Chapter 6: Warmth Of A Family

​By the time the truck pulled into the driveway of a modest, run-down house, darkness had already settled over the neighborhood.

​The front door had barely shut behind us when a woman rushed out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. The moment her eyes landed on me, she pulled me into a tight, desperate hug.

It caught me off guard. I didn’t even have time to react. Is this body really that weak that I cannot even react to a human? Or... is the body simply just accustomed to this that it knows that this woman is not a threat?

Which was it?

​"Oh, Brianna..." Brianna’s mother, Valerie sobbed softly against my shoulder, her voice shaking. "It’s okay, baby. It’s fine. You’re home now."

​My arms stayed stiff at my sides. I felt uncomfortable at the lack of distance, but as her hold tightened, that strange heat flared in my chest again.

​My heart skipped a sudden, sharp beat and I could hear it drumming in my ears.

​Just...What is this feeling?

​I pressed a hand flat against my chest, trying to mute the strange thrum beneath my ribs. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t poison. It was something heavy, suffocating, and entirely terrifying.

​Heavy footsteps thudded down the wooden stairs, and two tall boys descended into the living room. They were identical twins. Dark hair, sharp features, both wearing the distinct, quiet air of Omegas—just like Brianna. And from her memories, I knew they were my supposed brothers.

​"Dad called us and told us what happened," Jayden, the older twin, said in a calm, steady tone as he crossed his arms. "I hope you knocked some teeth out."

​Jordan, the second twin, clicked his tongue in annoyance, nudging his brother’s shoulder. "What? You want our kid sister to ruin her precious hands?"

​They were clearly trying to diffuse the tension, wrapping their worry in reckless humor so I wouldn’t feel like I’d committed some unforgivable crime. But little did they know that I wasn’t the Brianna they knew. I wasn’t their harmless and innocent kid sister.

​I stood in the center of the small room, watching the back-and-forth unfold. The house was rundown, that’s for sure, but despite that, the air was warm, filled with the soft scent of stew boiling in the kitchen and no one was at each other’s throat.

​I don’t belong here.

​The thought surfaced cold and sharp. I didn’t belong in a setting like this—a room filled with soft voices, quiet safety, and people who looked at me without a blade hidden behind their backs. It felt wrong. Unnatural.

​"So, this is family..." I whispered under my breath.

Inside my chest was warm. So warm it felt like it could scorch me from the inside out, yet somehow, it made me feel light in a way.

In a world built on blood and contracts, I had no idea what to do with a fire that didn’t burn to destroy.

​Jordan paused, his eyes turning back to me, catching my silence.

​"Why aren’t you saying anything?" he asked, eyebrows pulling together in concern.

"Nothing," I said coldly. "I would like to go to my room now,"

Jordan blinked, a flicker of hurt crossing his face before he quickly masked it with a light chuckle. "Right. Long day. Go get washed up—Mom’s making stew."

​With Brianna’s memory, I could recall her room was the second on the right, upstairs.

"You can take your time, dear," Valerie added gently, her reluctant hands finally smoothing down the front of my arms before letting go. Her eyes lingered on me with a fierce, protective ache. "I’ll bring a bowl up to you if you’re too tired to come down."

​"Thank you," I muttered, the words stiff and foreign on my tongue.

​I didn’t wait for a response. I turned and headed straight for the wooden staircase, every step creaking beneath my weight. I kept my posture rigid, ignoring the subtle, synchronized gazes of the twins tracking my path. Even as Omegas, their instincts were sharp enough to feel the shift—the silence where a tearful, shaken girl used to be.

​I found the door and slipped inside, pushing it shut until the latch clicked into place.

​The room was small, smelling faintly of lavender and old paper. Slightly worn out posters of soft-colored landscapes covered the faded wallpaper, and a narrow desk sat near the window. On top of it were neat stacks of notebooks.

And finally, there was a bed with a hand-stitched quilt at the far wall.

​Everything about this space belonged to a girl who was gentle. A girl who had cried on a rooftop more times than she could count because the world gave her no room to breathe.

​I walked over to the small wall mirror hanging beside the closet and finally looked.

​Dark hair clung to my forehead, matted with the dried. I could even see the crusty remains of tomato paste. The pale skin underneath was unblemished, free of the deep, jagged scars that had carved up my face in my previous life.

And these eyes—Brianna’s eyes—were wide, soft, and unaccustomed to bloodshed.

​I raised a hand, tracing the smooth line of my jaw.

​Weak.

​This body had no muscle memory for a blade. It had no speed, no raw power, and an internal warmth that threatened to soften the edge I needed to survive. Worst of all, it had no wolf.

​One week.

​I lowered my hand and turned toward the bathroom, my eyes narrowing in the dim light of the bedroom.

I had seven days before I walked back into that school. Seven days to purge the softness, force this frail body to adapt, and figure out how to build a weapon out of someone who was born to be prey.

Just my cup of tea.