Selina's out there, balanced right on the edge of this ancient stone ridge — wind blowing her coat around, hair dangling in her face. Down below, that river slices through the trees, all silver and mean, looking exactly the same as it did twenty years back. Nothing changes. Except her. Except everything.
That day — the one she can't forget, no matter how many bottles of cheap Merlot she downs — it was the day she made the call that wrecked her, but also saved her, maybe. Necessary evil, that's what people say. She's not sure she buys it.
Her heart's in her throat. Her kid's out there somewhere. Alone. Different. Hunted.
"Please," she whispers. "Let her be safe." But the universe has never answered her, not once. The Moon Goddess? Might as well pray to a brick wall. If she ever listened, she's gone silent now.
Memory hits hard. Flashback to the red wolf — oh, she remembers. Him in that clearing, all muscle and moonlight, eyes burning like gasoline on a campfire. Not exactly a talker. Didn't need to be, really. Something about him just clicked, straight to her bones. Instant. Wild. Over way too soon.
Never even got his name. Just knew what he was — rogue, sure, but there was something still and sad in him that nearly broke her. He left. She felt devastated, like he'd took out a piece she couldn't live without.
Back to Blackwood Pack she went, pretending like she was okay, but she wasn't. Not even close. Then the bump showed up, and, well… choices had to be made.
So she lied. She spun a tale about some Beta warrior — dead, of course (easy to mourn a ghost). Wrapped her baby in that little story, made it neat and safe. Because if anyone found out her kid was half red wolf — Moonborn, maybe? — they'd come for her. No way was Selina letting that happen.
Evangeline grew up on secrets. Selina taught her all the pack rules, pushed her toward Kieran (everyone needs a best friend, right?), watched her little girl become this wild, bright thing. Wolf still sleeping inside, which… honestly, Selina kinda hoped meant the lie had worked. Maybe the truth was gone.
But no. The past is annoying like that — always scratching at the door, showing up at the worst time. Especially when it's got teeth.
Selina turns away from the ridge, shoulders hunched. She'd come out here hoping for a miracle — some sign, a whiff of Evangeline, anything. Forest didn't care.
She gets in her car, gripping the wheel tight. Then — buzz. Her phone. Unknown number. Great.
Stomach drops. She hates this part.
She picks up anyway.
"Selina Blackwood?"
Woman's voice. Low. Rings some kind of bell.
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"You don't remember me. That's fine. My name's Talia. And your daughter's been found."
The words punch right through her. "Where is she? Is she alright?"
"She's alive. She's… more than you ever prepared her for."
Selina can feel the dread, settling heavy and cold. "She doesn't know everything."
"No," Talia says, and there's something almost sad in it. "But the truth's waking up in her anyway. And, Selina? The world's paying attention."
Selina's grip on the phone went white-knuckle. "Leave her out of this. She's just a kid."
Talia snorted. "She's not, Selina. Not now. You knew this train was coming, you just didn't want to hear it."
A lump stuck in Selina's throat. "She should get to decide."
Talia's voice went all cold. "She will. But choices bite, Selina. So do secrets."
Click. That was it. Silence, except for the blood roaring in Selina's ears.
Nineteen damn years, she'd built armor around her daughter, brick by brick. Guess what? Armor cracks. Secrets? They leak, and they never do it quietly.
She yanked a battered old box from under the passenger seat — God, it was heavier than she remembered. Inside, nestled like a curse, sat the crescent moon pendant. Obsidian, glossy black, a twin to the one she'd hidden in her dresser years ago. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"I did this for you," she breathed, voice barely there, hoping Evangeline could somehow hear her through time and guilt. "I lied because I love you."
Love's a sticky thing, though. Selina couldn't shake the feeling that maybe — just maybe — her love hadn't saved her kid at all. Maybe it had wrecked everything.