And now—today—was my forty-eighth birthday.
No one remembered. No quiet wishes, no ceremonial howl, not even a candle flickering on the table. The pack celebrated victories, promotions, births—but never me.
Still, a foolish part of me hoped.
Maybe tonight would be different.
I mentioned it after dinner.
He sat sprawled in his leather chair, methodically rubbing a stained cloth over a wolf-bone dagger, polishing it like a sacred heirloom. An old Western droned from the television, ignored by everyone. Inside me, my wolf curled inward, exhausted but stubbornly hopeful.
“Do you remember what you said to me,” I asked softly, “when I turned eighteen?”
He didn’t bother glancing up. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
I swallowed. “You promised we’d travel. You said we’d see the world together. That once the work was done and our son was grown, we’d finally go—on a cruise. Just the two of us.”
His laugh was low and cutting, stripped of any warmth. “Have you lost your mind? You think you deserve something like that? Look at yourself, Nyx. You’re nothing but bones and wrinkles. You really think anyone would welcome you aboard a luxury ship? They’d probably think you wandered in from the streets.”