Julian—my son, the boy I once loved more than my own life—leaned against the fridge, his scent sour with beer and resentment. “Hey, Ma. Wash my clothes later, yeah? My wife’s busy. And don’t screw up the whites this time.”
“I’m not your servant,” I said quietly.
His head snapped up, dominance flaring. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m not—”
A crushed soda can clattered at my feet. “Then what the hell are you good for? You don’t earn money. You don’t add status. You just take up space.”
My blood burned. My wolf stirred, weak but angry, shackled by years of suppression.
“I raised you,” I whispered fiercely. “I fed you. I stayed awake when your fever almost killed you. I worked before you even learned to walk.”
“Maybe you should’ve worked on not stinking,” one of the twins shot back.
“Yeah,” Nolan sneered, “people at school say you look like a rogue who crawled out of the woods. Ugly enough to curse a whole pack.”
Their laughter echoed, sharp and hollow.