The boy I loved, the mate I bled for, had withered into a man who could snarl me down, shove me aside, and walk away without a backward glance. A man who booked moonlit voyages with another woman while leaving me behind to scrub his boots like discarded prey.
And at last, I understood.
My father hadn’t cast me out in cruelty.
He had seen the rot long before I ever did.
My gaze fell on the landline—old, forgotten, ignored. But it still worked. My hand moved before fear could stop it. I dialed the number I had carried like an open scar for thirty years.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Then—
“Hello?”
His voice. Older. Rougher. Worn by time. But unmistakable. Still the Alpha of the Mira. Still my father.
My throat closed. I clutched the receiver like a lifeline, tears falling in silent, unstoppable streams.
“…Father,” I whispered, the word breaking free like shattered bone. “…It’s me. Nyx.”