But today? Today I would tend my garden and remember why I'd built this life in the first place. Not to hide from the world, but to create something beautiful in spite of it. I got dressed, pulled on my work boots, and headed outside, letting the morning sun warm my face. The garden looked the same as always—green and growing, patient and alive. Whatever Trinity sent, whatever threats she made, this remained. My work, my skill, my strength.
And tomorrow, I'd show the pack that I had enough of all three to face whatever came next.
One step at a time.
Just like everyone kept telling me. And for the first time, I was actually starting to believe it.
Chapter Twenty
Daphne
The late afternoon sun was warm on my back as I knelt in the garden, my hands deep in the soil. There was something meditative about weeding—the repetitive motion, the immediate visible results, the simple satisfaction of removing things that didn't belong. It helped quiet the chaos in my mind.
I'd been out here for hours, working my way methodically through the rows. My knees ached, my back protested, and my hands were stained green and brown, but I felt more centered than I had since opening that box this morning. The dead plant was gone. The threat was documented. Viola knew, and tomorrow the pack would know.
I couldn't control what Trinity did. But I could control this—my garden, my work, my response.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I sat back on my heels, wiping my hands on my jeans before pulling it out.
Levi: So I'm experimenting with focaccia now. Garrett says I'm obsessed. He's probably right. How do you feel about rosemary and olive oil?
Despite everything, I felt myself smile. There was something endearing about his enthusiasm, the way he'd just... decided we were going to have ongoing conversations about bread.
I sent a quick replay back:Rosemary and olive oil is classic for a reason. Can't go wrong with it.
His response came almost immediately:Perfect! I'll make it for tomorrow night. Consider it a thank you for not letting me give up after loaf number three.
Tomorrow night. Dinner with the pack. My stomach did a complicated flip that was equal parts anxiety and something that felt dangerously close to anticipation.
I took a deep breath as I stepped back:You don't have to make anything special.
Levi: Too late. Already started. Besides, cooking for people is kind of my thing. Fair warning though, if you keep giving me advice, I'm going to start bringing you everything I bake for quality control.
Me: That sounds like a threat.
Levi: It's a promise. See you tomorrow!
I stared at the exchange, at the easy back-and-forth that felt almost... normal. Like I was someone who had friends, who had people checking in, who had plans that didn't revolve around solitude and safety.
My phone buzzed again, a different conversation this time.
Micah: Oliver mentioned you need to talk to us about something tomorrow. Just want you to know—whatever it is, we'll handle it together. No judgment, no pressure.
The message made my throat tight. He didn't even know what had happened, but he was already offering support. Already making it clear I wouldn't be facing it alone.
Me: Thank you. That means a lot.
Micah: That's what pack does. See you at six.
I set the phone down and looked around my garden, at the neat rows I'd maintained so carefully, the plants thriving under my constant attention. For five years, this had been enough. The work, the routine, the self-sufficiency. But now, with messages from people who wanted to be part of my life, it felt different. Not wrong, exactly, but... incomplete.
Like I'd been maintaining a garden but forgetting to actually enjoy the flowers. I stood, stretching out the kinks in my back, and surveyed my afternoon's work. Three rows completely weeded, the soil dark and clean, the vegetables looking healthier already without the competition. Tangible progress. Visible results.
If only emotional growth was as straightforward as pulling weeds. I was heading inside to wash up when I heard another vehicle coming down the road. My body tensed automatically—how many visitors could one person have in two days? But this engine I recognized now. Garrett's blue truck, but instead of Garrett stepping out it was Oliver.
He climbed out of the truck, and even from a distance, I could see the concern etched into his features. Oliver was broader than Garrett, more solidly built, with dark hair and those intense blue eyes that seemed to see everything. He moved with purpose, not the easy casualness of his packmates, but with the controlled energy of someone used to being in charge.
"Daphne," he called out as he approached, his voice carrying that note of authority that was both reassuring and slightly intimidating. "I hope you don't mind. Garrett has been worried about the text from earlier, and I wanted to check in."
