Where Soft Light Shines Darkness Fades From Tired Hearts by Evan Holt Crane 471

Third Person’s POV

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In her mind’s eye, she was sitting on that swing, laughing loudly. Cassian stood behind her in a crisp white shirt, his hands steady as he pushed the ropes.

She was calling his name, telling him to go harder, saying she wanted to fly higher.

And while the young man pushed with one hand, his other arm was always hovering in mid–air, terrified his mate might slip and fall.

Trista forced herself to look away. Her eyes burned with a faint sting as she kept walking.

Mid–afternoon in Los Angeles was a mess of traffic and noise. The constant roar of the city felt like a physical irritation.

She stopped by a thick, gnarled tree and let her fingertips brush against the cold bark.

A few years ago, this neighborhood had been a maze of self–built houses.

After the Silverlight pack went bankrupt, her parents had moved her and her brother into a rental here.

Those were her most humbling days–the days she truly learned who was real and who wasn’t.

Back then, very few people were willing to help.

Aside from her grandmother’s old friend Priscilla, there was only Alaina, their childhood friends Fred and Wynn, and… Cassian.

Because of them, she had managed to keep her head above water in that cutthroat social circle.

She remembered the period after their families officially settled on the bond. Cassian would drive here almost every night to find her.

They used to hide in the shadows of this very tree to kiss.

Whenever she couldn’t resist the natural Alpha intensity he radiated, she’d let him lift her into his car.

Most of the time, Cassian was disciplined.

He’d take her back to their future home, spend a few hours being close to her, and then drive her back.

Even if Cassian couldn’t give her his whole heart back then, in the eyes of the world, they were the most enviable couple in L.A.

As night fell, Trista walked down a long street piled with fallen leaves,

The cold wind whirled the debris, and the air was thick with the scent of various werewolf pheromones.

She stopped to watch a young werewolf couple on the sidewalk.

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They looked like new initiates, their raw, unbridled aggression leaking out during an argument. The air between them was tight, smelling of scorched spice.

Trista watched their eyes–pupils narrowing into slits from anger–and found herself spacing out.

When it got fully dark, she ordered a taco from a roadside cart.

The steam from the onions and grilled meat drifted past her nose. Usually, the aroma would be inviting, but now it felt like a rusted file grinding against her senses.

A wave of bitterness surged from her chest, accompanied by the faint, phantom wail of her wolf. It hit the back of her throat.

She could taste copper on her tongue. Choking back a sob, she realized she couldn’t swallow a single bite. She got up and walked away, looking like a ghost.

At a midnight intersection, the traffic lights cycled through their colors.

Trista stood there like a stone statue, her survival instincts seemingly vanished.

“Cassian, carry me!”

The whisper felt like a hallucination in her ear.

Behind her, Isaiah and Attwater were keeping their distance.

“Isaiah… is Trista ever going to let go?” Attwater whispered. His anxiety was so high that his claws had instinctively unsheathed, glinting in the cold wind.

“Whether she lets go or not, he is dead,” Isaiah said, scratching his head. He’d dropped his usual playboy persona; his heterochromatic eyes looked cold and weary. “She’s twenty–seven. She’s known Cassian for twenty–seven years. Their blood and their history are baked into their marrow. Even if the bond is cut, you have to peel back layers of skin and muscle to scrape out a shadow that deep.”

Suddenly, the phone.in Isaiah’s pocket vibrated violently. The ringtone cut through the heavy midnight air like a siren.

He picked up the call from Fred. After only a few seconds of listening, his entire aura turned predatory.

He hung up, grabbed Attwater, and sprinted toward the intersection, moving like an arrow shot from a

bow.

Trista was snapped out of her daze by the sudden explosion of Alpha aura. Her eyes finally cleared.

Isaiah quickly wrapped the light blanket around her, trying to mask her fading pheromones, which were thinning out from grief.

His voice was urgent and grim. “Fred couldn’t find you. He said… Howard just attempted suicide by overdose at the estate. Ironthorn has lost its leadership, and the pack is starting to spiral. Alaina has collapsed for the third time from bloodline rejection–she hasn’t woken up. Fred is begging you… he’s asking you to come as a healer, to do one last thing for those parents.”

Trista stood frozen, feeling like she’d been hit by an invisible shockwave. It took her several seconds to find

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her voice.

“Alpha Isaiah,” she said. “Please take me back. I need to change.”

Back home, Trista changed into a somber, steady black outfit.

Attwater grabbed his coat, his knuckles white from gripping the fabric. He insisted on going. “Trista, the Ironthorns just lost two generations of their bloodline in forty–eight hours. The survivors are going to be out for blood. That kind of uncontrolled negative pressure is dangerous. I’m coming with you.”

Trista shook her head. She took his coat and placed it back on the sofa.

Her expression was the most serious he’d ever seen. “You stay here. I don’t care how the Ironthorn wolves feel about me right now. This last walk… I have to take it alone.”

At Isaiah’s insistence, Trista finally climbed into his car.

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Sara Lili

Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.