By dusk, the house emptied itself of sound and warmth. Alpha Thorne emerged freshly shaved, his silver-threaded hair slicked back, the expensive cologne clinging to him—the one he only wore for funerals, blood pacts, or occasions that mattered. He looked powerful again, broad and imposing, the Alpha the pack once feared and revered. He straightened the twins’ collars with proud hands while Julian fussed with his suit jacket in the mirror.
“Remember this,” Thorne told them, voice firm and commanding. “Camille does these things out of love. She’s family.”
The boys laughed together. “That’s why we like Camille more than Grandma Nyx.”
No farewell. No pause. Not even a thought spared for me. The door closed with a final, hollow thud, sealing the house behind them like a tomb.
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was loud—echoing, accusing, heavy with neglect. It hurt more than shouting ever could.
I stood there in my old slippers, a basket of unfolded laundry pressed to my chest. My stomach twisted with hunger, but I hadn’t made food. Ghosts didn’t need to eat.
Out of sheer defiance, I turned on the television.
And there they were.