Page 53 of His Fierce Lycan Luna

“I have to take dad for brain scans next week. I am hoping the Alpha will come over like he said. He said he would watch them for me,” she sighs.

“Brock? What did you have to give him to convince him to do that?” I ask, and she blushes, not looking happy about that. I click my tongue, already knowing the answer.

“No one else?” I ask her, and I can only imagine what she had to do for her to get him over to watch all these kids.

“We can try to help you find some help?” Kyson offers, and she looks at him, hopefully.

“Please. No one is willing to help, and I have my exams coming back up.”

“You’re back studying accounting?” I ask her.

“Trying. When I get a chance, that is, it’s online,” she says. I smile sadly before I place my cup in the sink and nod, knowing we will have to leave soon.

“Do you mind if I look around?” I ask her, and she shakes her head.

“Of course not, but upstairs is a little messy,” she says. Walking back to the main hall and into the living room, I see the kids huddled around the tiny box TV in the corner.

“How many kids are here now?” I ask her.

“111,” Katrina answers. I sigh, looking around. The place is falling apart, and I suddenly wish I could take them with me. Katrina can’t look after them by herself, and this place has seen better days. I swallow, taking the set of stairs, while Katrina tries to settle the kids who are becoming rowdy with afternoon tea approaching.

Ascending the staircase, the heavy air grips my lungs. Each door I pass reveals a room steeped in dust and disarray. Beds unmade, personal belongings strewn without care—a stark contrast to the order imposed on us during our time here. It’s as if the rooms are holding their breath, waiting for someone to care enough to breathe life into them once more.

Kyson’s footsteps echo behind me. “What are you doing?” he asks, his tone laced with confusion—or is it concern?

I find it hard to answer, the sights before me dragging me back through time. Memories flash before my eyes: Abbie and I tiptoe through the hallways, avoiding the squeaky floorboards and carrying piles of laundry that threatened to topple over. The same corridors now lay silent, save for the ghosts of our whispered voices trying to evade Mrs. Daley’s wrath.

“Remembering,” I reply finally, my voice distant even to my own ears.

Reaching the end of the hallway, I pause before the attic stairs, my heart thundering against my ribs. That was mine and Abbie’s room. How often were we forced to crawl those stairs after our lashings or our chores? It felt like a lifetime ago, yet also yesterday, everything is still so fresh.

Kyson touches my arm, and I jump, stuck in my memories. “Are you alright?” he asks before turning to Liam and Trey. He nods toward the stairs and they go back down them.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, blinking back tears. He looked like he wanted to say something, but I grip the broken banister andforce myself to climb the steps to the attic. The door handle jiggles in my hand as I push it open.

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

AZALEA

“Why did you want to come up here?” Kyson asks, his voice echoing off the bare walls. He looks around at the small space, taking in the dirt-covered window, the single mattress we shared, and the bedside dresser. It all looks exactly as it did when we were here, untouched by time.

I walk over to the dresser and open the top drawer, revealing a stack of tattered clothes. Among them is a spaghetti necklace, its colors faded but still recognizable. I pick it up and hold it in my hand, memories flooding back to me.

“We hated these dresses,” I say, holding up an old tunic. “And the stupid peasant skirts she would make us wear.” I can still feel the itch of the rough fabric against my skin, the way it would cling to my sweat in the hot summers.

“Azalea?” Kyson whispers behind me.

“It’s mine and Abbie’s room,” I tell him. My voice sounds distant to even my own ears.

Kyson’s eyes widen as he takes in the room. “This is where you slept?” he asks, his voice full of disbelief.

I nod, unable to speak as my emotions threaten to overwhelm me. I walk over to the cupboard and run my handalong its wooden surface, remembering the countless times I was locked inside, unable to escape until Mrs. Daley deemed it was time for me to come out.

“Are you alright, Azalea?” Kyson’s concerned voice breaks through the haze, and I tear my gaze away from him to glance at the wooden chair he’s turning in the corner. Suppressed memories flood back, crashing against the walls of my mind, reminding me of why that chair is up here. It’s a painful reminder of the time we broke a similar one while trying to retrieve Christmas decorations from storage. Mrs. Daley, always one for dramatic lessons, made us bear the weight of that damn chair above our heads, claiming it would teach us about the burden she carried in looking after us.

To most people, it’s just a chair. But for us, holding two legs each above our heads for what felt like an eternity, we learned firsthand how even the lightest things become unbearably heavy after hours. Each time our strength faltered and we dropped it, Mrs. Daley’s cane would strike the back of our legs, leaving stinging reminders of her displeasure.

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