Chapter 4
Ivy's POV
After the plane landed, I still had roughly two more hours by car before I'd reach town.
The scenery swayed outside the window as the wheels ground ceaselessly over gravel. Memories from five years ago—once a torrent—now lodged themselves deep into the cracks of the road with every jolt and bump.
Back then, I had just turned twenty, brimming with hope for the future and a naive longing for love. I'd turned my back on those endless rolling vineyards and set off to start a new life.
Now I was coming home. Scarred in ways that didn't all show, carrying a marriage that was nothing but a hollow shell, and a flimsy check.
The road was the same road. The grapes on every side hung ripe as blood.
And my phone sat in my pocket, silent as a brick.
I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Dark. Not a single message.
Gabriel hadn't tried to reach me.
"Stop daydreaming, Ivy."
Rita, my wolf. She was always the clearer-headed, more pragmatic one. When it came to loving, she burned fiercer and more eagerly than I did; when it came to leaving, she shook it off and moved on far more easily.
"Are you really still hoping that a man about to marry his fated mate would be pining after you—his stand-in? Don't be a fool. That check already bought out every last thread between you two. He owes you nothing."
I flipped the phone face-down on my knee and took a deep breath.
"It's not that I haven't thought it through. It's just… some habits die hard."
"Hard or not, they have to die. Think about it—all those years of checking in with him constantly, responding to his every beck and call, telling yourself it was for the sake of the relationship. That was never love. It was just servility dressed up to feel noble."
Rita was never born to be my emotional support animal. As an omega wolf with negligible combat ability, her fangs and claws couldn't tear through an enemy's belly or throat—but they did a magnificent job of puncturing my heart.
"I'm going home now, Rita. I'd appreciate it if you kept quiet for a while. I don't want my parents finding out."
I closed the mental link and turned my gaze to the landscape rushing past in reverse.
She was right. I had no business clinging to fantasies anymore. This was my home—the place that deserved my energy from now on, where I needed to build a life worth living.
The car finally stopped, and a familiar stretch of wooden fence appeared before me.
The house, blanketed in green creeping vines, looked as though it had aged considerably.
Home.
I spotted my mother, Margaret, right away. She wore a grey-blue dress with a cream-colored apron, a row of colorful clothespins clipped along its front.
She'd been taking laundry off the line in the yard, not entirely focused, because the moment the fence gate creaked, she whipped around.
The next second, the laundry basket dropped straight to the ground.
"Ivy? How—why are you back?"
She hurried toward me without sparing a glance at the clothes tumbling into the grass.
Her thin, wiry arms wound around me like grapevines, as if she were trying desperately to confirm that every part of me—body and soul—was still intact.
I could see the fierce worry in her eyes. It had already eclipsed whatever joy the surprise reunion might have brought.
"No—sweetheart, what happened? You didn't even call ahead. Is it something with Gabriel? Has life in the Silver Moon Pack been difficult?"
The questions came like rapid fire, every syllable trembling with anxiety.
She drew her hands back from my shoulders and cupped my face. Her fingertips were cold and rough, her nails stained with what seemed like a permanently embedded hue of grape juice.
My nose stung, and tears nearly spilled over. But I held them back, stepped forward, and pulled her into a tight embrace.
Burying my face in the scent of laundry soap that clung to her collar, I fought to steady my breathing and swallowed the lump in my throat.
"Don't worry, Mom. Everything's fine. I just… suddenly missed home. Missed the wine here. I thought I'd come back and stay with you all for a while."
Her body stiffened for a moment. I knew she probably didn't entirely believe me.
But she didn't press further. She simply held me tighter and patted my back firmly—the same way she used to when she'd rock me to sleep as a child.
"We've missed you too, sweetheart. I'm so glad you're home. I need to go add some more meat to the pot—soaked in plenty of cinnamon broth… Oh, I can barely imagine how… thrilled they'll be."
"You mean Dad and Catherine? Oh, and Victor!"
It had been so long since I'd seen any of them. My sister Catherine was two years younger than me, and my brother Victor had only been twelve or thirteen when I left.
"I'm sorry—I think I just missed Victor's coming-of-age ceremony. He turned eighteen about three months ago, right?"
"Oh, I'm sure he won't mind too much. They're all busy with their own things these days… Sweetheart, why don't you go say hello to Gale first? Dinner will be ready soon."
Something flickered in my mother's eyes. I was fairly certain it wasn't my imagination.
I left my suitcase in the living room and walked to the far corner of the yard, crouching down.
"Hey, Gale. You haven't forgotten me, have you, old boy?"
He was a dog with a coat gone mostly grey-white, about ten years old now.
He'd been dozing with his eyes half-shut. At the sound of footsteps, one ear twitched, and then his eyes opened.
What I saw next was equal parts exhilarating and heartbreaking: the instant he recognized me, his eyes flooded with a wild, eager light.
A ten-year-old dog was deep into his twilight years. Not just anyone could make an old fellow light up like that.
He struggled to stand, trying to lunge toward me—stumbling and staggering, looking utterly ungainly.
I quickly reached out and caught him in my arms.
"Easy, easy, old boy."
His wet nose nudged against my cheek while his tail wagged like a rusty propeller.
I reached down toward his front leg. There was nothing there—just a short stump where the limb used to be.
"Does it hurt?"
My voice shook, and my heart ached with a sharp, sour pain.
A little over three years ago, Gale had gotten caught in a harvester. I'd only just been married then, and when the phone call came, it felt like the sky was falling. Mom had waited to tell me until he was out of danger, but I still had nightmares for days afterward—seeing him drenched in blood, calling his name through tears.
"He never forgot you."
My mother emerged from the kitchen and called me in for dinner.
"When Gale left the pack all those years ago, he placed that dog in your hands. Oh, it was just a scruffy little pup back then—didn't even have a name yet."
I patted the dog's back gently and let out a self-deprecating laugh. "That's right. If he ever found out I named the dog after him, I honestly can't imagine what face he'd make."
"He wouldn't mind, sweetheart. He always doted on you the most."
At the mention of Gale—the person—a shadow of something unspoken passed through my mother's eyes. Sorrow, maybe, and regret.
"I just wonder how that boy's been doing all these years. He's never sent so much as a letter. Though I suppose you can't blame him—it was the entire pack's decision to banish him… It breaks your heart."
"He's so talented. I'm sure he's doing well."
I stroked the dog's head, settled him back onto his cushion, and stood up.
The savory aroma of stew drifted through the air, impossibly inviting. I sniffed and instinctively glanced toward the yard gate.
"Dad and Catherine aren't back yet? Shouldn't we wait for them?"
"You've had a long day. Eat first, sweetheart."
Mom didn't actually answer my question. She simply walked into the living room.
Only then did I notice the large insulated canister sitting on the dining table, already filled with soup and a few pieces of meat she'd just ladled in.
"Oh! Is Dad still working overtime at the winery? Are you taking dinner to him?"
I reached for her ladle. "Let me do it—I'll bring it to him and give him a surprise. How about that?"
"No, no, don't bother, sweetheart. I really think you should rest first. I'll take it myself."
She turned me down, and beneath the genuine concern in her eyes, there was something else—a thin, poorly concealed evasiveness.
I couldn't think of a single reason for her to refuse. Taking dinner to Dad at the winery during late shifts—wasn't that something I used to do all the time as a kid?
The food in front of me had already lost its taste. I watched as Mom hurriedly packed up the containers, then slipped on those old dark-red leather shoes and headed for the door.
I couldn't eat another bite. I quietly set down my bowl and followed her.
Iron Fang Pack's land and climate were unique. The soil drained exceptionally well, rich with volcanic ash, and the temperature swung dramatically between day and night.
Ninety percent of the people here made their living from grapes. The air was forever steeped in that distinctive blend of earth, green leaves, and fermenting fruit.
My family owned a modest winery on the east side of town.
My father had a gift for growing grapes, and the wine we produced was always the most sought-after—often shipped far beyond our territory to packs across the region.
In my memory, Dad would hold my hand as we walked along the vineyard rows, past clusters of heavy fruit, and he'd always say the same thing: this was the earth's reward for hard work and honest sweat.
But the road Mom was taking today—
That was clearly not the way to the winery on the east side.
