Page 51 of His Fierce Lycan Luna

Twenty-Seven

AZALEA

Once there at the orphanage, I stop, staring up at the building I once called home. Heart pounding, I pause at the sight of the dilapidated building looming before me. Paint peeling, windows like hollow eyes, and yet it tugs sharply at my heartstrings. Children play out the front, and for a second, I watch them. This place dredged up so many memories, yet I can’t seem to conjure up one good one.

As if sensing my presence, the noise of play momentarily hushes. The place should be condemned, yet the kids all stop as I step over the little brick fence.

Tiny feet patter against the cracked pavement, and then they’re upon me—a tide of small bodies with bright eyes and eager hands. They swarm around me, their little fingers plucking at the hem of my shirt, warm smiles and giggles piercing the air.

“She’s back, Ivy is back!” They screech out excitedly.

“Ivy! Ivy!” bubble up from the lips of children, their calls threading through the air like a lifeline back to my past. I feel their small hands tugging at my sleeves, their unspoken pleas for attention wrapping around me with an intensity that is both heartwarming and heartbreaking.

Katrina bursts out the front door, her expression one of concern and surprise.

“Katrina!” I gasp, my voice catching on the wave of emotions that crashes into me. I navigate through the throng of tiny bodies, their energy buzzing like electricity in the air, until I collide with the familiar warmth of her embrace.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she breathes out, her arms enveloping me. She steps back, her eyes scanning me with a nurturing scrutiny reserved for those who have known your darkest moments.

Her fingertips ghost over my shoulder, where fabric has slipped to reveal more than it should—more than I want. The lash marks, remnants of my time here, peeking out. She meets my gaze, a sorrowful smile gracing her lips as tears pool in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She stifles a sniffle.

In her eyes, there’s an apology, one that needs no words, for the kindness she gave could never undo the hurt we endured—but oh, how it helped.

The warmth of Katrina’s embrace lingers as she holds me just far enough to search my expression, her concern palpable. “How’s Abbie?” she asks, the words carrying more than a question—a hope that the world hasn’t been too cruel to us.

“She is okay,” I tell her. She nods, relief softening the creases of worry that had etched themselves into her features.

Katrina’s arms encircle me once more. “You look good, sweetie,” she murmurs, and I feel the genuine warmth in her voice washing over me like a gentle tide.

As she releases me, a small, insistent pull at the hem of my shirt draws my attention downward. A pair of wide eyes, brimming with innocent curiosity, gaze up at me. It’s Jack, his youthful energy irrepressible despite the harshness that surrounds us. With a practiced ease borne from years of looking after the younger ones, I scoop him into my arms. He is lighterthan I remember, a reminder of the scarcity that still plagues this place.

“Hey, Jack,” I greet him, my smile broadening at the sight of his joy. His fingers find a strand of my hair, playing with it, tugging gently.

“Where is Abbie? She didn’t come to visit us?” Jack’s voice wobbles, making my heart clench. He pouts, a gap evident where his two front teeth used to be, making his words lisp slightly.

I set him down and kneels to his level, my gaze softening. “No, she couldn’t come,” I say. He nods sadly.

Katrina then ushers us inside. She strides towards the kitchen, and I hear the familiar click and hiss as she turns the kettle on.

I slip into the kitchen, my hands instinctively reaching for the mugs hanging on their hooks, chipped and mismatched from years of use. They clink softly as I set them out. Kyson’s gaze weighs on me, silent, yet his concern screams at me through the bond, but I push aside the discomfort it brings, focusing instead on the task at hand. “Let me,” Katrina says, but I slap her hands away, knowing my way around this place like the back of my hand.

“It’s fine, just sit down.”

She resists only for a moment before acquiescing with a weary exhale, the fight seeping out of her as she collapses into a chair. Her fingers trace the grain of the wooden table, worn smooth by countless meals and meetings.

“Kyson mentioned you’re looking after the children now,” I continue, filling the silence that threatens to consume us. A nod is her only reply, the gesture heavy with the burden she carries, one I’m all too familiar with.

“Yep.” Katrina’s voice cracks. “But the Alpha cut back rations again. This place is falling apart, and Dad is sick, so I am back and forth.” Her eyes, dull with fatigue, flicker to mine.

I hand her a steaming cup of tea. Her fingers wrap around it, Kyson accepts his own mug with a nod.

“No one to help?”

“Margaret comes over when I ask,” Katrina replies, her voice laden with contempt. “But you know how she is.”

I nod, understanding all too well the type of woman she is. Margaret was one of Mrs. Daley’s friends, and she hated children, even her own. Just hearing her name has memories clawing its way to the forefront of my mind.

“Careful, you!” Margaret’s voice had been sharp as a blade, slicing through the air. But it was too late; my small, trembling hands fumbled and tea splashed onto the floor. Her hand cracked across my cheek, a stinging punishment for a simple accident. My skin burned with the impact, tears welling but never falling. I had learned early that showing weakness only invited more pain.

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