how impossible he made it.
Things really soured between us after I decided to finish college in Seattle. I’d spent the first two years doing classes online, trying to make it work from here, but the longer I stayed, the more it felt like the air itself was pressing in. When I told him I was transferring to Seattle full-time, he’d argued—wanted me to stay, to start learning the pack’s operations, to take on responsibility early—but I couldn’t do it. I needed to leave, even if I couldn’t explain what I was running from. Aside from him, that is.
I told myself I’d come back later and settle down for good after I’d made something of my own. But every time I did come home for breaks or weekends, the sense of wrongness got worse. My visits then become less frequent, my time between them longer.
And that’s why by the time I realized something was truly wrong here, it was already too late. Guilt gnaws through me even now. Maybe if I’d been around more, if I hadn’t kept my distance like I had, I would’ve seen the cracks sooner. Maybe I could have stopped the downfall before it escalated like it did or intervened before it ended the way it had.
The scar along my temple—the four jagged lines—burns at the thought, a phantom ache crawling beneath the marred skin. I resist the urge to touch it, to give away the fact that thinking of him still affects me as it does.
When I force the memory away and focus on Noa, she’s watching me carefully, that quiet way she does that puts people at ease. There’s no pity in her eyes. Just understanding.
I redirect my mind toward what she’d asked me. About ditching school to come to this part of the creek.
“I remember leaving school early one day to come down here. Couldn’t have been older than sixteen.” I watch her closely. "How do you know about that?”
Her hands fidget. She rubs the pad of her thumb against her palm like she’s trying to work out some invisible tension. “You didn’t come down here alone that day, though, did you?”
I shake my head without thinking. “No. No one was with me.”
The look she gives me in return twists something in my gut. It’s sad. Knowing.
“You weren’t alone,” she urges softly. “You and someone else decided at lunch that it was too nice a day to waste in class. You both snuck home, grabbed swimsuits and some snacks, and then came here. Spent hours splashing, laughing, trying to catch those gross little fish that swim through this stream during that time of the year. You even managed to catch one too…”
Her words hit something buried deep. The memory unspools in my mind, familiar and wrong all at once. I can see the sunlight on the water, feel the cool rush of it against my shins, but I’m still alone in it.
“You started chasing them,” she continues, speaking carefully now, like she’s trying to gently walk me through it. “You were waving the fish around, laughing your ass off while they screamed and told you to quit it.”
And just like that, the steel wall inside me cracks. The picture shifts, becomes clearer. The echoing sound of her laughter from that bright warm day fills my skull.
Noa.
She was there with me.
She was the one I chased through the shallows, the ends of her long hair wet from our splashing, her cheeks flushed from the sun and laughter. Thirteen, maybe. Features soft with youth, but still very much the woman I know now. Even then, her eyes caught me. Those same eyes that still undo me. That same pullI hadn’t known how to name back then, already tugging me toward her.
My gaze drops to the water, then back to her. “You tripped,” I say quietly, the memory now something solid I can hold on to. “You turned back to look at me and lost your footing. You fell. A rock tore your palm when you caught yourself.”
Relief washes across her face so clear it steals my breath. She lifts her left hand, palm up. A pale scar crosses the center, faint but undeniable. “Still have the scar,” she whispers. “Never thought much about it until I remembered how I got it in the first place.”
The sight of it twists something. Scars from our youth don’t linger on shifters. They fade with our first change, but Noa never shifted. Her body never healed the way it should have. My fingers close around hers before I know what I’m doing, my thumb bushing over the raised line. The texture of it feels wrong on her, like proof of a pain I should’ve been able to prevent.Even knowing that it’s a wishful, foolish thought, it doesn’t dull the urge. No matter how much I want to be able to clothe her in Bubble Wrap, I can’t protect her from every bump and bruise.
Within, my wolf grumbles his defiant disagreement.
“You remembered?” I question. “You mean you forgot this too? How is that possible?”
“My mom.” She admits what I already know deep down, but there’s a wince to it. “She fucked with my memories. At first, I didn’t know if she’d done the same to you, but after you told me about your dream…it made sense. She must’ve twisted yours too—changed how you remembered me, the same way she did to mine.”
The words land like a hit to the ribs, but I’m not entirely sure why. In my dream, Thalassa all but admitted to tampering with my connection to her daughter. “She told me, in the dream, that she knew it’d be hard to keep us apart, but that she’d found a wayto make sure I didn’t go looking for you after she took you away from me.”
And what better way to make sure I wouldn’t hunt down my stolen omega than by fracturing my memories—rewriting the way I saw her, twisting every thought until there was nothing left of what she really was to me. For years, it’s been like Noa, and her mother along with her, were scrubbed from the front of my mind. On the rare occasions the old pack healer came up in conversation, the only thing I ever felt was disgust. Disgust at the weaver who’d bound her own daughter’s wolf, then vanished to the night before anyone could make her answer for it.
I already resent her, but this? This makes it worse.Thalassa made sure I’d forget Noa. Forgetus.All the time we spent orbiting each other as pups, the bond that had already begun to take shape, she stripped it clean from my mind like it never meant anything. And now I’m mourning something I had and lost without realizing it. Every missing memory feels like a wound I didn’t know was bleeding.
Noa’s eyes flick up to mine. Along with pained understanding, guilt is also written plainly across her face, like she’s the one responsible for the damage her mother left behind.
