(Leah POV)
"Welcome to the club."
I hadn't meant to say it out loud. It slipped out—dry, sharp, too honest.
But the look on Thomas's face when I opened the door…
Yeah. He deserved honesty.
He stood on my porch like he'd walked through a storm only he could feel. No tiger, no claws, no supernatural theatrics. Just… him. Broad shoulders, stupid steady eyes, and a backpack hanging off one hand like he was a lost college kid instead of whatever-the-hell he really was.
Behind me, I could hear Seth upstairs, bouncing around like a hyperactive puppy pretending not to listen. Mom was humming to herself in the kitchen, her trying to be okay hum. The one she used when she was holding her grief tight enough to crack her knuckles.
Thomas glanced past me toward the house, then back to me as if asking permission without saying it.
I crossed my arms. "Well? You gonna say something, or just keep standing there like a guilty UPS driver?"
His mouth twitched. "I, uh… brought something for you."
"Not a good start," I said flatly. "Usually people open with 'hi' or 'nice weather.'"
"Right," he replied. "Hi. Nice weather."
I stared at him.
He sighed. "Can we talk?"
I stepped outside, shutting the door behind me. If Mom saw him, she'd offer him soup or something and I'd die on the spot.
"This better be important," I said, leaning back against the railing. "Sam said you needed to talk to me?"
He lifted the backpack slightly. "Yeah. I have some journals. Written by someone who might help you understand what you're dealing with."
I waited.
And waited.
He didn't elaborate.
I narrowed my eyes. "Thomas. Don't you dare pull the 'mysterious shifter wisdom' crap on me. Use English."
His jaw tightened. "The first female shifter. Elaraim Black."
For a moment, my lungs forgot how to work.
A weird buzzing filled my ears.
I forced out a laugh. Bitter. "Right. Because what I really need is bedtime stories."
"They're not stories."
"I don't care."
"You do," he said quietly. "Or you wouldn't be this angry."
I hated that he was right. I hated it so much that heat rippled under my skin and my vision sharpened the way it only did right before shifting.
I took a breath through my teeth. "Leave it alone."
"No," he said. Just like that. Firm. Annoying. Unmovable. "Because you're spiraling, Leah. And you deserve answers. You deserve better than being thrown into this with nothing to guide you."
I froze.
He wasn't speaking like a Cullen.
Or a shifter.
Or a guy pretending he could fix everyone.
He spoke like someone who saw me drowning. And hated it.
I swallowed, my voice scraping on the way out. "I don't need your pity."
"Good," he said. "Because I'm not offering it."
That stunned me more than anything else he'd said.
He took a cautious step closer, enough that I could feel the heat of him, enough that my wolf surged at the proximity—conflicted, confused, trying to decide if he was prey or pack or something else, I didn't have a word for.
Thomas held the backpack out between us.
"You don't have to read them now," he said. "Or ever. But they're yours. Written by Ephraim Black's twin sister Elaraim Black, after she was exiled for daring to have power the elders of the time didn't."
My breath stopped.
Not because of the name Ephraim Black, every kid on the rez grew up hearing his story. Greatest chief. Wolf warrior. The protector who bound the treaty with the Cold Ones.
But a twin sister?
A shifter?
Impossible.
Except nothing in my life was impossible anymore.
Still, the words hit too close and cut too deep.
"Cute," I said, even though my voice cracked in the middle. "So now you're rewriting tribe history?"
Thomas shook his head. "Not rewriting. Just… adding back the parts that were erased."
The buzzing in my ears returned, louder this time. Ephraim Black was a legend. The Elders talked about him like he was carved out of stone, perfect, wise, unquestioned. The idea that they'd hidden something like this.
My stomach twisted.
I hissed out a breath. "If this is some kind of joke—"
"It's not." His voice didn't waver. Not even a little. "She wrote these. Hundreds of pages. Her life. Her exile. And what it meant to be the first woman to shift."
The last words hit like a gut punch.
Hot shame curled in my chest.
Because part of me, the scared, angry, exhausted part, wanted to believe him.
And that made me furious.
"Why are you giving these to me?" I demanded. "Why do you even care?"
Something flickered across his face. Not pity. Not obligation. Something steadier. Something that made my pulse trip.
"Because you deserve to know you're not alone," he said quietly. "And because you're not the first woman to go through this. The tribe leaders of the past just made sure you'd think you were."
My breath went thin and shaky.
"No," I said, but it came out weak.
"Yes," he answered, and he didn't back down.
I hated him in that moment.
And I didn't.
And that contradiction made my bones itch.
My eyes burned. I looked away quickly, pretending it was just the wind.
"This changes nothing," I said.
"It changes everything," he said softly.
And maybe it would.
But right now? Right now, everything inside me felt raw, like exposed nerves scraping against each other. The wolf shoved against my skin, restless, angry, confused.
Thomas stepped back a little, giving me space without retreating.
"I won't push," he said. "I won't ask for anything. I'll just… be here if you want to talk."
I stared at the backpack.
At the weight of it.
Of her.
Elaraim Black.
Ephraim's twin.
Exiled.
Forgotten.
Hidden.
A woman who went through hell alone so the men could keep their spotless story.
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. Then, slowly, I reached out and took the bag.
Thomas didn't smile.
Didn't speak.
Just nodded.
"Don't," I said quietly. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you understand."
He held my gaze. "No. I don't. Not fully. But I'm trying."
Trying.
No one tried for me.
Not Sam.
Not the Elders.
Not the pack.
But Thomas… did.
Whatever the hell that meant.
I swallowed hard and stepped back toward the door. "If this blows up in my face, I'm blaming you."
His lips twitched. "Fair."
"And don't think this means we're friends."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I almost laughed. Almost.
Instead I shook my head, muttered, "You're impossible," and slipped inside before he could see the confusion twisting up my face.
Because for the first time since the wolf wrecked my life…
the tightness in my chest eased.
Just a little.
And that scared me, I admitted to myself as I leaned back into the closed door.
I waited.
I didn't mean to, and I definitely wasn't hiding behind the door like some emotionally unstable raccoon, but I stayed right there in the narrow entryway, one hand gripping the strap of the backpack so tightly the canvas bit into my palm.
Thomas's footsteps retreated across the porch.
Slow. Heavy. Hesitant.
Then the soft creak of the bottom stair, the crunch of gravel as he made his way back to his truck.
The engine of his truck came to life, sounding like the roar of a large cat just before it started to purr.
I closed my eyes.
Only when the sound faded down the road did I let out the breath I'd been holding. My pulse was still hammering like I'd run a marathon instead of talking to someone on my own porch.
Great. Perfect. Totally normal reaction.
"Leah?" Mom's voice drifted from the kitchen. Light. Too light. "Was someone at the door?"
Of course.
I plastered on my blandest expression before walking into the kitchen. "Just Thomas. He needed something."
Mom turned from the sink, eyes narrowing in that gentle, probing way she had when she wasn't sure how much she should push. Her hair was pulled back, apron still on, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
"Is everything alright?" she asked.
"Fine," I said quickly. Too quickly. "It was nothing."
Her gaze flicked to the backpack slung over my shoulder. "He brought you that?"
Damn.
"Yeah," I said, shrugging like it weighed nothing instead of feeling like a ten-ton emotional landmine. "Just some… reading material."
"Reading material?" she echoed, brows rising.
Seth barreled down the stairs at that exact moment like the universe had thrown me a life raft. "Was that Thomas?" he asked, skidding into the kitchen. "Are we going running? Did he bring food? Did he bring—"
"No," I snapped.
Seth blinked. "…Okay?"
I softened a little. Not much. Just enough. "He just dropped something off."
Seth's attention zeroed in on the backpack. "Like what?"
"Books."
"Oh." He deflated instantly, disappointment radiating off him like heat from asphalt.
Mom didn't give up so easily.
"Are they schoolbooks?" She asked. "History? English?"
"History, something he thought I would like to read." I muttered.
She wiped her hands on a towel, studying me in that way that made me feel both seen and exposed. "If you need help with…" She hesitated, voice thinning around the edges. "With anything… you can talk to me."
I swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat.
Talking to her would break her.
Talking to her would break me.
"I know," I said softly. "Thanks."
Seth's eyes darted between us, sensing the shift. "So… no running tonight?"
"Not tonight," I said. "Maybe tomorrow."
He made a face but nodded.
Mom gave my arm a squeeze before turning back to the sink. Seth wandered back toward the living room, dragging his feet like gravity had suddenly doubled.
And I escaped.
I climbed the stairs two at a time and slipped into my room, closing the door quietly behind me. The moment the latch clicked, I sagged against it, the weight of the backpack dragging at my shoulder.
The house hummed below me, the sink running, Seth flipping on the TV, Mom went back to humming the same brittle melody pretending to be alright.
But up here?
Up here was quiet.
I liked the quiet.
I sat on the edge of my bed, placing the backpack in my lap. My fingers hesitated on the zipper. My pulse kicked.
This was stupid.
This was dangerous.
This was...
I unzipped it.
Inside, three old notebooks lay stacked neatly. Worn edges. Softened corners. Paper yellowed with age. The leather bindings cracked from hands far older than mine.
My breath shook.
Carefully, almost reverently, I lifted the top journal and rested it on my thighs. The cover was simple, no title, no decoration, just aged leather and faint grooves where someone had held it so many times the texture wore smooth.
For a long moment, I just… stared.
Then, with a breath that scraped my ribs raw, I opened to the first page.
The handwriting was neat. Strong strokes. Fluid curves. Confident.
"My name is Elaraim Black.
And this is the truth of what the Elders feared."
The words hit me like a fist to the chest.
I traced them with my fingertip.
A shiver raced down my spine, wolf and woman both leaning forward, listening, hungry, terrified, hopeful.
For the first time since this nightmare began…
I didn't feel completely alone.