Rebecca froze when I spoke. For a brief moment, the light in her eyes dimmed. Then she turned toward Ashton, her fingers sliding into his sleeve. Her grip was gentle, almost fragile, as if she needed his strength to stay upright.
"Ash," she said softly, her voice low and careful. "I crossed a line last night. I must have troubled you… and Scarlett."
She paused, then looked back at me, her eyes glossy. "Could you ask her to stay and eat with us? Please. Let it be my apology."
I almost laughed. Some people never need to fight for affection. They have to look small enough, weak enough, and for everything to bend to them. Rules fade. Boundaries blur. Even blood could be forgiven if they asked sweetly enough.
Ashton hadn't been looking at me at all until she spoke. Then his gaze lifted, sharp and assessing, heavy with quiet authority.
"We'll eat together," he said. That was all. No warmth. No room for refusal. His voice carried weight, the kind that pressed down on instinct and made obedience feel natural.
Did it hurt? Not anymore. Pain like this had dulled long ago. I smiled and nodded. "Thank you." I had never learned how to say no to Ashton. From the moment I first met him, something inside me had leaned toward him without reason or permission. Breaking away from that pull felt impossible, like fighting my own breath.
The hallway felt tight, barely wide enough for two to squeeze past each other. We nearly collided, and I could feel Jared's warmth hanging in the air between us.
For a moment, he froze, then straightened his jacket, his posture settling into a careful calm.
"Ms. Stovall," he said, his voice steady. "I'm here to check on Rebecca."
That was Jared, Ashton's right-hand man. The one who'd been by his side through every fight, every win, every shift in the pack's hierarchy.
They say a person's true character shines through in how they treat others.
Jared's tone said it all.
Respectful. Polite. Distant.
We sat down together. It was the first time I had ever eaten food Ashton made, just fried eggs and bacon, simple, ordinary. Yet I stared at the plate as if it were something rare. I had always thought a man like Ashton stood above such things. Untouchable. He was served, not serving.
The food was warm, solid, and real. It stayed with me.
"Scarlett," Rebecca said brightly, pushing an egg onto my plate, "try Ash's eggs. They're excellent. He always made them for me back then." Her smile was soft, sweet. She placed another egg onto Ashton's plate and leaned closer.
"You promised to go see the flowers with me today," she added lightly. "You won't forget, right?"
"Mm," Ashton replied. He ate with calm, precise movements, quiet, controlled. He didn't waste words, never had. But when it came to Rebecca, he always answered, always acknowledged her. That alone said enough.
Jared sat across from us, eating without much expression. He seemed used to this rhythm, this balance of attention and power. His eyes moved between us, watchful but distant, like someone standing just outside the circle.
And me? I sat there, smiling, chewing slowly, feeling the pull of something I could never claim. Close enough to feel the warmth, but never close enough to belong.
My heart sank as I stared down at my plate, the food before me suddenly tasteless and unappealing. Today was Grandpa's funeral, a reality that weighed heavily on my chest, constricting my breath. The truth hit me like a wave: if Ashton chose to leave with Rebecca, what would happen to our plan to return to the Fullers' main house together? That gathering was more than just a family occasion; it was a pack rite, a crucial moment that demanded our presence. Absence, I knew, would speak volumes.
Nobody finished their breakfast. The table felt heavy with unspoken tension. After only a few bites, Ashton pushed his chair back with a soft scrape against the floor and disappeared upstairs. The air shifted noticeably, as if the center of our small universe had tilted. Instinctively, I set down my cutlery. Something primal urged me to follow him.
In the bedroom, I stood just inside the door. Ashton knew I was there; he always did. His senses were unnaturally sharp, attuned to everything within his territory.
"Do you need something?" he asked, his voice devoid of inflection, flat and almost mechanical. He reached for his shirt with an effortless grace, pulling it off to reveal the hard lines of his muscles, a display of strength that filled the room. Instinct flared within me, an automatic response I couldn't quite suppress.
I quickly turned my back to him, unwilling to let that urge take over. "Grandpa's funeral is today," I stated, though the words felt heavy in my mouth.
Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric. A soft zipper closed, punctuating the air with a calm finality. "You can go on your own," he replied coolly, as if it were the simplest solution.
The crease between my brows deepened with confusion and frustration. "He's your grandfather, Ashton," I countered, frustration boiling beneath the surface.
He was the eldest grandson and the one everyone watched. His absence from the funeral would be more than personal; it would be a bold statement, one that could fracture the already delicate dynamics within the pack.
"I've arranged for Joseph Campbell to handle everything," he said dismissively, as if that somehow lessened the significance of the day. "Talk to him if you need details."
Just like that, with a casual flick of his wrist, he had brushed aside generations of family bonds, as if they meant nothing to him.
As he moved toward his study, a sharp twist of desperation knotted painfully in my chest. I raised my voice before I even had time to gather my thoughts. "Ashton," I called out, unable to contain my emotions. "Is everyone disposable to you except Rebecca? Does your family mean nothing at all?"
He paused, halted in his tracks. Slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes narrowing into cold slits, the intensity of his gaze overwhelming. The atmosphere thickened, an invisible pressure that gripped my throat.
"You don't get to question how I deal with my family," he stated, his tone laced with an icy finality. He paused for a moment, a faint smile creeping across his lips, but it wasn't warm; it was predatory. "You're not worthy."
The words hit me like a sledgehammer, freezing my insides and leaving me momentarily stunned. I stood there, feeling as though the ground beneath me had crumbled. Each retreating footstep echoed like a countdown, cutting me deeper than any physical blow.
A hollow laugh escaped my lips, bitter and self-deprecating. "Not worthy." Two long years I had spent by his side, yielding, waiting, hoping for a flicker of understanding or kindness. It felt as if everything I had done had been for naught.
"I always thought you were shameless," a voice pierced through my thoughts, cool and cutting. I turned to see Rebecca leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. The softness that once characterized her demeanor had vanished, replaced by a calculating satisfaction.
Gone were the fragile smiles and gentle tones. Now, her gaze was cold, radiating the belief that I had already lost this battle before it had even begun.
"What's your game, Rebecca?" I challenged, my voice steadier than I felt. The stakes were higher than they had ever been; the pack dynamic was shifting, and I felt every ounce of it pressing down on me.
"Just making sure the right people are present for the right occasions," she replied, a smirk tugging at her lips, as if savoring the chaos unfolding around us.
In that moment, I realized, this was more than just family ties; it was about power, loyalty, and the bonds that defined us all. And right now, I was losing everything I thought I understood.