Deep down, I knew he resented them. Hated them for not helping the Avalons when their pack was slaughtered, leaving him a blood-soaked orphan. I begged my parents to take him in. Me. And now, here he was, glaring at me like I was dirt under his boots, his lips curling into that cruel, condescending smirk.
“What’s this tantrum, Izara? Pathetic, as usual. Another empty threat? First, you use your son, and now you’re using yourself?”
The words cut deep, but I was used to them. Mavros always acted like Kallias’s illness was my way of manipulating him. Guilt-tripping him into showing up. But he didn’t get it. He never got it. Kallias wasn’t a game. He was our son. His illness was real—the healer said as much. And all my boy wanted was his father. Just once.
Every time Kallias’s face lit up, waiting, hoping... only for that hope to shatter when Mavros didn’t come—it broke me.
I felt the tears building, but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. I tightened my grip on the suitcase and straightened my back.
Mavros scoffed, pure disdain etched on his face. “Go back to your room, Izara. Your tears don’t move me, and your threats don’t scare me.”