Lyka
I shifted on the floor again, fingers brushing over the cool wood of my door. Parker's presence still lingered, warm and steady, making everything else seem smaller, quieter, less important.
But Isa's shadow pressed close too, quiet and sharp. I could feel her without seeing her—the tension, the edge of jealousy. It wasn't loud, but it was there. Always there.
I finally pushed myself up, smoothing my shirt, trying to shake off the mix of warmth and unease that clung to me. A soft creak in the hallway drew my attention. There she was: Isa. Calm on the surface, but her eyes were sharp, calculating. Arms folded, a thin smile in place, watching me like she always did.
"Morning," I greeted, trying to sound casual. Inside, though, I was still unsettled from what had happened at the gate.
"Morning," she replied, tilting her head. The expression she wore didn't quite match the word.
I studied her for a moment. Isa used to put me at ease. Now it was different—every glance seemed to carry something unspoken. Even her attempts at a smile felt more like a warning than comfort.
I filled my lungs with air, then let it out slowly. "Hey… want to take a break with me?" My tone wavered between careful and hopeful. "We could sit down, have some tea."
Her gaze shot to me quickly, a flicker of surprise slipping through before she covered it. "You… actually want me to join you?"
I nodded without hesitation. "Yeah. It's still morning. I can fix tea for both of us. We don't need to do much—just sit together." My heartbeat stumbled, nerves pressing in, but the need to ease things between us pushed me forward.
She gave me that thin smile again, the kind that looked polite but never warmed her eyes.
"Sure," she said after a beat, her tone airy, touched with an unexpected softness. "I suppose I could sit with you."
For a moment, I only blinked at her, thrown by the shift, then forced a smile. "Great. I'll set it up."
I headed for the kitchen, but the weight of her stare followed me. It was steady, deliberate, as though she were measuring each small action. I let out a quiet breath and shook my head. Isa could unsettle me without saying a single word.
The kettle whistled, sharp against the quiet. I poured the tea, set the cups, and balanced the tray in my hands.
As I carried it back, memories tugged at me. Childhood felt far away, but Isa hadn't changed as much as I once thought.
She'd always had a habit of claiming what was mine. My dolls, my toys, the little things I treasured—none of it was safe from her.
I remembered one afternoon clearly: me hugging my favorite doll, Isa striding in without hesitation.
"I like her better. She's mine now."
I never pushed back. Not really. That was Isa—older, louder, always reaching for what wasn't hers.
Now… her behavior had become more layered, woven into her words and movements in ways I could feel but not fully understand. Even now, I noticed it in her eyes—watching, measuring, as if she wanted to see if Parker's bond with me could be challenged.
I placed the tray between us, letting the faint steam rise. "Here," I said softly, sliding into the chair across from her. "Tea's ready."
She lifted the cup slowly, letting her gaze linger. "Thank you," she murmured, voice even, though I caught the subtle weight beneath it.
For a while, we just moved through a quiet rhythm—the clinking of spoons and cups filling the gaps. I tried to keep the conversation soft. "Did you sleep well?" I asked, careful not to let my tone betray anything.
She nodded slowly, deliberate. "I did. You?"
"I… okay," I admitted, careful not to let her sense any trace of last night's warmth. Still, I felt it—my fingers brushing the cup, remembering Parker's hand, his smirk, his words: You're mine.
She shifted, leaning back, that thin, unreadable smile pressing against her lips. "Lyka… you've changed," she said, softly accusing. "You… seem… different."
I blinked, heart fluttering. Was it Parker? She didn't know, and I wasn't telling. I offered a small smile. "I'm… just me," I said. "Maybe… I'm learning to take my space."
Her eyes flicked to mine, sharper now, searching. "Your space," she repeated, whispering. "I see."
A small chill ran through me. She was testing, probing, looking for signs of Parker's claim without admitting it. Subtle, layered, infuriating.
I sipped my tea, letting its warmth steady me. "I… I thought it'd be nice," I said. "For us to sit together, just for a moment."
She watched me, eyes narrowing slightly, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes… I suppose." Her tone softened, but the edge lingered, like a hidden blade veiled by courtesy.
For a long moment, we sat quietly, sipping our tea, letting the stillness fill the room. Yet beneath it, tension lingered—Isa's subtle claim, the hint of jealousy in her gaze, the way she lingered on certain words and gestures. It pulled me back to childhood: the dolls, the toys, the little things she always wanted. Always taking. Always asserting.
A soft laugh escaped me, quiet and restrained. Some things never change. She still carried that part of her—assertive, testing boundaries, claiming what caught her eye. Only now, it had grown sharper, threaded through adult emotions, and somehow, aimed at Parker too.
Yet… I felt steady. Parker's bond held me firm, unwavering. I was his completely, undeniably. Even with Isa's quiet challenge simmering nearby, the mate bond thrummed through me. She could watch, test, even try to stake a claim in words but she could never touch what was already mine.
I poured another cup, placing it in front of her, and smiled softly. "It's nice… sharing a moment like this."
She took it, glancing at me, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in her eyes envy, maybe longing. I couldn't quite name it, but it stirred, subtle and sharp, like a quiet warning.
The tea sat untouched for a while as our conversation wandered into small, shared stories. Laughter came, soft and hesitant, but the tension lingered. Isa's presence pressed quietly at the edges of my awareness, yet I stayed calm. Beneath it all, Parker's claim thrummed beneath my skin a quiet, steady certainty.
Sitting across from my sister, pouring tea, sharing quiet smiles and soft laughs over familiar memories, I understood something. Isa might always push limits, leave her mark, or make her desires known but she could never touch this.
I tried to keep the mood light. "Remember when we were little?" I asked, letting a small smile form. "You always wanted my toys. My dolls, my books… everything seemed yours for the taking."
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "You made it easy," she said lightly. "I just… liked what was yours."
I laughed softly. "Yeah… I remember. Somehow, I never fought too hard. You were my sister. It didn't seem worth it."
Her gaze flicked to mine, unreadable. "Some things," she said quietly, "are hard to let go."
I nodded. "I know," I said softly. "But some things… aren't yours to take." My words carried the same certainty I felt thinking of Parker, our bond, our connection.
She didn't respond but lingered for a moment, studying me. Testing, probing, looking for cracks—but there were none.
We sipped tea in silence, letting the steam curl between us, a quiet bridge between sisterhood, memories, and unspoken tension. Isa would always try, always test, always linger—but she could never take what was mine: my heart, my bond, my mate.
I felt lighter, steadier, more grounded. Isa remained a shadow at the edges of my awareness, but my bond, my choice, was untouchable.
This—what Parker and I shared was ours alone.
Nothing from the past, no sisterly tension, no sly words or quiet glances could ever change it.