11. Ava

Tyler's face drops,his eyes reflecting the despair of a wounded puppy.

I just kicked a puppy.

In my clinic, such a look unravels me, compelling me to crouch down and shower the creature with affection and love, but this isn't my clinic. This situation, so alien and overwhelming, envelops me in a fog of emotions I can hardly name. The weight of my own words bears down on me, carrying a responsibility I'm unprepared to shoulder. A part of me regrets them, yet another part stands defiant, torn between two worlds I never imagined would collide.

"Hey." The silence, thick and heavy, finally breaks as Brody's voice cuts through it. His eyes, deep pools of understanding, drift toward me, but they don't quite meet mine, as if he's sparing me the full impact of his gaze. "Go ahead," he says, his voice a soothing balm. "I'll bring you something to eat." His words, simple and caring, seem misplaced in the chaos of my tangled emotions, but that's Brody for you.

I rise from my seat, my legs trembling beneath me. The shaking, whether from disuse or distress, blurs the line between physical and emotional instability.

Through the blurred windowpane, I see Ethan outside, his form a shadow against the twilight of the forest. If I squint, I can just make him out from here, pacing in the tree line. He took off, but he didn't go far.

Internally chastising myself, I try to focus as Tyler stands, his posture rigid and gaze distant. His presence is a gentle breeze, unpredictable yet refreshingly sincere. "Are you okay to walk?" he asks, his fingers twitching, betraying his urge to bridge the gap between us. I'm learning that is just who Tyler is—compassionate and caring.

"I can manage," I tell him, masking my reluctance. Allowing him to support me now would mean more than just physical assistance—it would be an intimacy I'm not ready to confront. My smile, meant to reassure, feels hollow.

Tyler's demeanor shifts almost imperceptibly as he picks up my lemonade, the glass sweating in the warm air, and nods toward the hallway. The transformation is startling. His emotions are buried, and his face is a mask of casual indifference.

"Can't let you get too thirsty now, can we?" he quips, his wink a fleeting glimmer of lightness as he guides me through the modest house, each room bathed in the soft glow of twilight.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, a nagging reminder of the world beyond these walls, but I ignore it. Whoever it is, whatever they want, it will have to wait. My gaze wanders, avoiding Tyler's tense shoulders and the smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. The hurt I've inflicted hangs between us, an unspoken chasm that I'm not sure how to bridge.

I just met them, yet the sight of their pain is unexpectedly piercing. All I want is to ease it and soothe the wounds I inadvertently inflicted, but first, I need a moment to gather the shards of my own scattered emotions and piece them back together or hide them away.

I can no longer tell what's real and what's not. I wonder if my feelings are just because of our connection or if they're truly mine. As my phone starts its insistent buzzing again, a wave of irritation washes over me, but I dismiss it with a flick of my wrist.

As we approach the steps, Tyler looks back with a sparkle in his eyes, showing his unique charm. He asks, "Do you need to get that?"

I shake my head, forcing a light tone, despite feeling anything but light inside. "Let's get me settled first, then I'll call whoever it is back." The steps in front of us aren't too steep but still challenging, given the house's age. I take a deep breath, hold my crutches tightly, and start climbing, step by step.

My world narrows down to the persistent throb in my ankle and ribs, the pain spreading its tendrils through my body. Exhaustion hangs over me like a heavy cloak, dragging me down.

Probably pushed myself too hard, I silently chide myself, the inner critique wrapped in a layer of self-compassion.

At the top, Tyler pops out from the nearest room, his smile full of warmth, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It's not the grandest guest room, but it is cozy," he says, his voice carrying that lovable, whimsical note. He gestures to the door across the hall. "Bathroom's here. Towels are at your disposal. Just a heads-up—hot water's a twelve-minute luxury."

Before I fully register the room's quaint details—the soft, inviting hues and the gentle light filtering through the curtains—he guides me to a chair in the corner. I practically collapse onto it, as everything that happened today catches up to me.

"I know you didn't have much time to grab your stuff," he begins, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"None." I let out a heavy sigh, feeling the day's chaos settle around me. "I didn't even grab a phone charger."

"Don't worry about that," he says swiftly, pointing to the end table, where a lamp casts a warm glow over a charging dock. "The drawers," he continues cautiously, a blush creeping into his cheeks, "are full of clothes."

I squint at him, then let my gaze drift to the chest of drawers across the room, its wood worn and scratched. "Women's clothing?" I ask, unable to hide the jealousy simmering in my stomach. Is that reaction all me? Or the bond?

"Ah, w-well, yes," he stammers, clearing his throat as he awkwardly shuffles back. "We've had visitors, and sometimes, they leave things behind."

Is he serious right now?

A ripple of irritation courses through me. "So you're saying those drawers are full of clothing from past flings?" My words are pointed, and I finally get my face under control so he can't tell I'm jealous. Or so I hope.

He freezes, his eyes wide, the earlier whimsy now replaced with a flicker of surprise. "You know, I could just grab one of my shirts for you to sleep in, and tomorrow, I can get a change of clothes from your place."

"That sounds like a plan," I respond, the irritation dissipating as quickly as it emerged, replaced by an unfamiliar but not unwelcome itch under my skin.

Tyler tilts his head, inhales slowly, and graces me with a devious smirk I'm learning to associate with him. "I'll be right back," he promises, and with that, he spins on his heel and vanishes from the room, leaving a trail of bemused energy in his wake.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Rubbing my temples, I try to chase away the stubborn headache that's persistently building behind my eyes. My phone starts its insistent buzzing again, but I dismiss it, choosing instead to take in the room that somehow mirrors the moodiness swirling inside me. It isn't huge, but the room exudes a charm that feels more inviting than the cramped living room of my apartment.

The walls, painted a deep gray that pretends to be black, draw me in. One wall boasts a fancy board, its dark hue halting three-quarters of the way up, giving way to wallpaper bathed in the same shadowy tone. It's adorned with oversized pink roses that seem to bloom defiantly from the gloom, injecting a touch of whimsy into the room's dark color scheme.

The dark walls wrap around me, and I sink deeper into the plush black velvet of the high-backed chair. The chair hugs me in all the right places, and I can easily see myself sitting here with a hot chocolate and a smutty novel.

My gaze settles on the bed. Its small headboard, upholstered in pink fabric, subtly echoes the roses on the wall, whispering tales of hidden softness amid the room's brooding tones. A true black comforter lies atop it, with teasing glimpses of pink sheets beneath that I'd bet my last nickel feels amazing on freshly shaved legs. The bed, a substantial presence in the room, is crowned with a myriad of pillows that beckon with a siren's call, promising a night full of naughty dream.

About three sexy wolves.

The matching wooden bench at its foot stands as a silent sentinel, aligning perfectly with the door, its dark wood reflecting the faint light. Across a narrow space, a dresser stands in solidarity with the end table. A television, mounted to the wall, offers an escape, but my focus drifts to the slightly open door of a small walk-in closet.

As I soak in the room's ambiance, Tyler bursts back in, his energy almost restored to its usual buzz, brushing against my senses like a refreshing breeze. "Okay, I got sweats from each of us," he declares, flinging three pairs onto the bed with a flourish, followed by a T-shirt, before nodding with approval and turning to face me. "Listen," he starts, but I interrupt, the words I've been holding back for the last half hour demanding their release.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. I'm not sorry for craving space, but I regret the shadow of hurt that lingers in his eyes.

Shaking his head, Tyler offers a sad yet understanding smile, leaning against the doorframe and finally meeting my gaze, then he shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's okay, Ava. You didn't ask for this, and it's not fair for us to spring it on you," he says.

"I said the words," I reply, my thoughts momentarily darting to Eloise. Payback is a bitch. As soon as Tyler gives me space, I know exactly whom I'm going to call.

"You didn't know," Tyler gently insists, his tone carrying a hint of his usual playful note.

"Even so—" I begin, but he interrupts, a trace of urgency lacing his voice.

"It's the first night of the full moon, and we usually run," he says, his hand instinctively going to the back of his neck.

"Go run, Tyler," I encourage, feeling an unexpected sense of relief at the thought of them yielding to their nature. It eases the odd feeling that I should somehow entertain them in their own home.

"Will you be okay?" His eyes meet mine once more, searching for assurance.

"I'll probably pass out here soon, and this bed looks tempting," I admit, a wry smile touching my lips.

"Ethan's décor," Tyler blurts out, then clears his throat. "Get some rest. We can talk in the morning or some shit."

"Or some shit," I echo, my laugh coming out a bit strained, barely concealing the tension simmering just below the surface.

"Good night, Ava." Tyler nods and backs out of the room, leaving me with the solitude I requested, yet a part of me wishes he'd stay just a little longer.

The never-ending buzzing of my phone slices through the quiet room, each vibration a glaring reminder of the one person whose persistence knows no bounds—my father. A familiar unease unfurls in my stomach, starkly contrasting with the calm I just soaked in with the guys. It's bizarre, isn't it? The mere thought of a call from my dad can send ripples of nervousness through me, while here I am in a house full of strange men I met only yesterday, and I feel…safe, calm, and somehow cherished.

Shaking my head at the absurdity of it, I relent and fish my phone out from the depths of my back pocket to see my father's face on the screen, flashing his standard, domineering smile that seems to command attention, even through the digital display. Knowing that any delay would only stoke the fires of his irritation, I press the big green button and answer, my voice balancing warmth and apprehension. "Hey, Daddy."

"No," he barks, sharp and commanding like a whip cracking in the stillness of the room. I lean back into the cozy, oversized chair, letting my head rest along its back as I brace myself for the conversation that I know is going to be one-sided. "Why didn't you answer?"

"I was out with Eloise," I reply, weaving my words with enough truth to sound convincing. It's not exactly a lie, per se, but it isn't the whole truth either.

His grumble hums through the line, setting a dissonant tone for the entire conversation. "Lie," he declares bluntly, his accusation heavy in the air, as tangible as the phone in my trembling hand.

I let out a sigh that crackles over the line—a subtle sign of my frustration and weariness. My dad is an enigma, always so serious. I can't remember ever seeing him genuinely laugh, whereas my mother's laughter was her essence. She had crow's feet etched beside her eyes like delicate brush strokes on a masterpiece, and she embraced joy every chance she got.

How did two such opposites find each other? They did, though, and that's why I'm here, a product of their unlikely union.

"Dad." I sigh again, fatigue tinting my voice. "I've had a really long day, and I don't want to be disrespectful, but I'd really like to just go to sleep."

"I would think you had a long day," he grumbles, his words carrying an undertone that sets me on edge, hinting at a disappointment that's become all too familiar.

No amount of therapy is enough to brace me for these conversations with my dad. I'll lie awake for nights on end, turning our exchange over in my mind like a puzzle with missing pieces. Making him proud has always been my aim, but ever since the day I first stood up to him—the night my mother died—I feel like I lost the ability to ever make him truly proud. He wasn't just angry with me for questioning him about what happened, but he also expected me to silently accept her fate and then move on as if she had never existed.

But he can't steal my memories of her. He'll never erase the love she instilled in me. Still, his disappointment cuts deep, inflicting mental and emotional wounds I'm not sure will ever heal, like invisible scars that only I can feel.

That was the day I stopped using his last name.

As I struggle to find the words to respond to him, my dad fills in the quiet.

"Why did they take you to Mystic Med?" he asks, his tone laced with disapproval, as if each word is dipped in a frost that chills the warm air around me.

Ah, so that's at the heart of his call, the reason behind the storm brewing in his voice. "Well," I drawl, the word stretching out like a tightrope as I cautiously try to navigate through his bigotry, "all the ambulances in my area were busy."

"They could have taken you to Mercy General," he states matter-of-factly, his words sharp and pointed, as if they aren't dripping with the poison of ignorance. "All you had to do was ask."

I can't help but snap back, my voice crisp. "Mercy General is over an hour away, Father. Mystic is closer, and, just so you know, considering you're calling me while already aware that I was in the hospital" —I let my words run on as my frustration bubbles inside me that his first concern wasn't whether or not I'm okay— "I needed emergency surgery. There was a snow globe, a souvenir from Mama, embedded in my leg."

"I told you to sell those," he snaps back, his tone as sharp and cutting as a knife slicing through me at the mere suggestion.

Never. Inside, my inner child flinches, retreating into a corner. Those snow globes were from Mama, a cherished connection to her, each globe a tiny world where her memory still dances. Fuming, I muster up all my defiance. "I need to go."

"No," he counters firmly, his word a boulder blocking my path. "Where are you, Ava?"

Alarm bells ring in my head, a clear warning siren blaring its caution.

"Home," I reply, though my voice wavers, betraying my uncertainty.

"Let me in," he demands, his voice brooking no argument, as if his words can unlock doors and barriers alike.

"Dad," I mutter, a wave of exhaustion washing over me, as if his words are eroding my resolve. "I'm in bed. I'm not getting up."

Then I hear the knock on my apartment door, the sound as ominous and foreboding as the footsteps of an unwelcome visitor. "Open the door, Ava."

Panic sets in, my heart racing. "No, Dad, you're freaking me out. What's going on?" I sit up in the chair, the pressure on my ankle eliciting a silent wince—a sharp reminder of my vulnerability.

"Ava," he says, his tone ominously calm. "Dinner, Wednesday night."

I hear his footsteps receding down the hallway, and for a brief moment, I breathe easier, my heart rate slowing. My apartment is a cozy, first-floor rental from the sweetest old lady just blocks from my clinic.

"All right," I say softly, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach.

"We're having dinner with the Castellon family," he announces, the wind in the background assuring me he left my building.

The Castellon family? Fear spikes through me, and a cold shiver runs down my spine, chilling and foreboding. They are like the old mobsters from the early 1900s, but worse. They run on fear and control and are the head of the Puritas movement, hunters seeking to eliminate those like the very men who own this home. The thought of them pursuing Ethan, who's currently running through the woods, sends chills through me that I can't shake off.

"I'll have a car pick you up at seven sharp on Wednesday," he dictates, his voice as rigid and unyielding as iron.

"Why?" My voice trembles slightly, the vulnerability of a child resurfacing, despite my age.

"Because, Ava," he replies, his tone deadly calm, "I've accepted an offer for your hand in marriage to Elijah Castellon. Wednesday, we plan your wedding."

He hangs up, leaving me staring at the blank screen where his smug face once mocked me, a haunting image that lingers like a bad dream. He knows where I am.

Grinding my teeth, I contemplate calling Eloise to vent about that webpage, but I don't. If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that being told not to do something only fuels the desire to do it.

He never chose to dictate my actions before. How dare he try to control my life now?

One thing is crystal clear—I'm not about to play by anyone's rules. Not the moon's, not an incantation's, and sure as hell not my father's.