Page 52 of His Fierce Lycan Luna

“Sorry, sorry,” I had whispered, the words barely escaping as I scrambled to clean the mess.

Shaking off the memories of the past, I focus on Katrina’s furrowed brow and weary eyes. “Margaret...” I trail off, unable to mask the distaste in my voice. Her presence would offer Katrina no relief, only adding to the weight she already carried.

“Anyway, don’t worry about it,” Katrina forces a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers trace the rim of her mug absently, as if finding solace in the familiar circular motion.

“Margaret’s help isn’t the kind you need,” I say softly, setting down my own cup.

“I’ve asked the Alpha to employ someone but he said no. I swear I could run this pack better than that twat, he keeps saying he hasn’t got the money to put in this place.” She takes a sip of tea to moisten her lips before continuing. “I checked his financesfor him the other week again and he has gambled everything. So with Dad getting worse, I have no choice but to ask her.”

With the weight of her burdens etched into the lines of her face, Katrina gazes out the window at the overgrown yard, a small sigh escaping her lips. Her hands, which have known the roughness of relentless work, tremble slightly as she clutches the mug.

“What’s wrong with your father?” The question slips from my mouth, my voice barely above a whisper.

She turns back to me. “Dementia,” Katrina confesses, the word falling heavily in the space between us. It paints an all-too-clear picture of the struggle that lies behind her tired gaze. “He needs a full-time carer now, but I can’t with this place, and mum is just as bad, so she is no help.” She pauses, her shoulders slumping as if the admission siphons the last bit of strength she has. “And I haven’t got the funds to pay for one.” She smiles sadly.

“I don’t know how you girls kept up with all the chores here either,” she says, shaking her head. The motion sends a few strands of her hair, the color of faded autumn leaves, drifting across her tired eyes. Her gaze sweeps over the mess as if seeing it for the first time.

“We didn’t have a choice,” I tell her. She nods, understanding etched into the lines of her face as she stares at me.

“I’m sorry, Ivy,” she murmurs.

“Azalea,” Kyson corrects her gently from where he stands.

Katrina’s brow furrows for a moment before smoothing out as she nods in acknowledgment, her lips curving into a sad smile. It doesn’t matter what name she uses. She had tried to be a buffer between us and Mrs. Daley’s cruelty. And despite her Beta heritage, Katrina’s hands were tied, her good intentions constantly thwarted by the Alpha’s blind eye.

“Don’t be, and it’s not your fault,” I reassure Katrina, my voice steadier than I feel.

“I could have done more,” she murmurs, her gaze drifting to the floor.

Before I can say anything else, movement at the periphery snatches my attention. A small form detaches itself from the fray of children—a little boy with wide, searching eyes that seem too ancient for his youth.

“Tyson?” The name slips from me, a whisper that carries the weight of a thousand unshed tears and I nearly break down at the sight of him. He has some disability that was never diagnosed because Mrs. Daley believed you could beat disobedience out of a child and saw his speech impediment as disobedience.

He motions toward his mouth, trying to speak, but it comes out in grunts and growling. Abbie and I believed Mrs. Daley would have killed him by now. I kiss his cheek and squish him too, which makes Kyson glance at me funny; I shake my head. He has no idea who this boy is to Abbie.

Grunts and growls spill from his lips, his small face contorting in frustration. My heart clenches as I reach for him, lifting his shaking body into my arms. He nestles against me, his babbling softening into quiet whimpers.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his forehead. Memories surge unbidden, a torrent that rips me back to a night seared into my soul.

The shrill cries of an infant wrench me from sleep. Abbie is already on her feet, fear etched across her features as she bolts down the attic steps with me right behind her. Tyson’s wails pierced the air loudly. While Mrs. Daley’s voice is a venomous hiss, commanding silence. “Shut up! Just shut up!” The threat in her tone is palpable.

Abbie reaches Tyson first, throwing herself protectively over his makeshift crib, which was a fruit box, just as Mrs. Daley raises her cane. The thwack of wood against flesh echoes through the room, each blow meant for Tyson absorbed by Abbie’s quivering frame.

I lunge forward in panic and shove her with all my might. Her attention snaps to me, rage contorting her features. She strikes—again and again—until darkness claims me. Only later would I understand the cost of that intervention; my back was raw from the whip, but Tyson and Abbie managed to get out of the room safely. After that, Tyson slept in our bed with us until he started sleeping through the night. I still remember Abbie begging Mrs. Daley to let her keep him with us, but she refused.

“Azzy?” Kyson pulls me out of the memory as his voice flits through my head and blink the images away to see Katrina staring at Tyson.

“I never know what he is trying to say,” Katrina says as he squeezes his fists, shaking as he becomes frustrated, and gurgling loudly.

My fingers dance through the fruit bowl, bypassing fruit that’s seen better days, until they close around a firm apple. I briskly wipe it against my shirt, polishing its surface. “Apple,” I say gently, holding it out to Tyson. Memories of deciphering his sounds, his own form of communication, flood back—a language only Abbie and I seemed fluent in.

His eyes light up with recognition, and he snatches the apple, his small hands enveloping it. Excitement bubbles out of him in a string of babbles as he scampers away, the apple now a prized possession.

“Apple,” Katrina echoes, her voice carrying a trace of weariness. She’s been trying; I can tell. I nod and take a sip of my tea.

“He likes the crunching noise they make, and he hates cornflakes, so don’t give him those. He will have a meltdown, Tyson doesn’t like the texture once the milk is added,” I tell her, and she quickly jumps up and grabs a notepad from the fridge. She jots it down, and I tell her a few more noises he makes and what they mean.

“Man, I wish you and Abbie could stay here a while to show me,” she says. Kyson shakes his head instantly, and I don’t think I could even if he let me. Too many bad memories here, and I know this place would give me nightmares when I go home.

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