Marked By My Triplet Stepbrothers

Serena

The tenth year since he died.

I counted each one. Each bitter winter. Each flowerless spring. Each lonely birthday. Each time I asked where he went and got silence in return. But tonight was different. Tonight, his soul would finally rest.

Wolves believed that on the tenth death anniversary, the spirit of the dead could cross over. That’s what my father used to say. He told me stories when I was little—his voice low, soft, warm—about how the veil thinned on this night. About how candles and lilies helped guide the soul home.

So, I lit three white candles. One for the memory, one for the soul, one for the peace. I placed white lilies in a chipped porcelain vase. It was the only one left from my father’s belongings. Everything else had been sold.

The room smelled of wax and flowers and faint mildew. The table was just an old wooden crate, but I had cleaned it with lemon and salt until it gleamed. I even wore the black dress I found in the bottom drawer. It was too big on me, but it felt respectful.

I waited.

My mother had promised to come. She said she’d be here.

I sat on the floor and crossed my legs, watching the flames flicker against my father’s photo. He was smiling in it. He always smiled, even when things were hard.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two.

Still, no mother.

My stomach twisted. Not in hunger—I was used to that. But in dread. Something felt wrong. She was never late to this. Never.

I paced the small room, peeking out the window. The moon hung high. The night was quiet, as if the world itself waited for something.

Then, the sound of heels.

Click. Click. Click.

They struck the hallway tiles like little knives. A scent of expensive perfume drifted in before the door even opened. Strong. Sweet. Foreign.

And then she walked in.

Vivian Cross. My mother.

But she didn’t look like a grieving widow. She looked like a queen.

A deep red dress hugged her body. Her lips matched the color. Diamonds hung from her ears like frost. Her long black hair was curled and pinned up with gold combs.

My heart stopped. "Mom?"

She blinked at me like I was a stranger. Then her eyes dropped to the candles. The lilies. The photo.

"Oh gods, Serena," she sighed. "You're still doing this?"

I stood frozen. "You said you’d come. You promised."

She stepped inside, heels loud against the floor. Her eyes scanned the room with disgust.

"This place smells like graveyards and regrets. You really should open a window."

"It’s Father’s anniversary. He died ten years ago tonight. You said you’d help me send him off."

She waved her hand like swatting a fly. "He’s dead, Serena. And he’s not coming back. You need to stop living in the past."

The words hit me like ice water.

"You said this night was sacred. That wolves honor the dead—"

"We do," she snapped. "But not him. He left us in debt. He left me to clean up his mess. Do you know how many nights I cried, wondering how to feed you? How to survive?"

I swallowed. "But he loved us. He worked day and night for us. He—"

"He failed us." Her voice was sharp, slicing through the quiet. "And I’m done pretending otherwise."

The candles flickered.

"So... you’re not staying?"

Vivian laughed. Not kindly. Not softly. It was a cruel, empty sound.

"No, sweetheart. I’m here to tell you to blow those candles out and pack your things."

My hands turned cold. "What?"

"I’m marrying Alpha Marcus Silverstone."

The name dropped like a boulder in my chest.

"What?" I whispered again.

"You heard me. We’re moving into his palace tomorrow."

"But... you don’t even love him. You said he was cruel."

She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. "I said he was powerful. And I was right."

"You’re marrying for power?"

"I’m marrying to survive, Serena. Something you clearly know nothing about."

My throat tightened. "And me?"

She tilted her head. "You’ll come, of course. You’ll be useful there."

Useful.

Like a servant.

Like property.

I shook my head. "I’m not leaving Father here. I need to finish the rite."

Vivian rolled her eyes. "This again. The veil, the soul, the peace. It's fairy tales, Serena."

"It’s not. I can feel it. I feel him."

She sighed and walked toward the table. In one swift motion, she snatched the photo and turned it face down.

"He’s not watching."

My legs moved before I could think. I grabbed the photo and held it to my chest. "Don’t touch it."

For a second, just a second, her face softened.

Then it vanished.

"I’m not arguing with you," she said. "We leave at sunrise. If you’re not ready, I’ll leave you behind."

And with that, she turned and walked out.

I stood there, heart pounding, arms trembling.

She didn’t look back.

The silence returned. Heavy. Suffocating.

I stared at the candles. Two still burned strong. The third—the one for peace—was flickering, dancing wildly.

I knelt, whispering to the photo. "I’m sorry, Dad. I’m trying. I really am."

The flame steadied.

For a while.

Then, from deep in the forest, a long howl split the air.

It wasn’t near. But it wasn’t far either.

And just as I turned my head, the third candle sputtered—

—and went out.

Darkness fell.

I didn’t breathe.

Did something cross over?

Or did something wake up?

I wasn’t sure.

But the dead never forget.

And neither would I.