His Story

Because I knew that face.

“I don’t know.”

He looked hesitant for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should tell me. But then… he did.

“But I can’t find her. I don’t know the name of the warrior my parents gave her to. No one does. My father took that secret to the grave. And my mother… is the only one who could’ve told me.”

“The day she was born… my parents gave her to my father’s most trusted warrior. Told him to take her far away. Hide her.”

He looked at me… really looked at me. His brows furrowed, deep lines of confusion forming on his forehead.

My heart thudded painfully.

A flicker of pain in his eyes.

His eyes locked onto mine, widened slightly, full of questions he didn’t know how to ask. There was something else there too–confusion… and doubt. It was like he was seeing something that shouldn’t exist, like the mark had shattered a belief he held tightly to.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said calmly. “Everything.”

“A coma… from what?”

A silence hung in the air, heavy and bitter.

“We went to war with them,” he went on. “Weeks of bloodshed. Revenge. In the end, the werewolf council stepped in and forced a truce. But the damage was done. We became enemies. The peace is only in name.”

I tried to keep my voice light.

Then his voice shifted, softer, quieter.

“I was only eighteen,” he added softly. “And my mother… she never woke up. The poison, the trauma… it pushed her into a spiritual coma. The healers say her soul is trapped somewhere in between.”

He took a step back, shaking his head slowly.

“What about your parents? Couldn’t they find the warrior?”

Calvin’s eyes grew distant.

A cold chill passed through me.

“My mother comes from a family of great healers. Her father teleports, and her mother heals. She was born with an incredible gift of healing and teleportation. People respected her… admired her. She was kind, trusted too easily.”

“You can’t be her…”

Then Calvin turned around, grabbed a chair from the corner, and pulled it to the side of my bed. He sat slowly, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving my face. There was no rage in his expression now. No cruelty. Just curiosity, deep and intense.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured. “You have her mark. Exactly. But…”

“She could command shadows… summon things no one else could. She could heal… teleport… there was so much she could do. But gifts like that attract enemies, powerful ones. The seer warned my parents–if she grew up in the Nightshade Pack, someone would kill her before her powers matured. She had to be hidden… until she turned eighteen.”

I swallowed hard… What should I tell him? The truth? What if he is one of the people who wants to kill me and may have recognized me by my birthmark? No… I can’t tell him the truth… I can’t trust anyone.

He rubbed his hands together slowly, staring off like he was remembering something painful.

“Can I… see a photo of your mother?” I asked, not even sure why. I just needed to see. Something told me to ask.

He was quiet for a long moment, like he was wrestling with something in his mind. Then he let out a slow breath and looked at me again, this time with something almost vulnerable in his eyes.

“She should be eighteen now, but I can’t find her.”

I didn’t know what to say. My thoughts spun wildly. How could I have the same mark? Was it a coincidence? Or… something else?

My breath caught.

“Special how?”

My heart raced.

His jaw clenched.

The healer gave a quick nod and got back to work, her hands glowing faintly as she passed them over my injuries. I felt warmth where her energy flowed–soothing, calming. The pain in my ribs dulled, the swelling faded, and the ache in my back eased.

My lips parted, but no words came.

I couldn’t speak.

“Now… now I know my sister is of age. She’s eighteen. She’s safe to return.”

The moment my eyes landed on the picture–my breath caught.

My heart jumped.

He continued, his voice filled with pain now.

“Why?”

I knew her.

His eyes narrowed slightly, confused, but after a second, he nodded. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slim leather wallet, and flipped through the compartments.

My throat tightened. A cold chill ran through me. I couldn’t explain why.

“Who?”

“Oh…”

Then he turned to the healer.

I stared at the woman in the photo… and everything inside me started to shake.

His Story

For a moment, it was silent.

He sighed and continued.

“And my mother… she’s not in the right state to speak.”

“I was born with it,” I said quietly.

His jaw tightened.

I should’ve ignored it, but I didn’t.

“He died eight years ago.” His voice was firm, but I could hear the pain beneath it.

I stared at him, stunned.

I gasped, my hand covering my mouth.

“My missing little sister.”

I leaned forward slightly, ignoring the dull ache in my side.

Something inside me pushed the words out before I could stop them.

His gaze dropped, fingers threading tightly together.

He looked up again, this time searching my face for something.

I watched him, his face carefully guarded, but for a brief second… I saw it.

“My name is Riya… English name Rebecca… I’m from India.”

The lie slipped out smoothly and practiced. I knew he’d believe it–my features, my accent, my story. It was enough to make the truth invisible.

“What do you mean?”

I felt his pain, his rage.

“My parents were drugged, poisoned. When my mother woke–half-conscious–she realized her friend and her friend’s husband had brought a witch… to drain her powers. They wanted to transfer her powers.”

“You can’t be my sister.”

His Story

I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t explain why I felt so pulled to his story.

When she was done, she gave me a nod and a faint smile before gathering her things. With a bow toward Alpha Calvin, she left the room quietly.

He nodded once.

I forced my lips to move.

I looked up at him, wondering if he believed my lies, but it seemed he did–though he seemed confused.

And then, under his breath, he muttered,

I felt my pulse thrum in my throat. I didn’t understand why his words hit something deep in my chest.

“The seer confirmed it the moment she was born,” he continued. “The mark appeared on her back–same place as yours. Shaped like a crescent wrapped in flames. It meant she had the ability.”

“Even in that state, my mother fought. She killed her so-called friend, teleported back home… carrying my father’s lifeless body in her arms.”

“Because you’re human,” he said, as if the words themselves were too strange to believe. “And you look nothing like my mother or carry any trait of my family. You are India.”

His frown deepened, but he said nothing.

I blinked.

“Your… sister?”

I blinked.

“She tried to fight, but she was too weak. My father, who’d been given a more dangerous poison, never woke up. He died there, right beside her.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

He hesitated, then lifted his eyes, flicking briefly to my back, to the place where the mark was hidden under my dress.

His Story

“In our great-grandmother’s lineage,” he began, “there’s a gift, a rare one. It only passes to female children, and even then, it skips generations. It hasn’t appeared again since her… until my sister.”

“She’s been in a spiritual coma for the past eight years.

“That day…” he said, his voice shaking just slightly, “was the worst day of my life.”

He hesitated… then said,

I blinked.

“Betrayed?”

I tilted my head slightly, confused.

“I left India a few years ago,” I went on, letting the lies roll off my tongue. “I met Sofia in one of the cities. She told me about werewolves. I wanted to learn more… ended up getting involved with a few packs. I never expected to end up like this.”

“Fix her ribs and treat her wounds,” he said, his voice firmer now. “I’ll wait over there.”

“Eight years ago, she went to her best friend’s birthday party. She thought it was a simple visit. But instead… she was betrayed.”

“What kind of ability?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“Why?”

I took it with trembling fingers.

My vision blurred.

“Where is she?”

“It can’t be possible…” he muttered under his breath, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

“Because she was special.”

He gave a faint nod, his expression unreadable.

I swallowed hard and tugged the dress back over my back.

“My father is dead,” he said quietly.