Page 70 of Pack Frenzy
Cassian’s quiet. Listening with his whole body. “And what did you call it?”
“Insurance.” The word tastes metallic. Old. I swallow, and it sits wrong in my chest. “He outsourced parenting to a man with a gun safe and called it love.”
A laugh tries to escape. It comes out sharp enough to cut. “He thought it made up for my mom being at the bottom of a bottle all the time. It didn’t.”
I should stop talking, but the words are spilling out like I’ve been holding them too long.
God, I need to sit. My legs are suddenly unreliable. We find an empty bench and I sink onto it, grateful when they settle around me—not crowding, just close enough to catch me if I fall apart.
“Miguel was kind, though. He didn’t just—” My breath catches. I push past it. “He made sure I knew how to protect myself. Think it was because my dad didn’t want the guilt of someone hurting me without him being there to protect me.”
“Jess,” Eli says carefully as though I’m porcelain and his words might shatter me. Maybe he’s right.
“It’s fine.” And it is. Mostly. The wound’s old enough that it only aches when someone prods it. “I’m fine.”
Except I’m not, and we all know it.
“What happened?” Rowan asks. “I can tell there’s something you’re not saying.”
Eli’s expression shifts—a warning—but Rowan doesn’t see it.
“Eli knows,” I hear myself say, “but I’d rather you hear it from me.”
“My mom started drinking after my sister Sabrina vanished.” The words are jagged, coming out, catching on every soft part. “She never stopped. Some days she doesn’t even remember my name.” A sob tries to follow, and I choke it back.
Eli wraps an arm around my shoulder. Rowan sits on my other side, fingers lacing through mine like it’s something precious. Cassian kneels in front of me, taking my other hand in both of his.”
“What about Sabrina?” Cassian asks, and his eyes are so devastatingly gentle I almost can’t stand it.
Her name is a hook behind my ribs. It pulls, and everything bleeds.
I focus on a family with three kids under the age of ten strolling by. On the lights of the fair, glowing against the darkening sky. On the way, my pulse ticks unevenly. Anything but the grief threatening to swallow me whole.
“She was the glue that held our family together. I didn’t realize it until she was gone.” The words come slower now. Heavier. Each one costs something. “Braided my hair whenMom forgot. Snuck me food when Mom put me on a diet I didn’t need. Hugged me when Dad and Mom screamed at each other.”
Protected me. Loved me. Made me feel like I mattered when no one else did.
I stop. Shake my head. There are things I don’t say out loud, even now. Especially now.
“She was sent to Nexus, and then she was just—” My voice wavers. I force it steady. “Gone. Not runaway gone. Not ‘changed her mind’ gone. Just… erased.”
I drag a breath in. “Officially, the system says she was ‘placed.’ Assigned to an Alpha. End of story.” A humorless laugh scrapes out of me. “But there’s no pack name. No address. No follow-up wellness checks. No exit logs. Nothing.”
I look down at the ankle monitor blinking against my skin.
“After Sabrina vanished, Nexus tightened security—trackers, escorts, triple verification. They say it’s to protect us.”
My jaw tightens. “But all those protocols cameaftershe disappeared. Back then, it was a mess—half their records were still on paper, half digitized, cameras that glitched if someone sneezed too hard.”
My nails bite my palms. “My dad pulled every string he had. Judges. Politicians. Even some people you don’t ask for favors unless you’re desperate.”
I hiccup a sob. “Nothing worked. It was like she walked off the edge of the world. And every time we pushed for answers, someone at Nexus shrugged and blamed ‘system errors.’ Or ‘clerical loss.’ Or that her pack requested privacy.”
Anger burns the back of my throat. “Privacy isn’t wiping every trace of a person’s existence. That’s a cover-up.”
Seven years, two months, thirteen days. But who’s counting?
The fair is still spinning. Still bright. Still full of people who probably aren’t missing anyone. Who isn’t this broken.
