POV Blake
I'm standing on her doorstep, my brain doing that thing where it just shows static instead of actual thoughts.
"Come back inside, child." Helen's voice is gentle. "Before you hyperventilate on my porch."
My legs move without permission, carrying me back into the warmth that smells like herbs and understanding. The door closes with a soft click that sounds like fate.
"You knew." It's not a question. My voice comes out small, broken. "This whole time, you knew…"
"I suspected." She guides me back to the kitchen chair I just vacated. "And recently became certain."
"How?" The word cracks in the middle.
Helen settles across from me with the patience of mountains.
"Amelia spoke of you constantly during our calls. Her brilliant sister who made her laugh. Her fierce protector who endured so much. The way she described Blake Bishop... Well, you're exactly as she said. Just wearing the wrong name."
The dam breaks. Twenty years of holding it together, and I'm sobbing in a stranger's kitchen like a child.
Except she's not a stranger—she's the mother I never had, and that makes it worse.
"I’m… sorry," I gasp between tears. "I'm so sorry... I didn't want to lie, but they said— My parents— And Amelia was dead and—"
"Breathe." Helen's hands cover mine, warm and steady. "I'm not angry, child. I understand."
"How can you understand? I'm a fraud. I've been lying to everyone, to your son—"
"You've been surviving." Her voice carries no judgment, only compassion. "Amelia told me about your family. The cruelty. The way they treated you like a burden instead of a blessing."
"She talked about me that much?"
"Constantly." Helen smiles through my tears. "She wanted us to meet. Said I'd love your sharp wit and fierce heart. She was right."
Fresh sobs wrack my body. My sister, my true protector, planning futures that would never happen.
"She was so proud of you," Helen continues. "How you endured without breaking. How you found humor in darkness. She called you the strongest person she knew."
"I'm not strong. I'm pathetic. I can't even shift…"
"About that." Helen's expression turns thoughtful. "Amelia told me, in confidence. About your wolf."
My blood freezes. "She told you?"
"She needed someone to talk to. The burden of keeping that secret, watching you suffer... it ate her." Helen squeezes my hands. "Other packs heard rumors, but she never confirmed them. She protected you even from a distance."
"Lot of good it did. Still wolfless at twenty."
"Are you?" Helen studies me with those knowing eyes. "The pain in your bones, the way your body rebels… What if I told you that it's not an illness? What if it's emergence?"
"That's not. I've tried for twenty years—"
"In a pack that told you all along that you were broken. Under parents, your own blood, who deemed you worthless. In an environment where showing weakness meant losing what little you had." She leans forward. "But here? You're valued. Protected. Loved. Your wolf feels safe for the first time, and she's trying to surface."
The idea is so foreign it might as well be in another language.
"That's not possible…"
"Neither was surviving your childhood, yet here you are." Helen's smile is radiant. "I'm happy for you, Blake. Truly. You're finally living the life you deserve."
I want to argue, but exhaustion wins.
We talk for another hour—about Amelia, about truth, about the terrifying possibility of telling Matthias. Helen doesn't push, just offers wisdom and tea in equal measure.
By the time I leave, the sun's setting and I feel raw but somehow lighter. Like confession actually does help. Who knew?
The feeling lasts approximately thirty seconds.
Matthias is home.
I know before I even open our bedroom door—his scent fills the hallway, that pine and power combination that makes my knees weak. But something's off. The scent carries stress, exhaustion, something darker.
He's standing by the window, still in tactical gear, shoulders rigid with tension. He doesn't turn when I enter.
"You're back." I aim for casual and miss by miles.
"Amelia."
Amelia.
Again.
"How was the border?" I try again, moving closer despite every instinct screaming danger.
He turns then, and Goddess, he looks wrecked. Dark circles, jaw clenched, eyes holding storms. "Complicated. Like everything lately."
I reach for him, needing contact, but he steps back. The rejection hits like a physical blow.
"Matthias—"
"What are you hiding?"
The question lands like a grenade. No buildup, no warning, just boom—emotional explosion.
"I don't—"
"Don't." His voice is sharp enough to cut. "Just don't. I'm exhausted, Amelia. The border's a mess, you collapsed yesterday, and I can feel you pulling away even when you're right next to me."
"I'm not pulling away."
"Then what are you doing?" He runs a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through. "Every time I think we're getting closer, you shut down. Every time I ask about your past, you deflect. And don't think I haven't noticed the little things."
"What things?" My voice is too high.
"The way you react to frogs. How you know combat moves Amelia never learned. The fact that you smell like sorrow instead of the confidence she used to wear."
Oh fuck. That’s not good.
Fuck fuck fuck.
"People change," I whisper. "Grief—"
"This isn't grief!" He moves closer, and the pull toward him flares so hot I can barely breathe. "This is something else. Something you're terrified to tell me. And I'm tired of pretending I don't notice."
We're inches apart now, the air between us electric with tension and unspoken truths. I'm emotionally raw from Helen, physically exhausted from no sleep, and completely unprepared for this confrontation.
"Matthias, please—"
"Just tell me. Whatever it is, we can face it together. But I can't keep doing this dance where we pretend everything's fine."
The moment of truth bears down on me like a freight train.
Helen's words echo: The secret is killing you. My carefully constructed world tilts on its axis, ready to shatter at the slightest push.
He's standing there, looking at me with eyes that promise safety and threaten destruction in equal measure.