Chapter 22
Ashenclaw Pack wasn’t anything like.
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Shadowborn. No sprawling estate. No
suffocating hierarchy. No sharp glares from elders sizing you up like you were bred for duty and nothing else.
Here, the city smelled of moss and old books, with fog that clung to the stone streets like whispers. Maybe it was the cool air or the distant hum of the forest nearby, but something about it made me feel safe for the first time in
years.
I spent the first month just walking. Wandering the alleys, tasting the coffee, learning the rhythm of this new territory. No one knew my name. No one called me “Luna” with forced respect. I was just Jillian–single, quiet, rebuilding.
Eventually, I found a dusty, forgotten little shop on an old street that looked like it had been waiting just for me. I bought it on impulse. Spent three months breathing new life into it. Scrubbed every tile, painted every wall, stacked every shelf with care. I named it Moonbeam. It sounded soft. Hopeful. Like something out of a
bedtime story.
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The shop wasn’t big, but the sunlight loved it. And on rainy days–which Ashenclaw had plenty of the whole place glowed like honey under the warm pendant lights. It smelled like vanilla wax and old paper. Like peace.
One such rainy evening, I stood at the glass. door, watching silver threads fall from the sky. The mist outside blurred the streetlamps, and for a moment, I forgot the ache of my past.
Then the wind chimes jingled behind me.
“Welcome,” I said out of habit, turning around with a practiced smile–then froze.
There was a man standing in the doorway, tall and elegant, a black umbrella dripping quietly onto the mat. In his arms was a little girl, no older than five or six, clinging to him like a kitten in a storm.
And the man… gods, the man.
He looked like he’d stepped out of an old dream–one I hadn’t visited in years. Sharp cheekbones, rain–damp hair swept back, gold–rimmed glasses perched perfectly on his
nose.
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My jaw dropped before I could stop it.
“George Watkins?”
He blinked. Then recognition lit his face.
“Jillian?”
We both laughed. A little stunned, a little
nostalgic.
George had been the pride of Werewolf University when I was still figuring out how to shift without snapping my tailbone. Brilliant. Refined. Played piano like it was a sacred ritual.
Girls used to send him scented letters sealed
with wax.
“I didn’t know you lived in Ashenclaw,” I said, glancing at the little girl. “And this is…?”
“My niece. Cecilia Hewitt,” he said gently, adjusting her in his arms.
“Say hi, Cecilia.”
She peeked up from beneath her lashes, a pair of wide hazel eyes shimmering like wolf amber..
“…Hi, sister,” she whispered.
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Something warm unfurled in my chest.
I crouched down, holding out my hand. “Hi, Cecilia. Want to find a pretty book together?”
She nodded, then–just like that–reached. out and touched my cheek. “You look like my mommy,” she said softly.
The air shifted.
George’s expression flickered, his jaw
tightening ever so slightly. “Her mother passed away two years ago,” he said quietly, pulling Cecilia closer.
I nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.”
But my eyes stayed on the girl. I knew what it meant to be motherless. I also knew what it felt
like to have children who didn’t see you as a
mother anymore.
“I’ve got a shelf full of fairy tales,” I said gently, brushing Cecilia’s damp braid behind her ear. “Would you like me to show you?”
She brightened, nodding with shy excitement.
For the next half hour, we sat on the beanbag
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by the picture book wall. She picked out stories. with unicorns and talking cats and magic
moons. Her little fingers found mine when the
thunder outside cracked. And when I started
reading The Little Prince, she curled up beside
- me.
“She’s usually so shy,” George murmured as he paid for the books. “But you… she’s so comfortable with you.”
I shrugged, suddenly feeling shy myself. “Maybe
because I’m broken too.”
He didn’t flinch at that. Didn’t pity me either. Just nodded slowly, like he understood.
As he turned to leave, Cecilia tugged on my
sleeve.
“Can we come back?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Like… every day?”
I bent down and tapped the tip of her nose. “You’re always welcome here, moonbeam.”
George smiled, lifting her into his arms and stepping out into the silver rain. She waved until they vanished around the corner.
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And I stood there–alone again–but this time, the ache in my chest wasn’t sharp. It was warm.
Soft.
