The Chosen one

Sleep? Forget it. Killian's words, sharp as shards of glass, echoed in my ears: *rogue attack*, *premonition*, *not careful enough*. His call home, a frantic plea for reinforcements, had sliced through the fragile calm of the dawn. The weight of responsibility pressed down, a physical burden. We moved towards the dining room, a silent procession of shadowed figures. The polished mahogany gleamed under the weak sunlight, reflecting the tension radiating from us. The absence of Alpha Caden and Jennifer was a gaping hole, a chilling void in the room's usual controlled chaos. Jacob and Thomas, huddled together like conspirators, their whispers a venomous hiss, sent a shiver down my spine. I could practically taste the fear. Carter, a predator in tailored clothing, clapped Killian on the back, the sound oddly loud in the oppressive silence. His smile, a predatory flash of white teeth, didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes. "Going to chat with my favorite *informants*," he purred, the word dripping with menace. The wink he aimed at me, brief and brutal, sent a jolt of icy fear through me. He moved with a lethal grace towards Jacob, leaving me acutely aware of the precarious dance we were all caught in. This was far more than breakfast. This was a game of survival, and the stakes were impossibly high.

The golden morning light streams through the dining room windows, casting warm shadows across our breakfast spread. It should be peaceful - just Amelia, Killian, and me sharing fresh pastries and coffee. Should be.

That's when I hear it. That voice. The same voice that haunted my dreams last night, turning them into nightmares of loss and betrayal. It cuts through the air like broken glass, making my spine stiffen and my coffee cup freeze halfway to my lips.

"Killian!" The screech is followed by the click of heels against marble floors, and suddenly she's there. Tall, ethereal, and devastatingly beautiful with her cascade of silver-blonde hair and eyes like arctic ice. My nightmare made flesh.

I watch, paralyzed, as she throws herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck like possessive vines. Her lips press against his cheek, leaving behind a perfect crimson imprint. My stomach lurches, and the buttered toast in my mouth turns to ash.

Across the table, Amelia's face contorts with the same disgust I feel, her fingers whitening around her fork. But it's Killian's expression that catches my attention - surprise, yes, but there's something else. Recognition. History.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is controlled, careful, as he deliberately unwraps her arms from his neck. The gesture should comfort me, but the familiarity of their interaction only makes me feel worse.

She pouts, all perfect lips and practiced vulnerability. "I missed you, baby. Elder James brought me with him." Her eyes flick to me for just a moment, a predatory gleam in them that makes my blood run cold. "I couldn't stay away from my King any longer."

My King. The words echo in my head, matching perfectly with the scene from my dream - her standing in a crown of starlight, reaching for him across a void of darkness. But in my dream, he had reached back.

The pastry I'd been enjoying turns to lead in my stomach. I want to speak, to demand answers, to scream, but my voice is trapped somewhere between my heart and my throat. Instead, I watch as the morning crumbles around us, taking my certainties with it.

Because somehow, impossibly, the woman from my nightmare is here, staking her claim on the man I love, and the look in Killian's eyes tells me this is only the beginning of a story I'm not sure I want to know the end of.

The weight of Amelia's words crashed over me like a tidal wave, each revelation another blow to my already fragmented heart. I slumped against the ornate wallpaper of the hallway, my fingers tracing mindless patterns on the textured surface as I tried to ground myself in reality.

"Taylor," I whispered, the name tasting like poison on my tongue. The girl from my dreams – no, my nightmares – had a name now, and a history that twisted my insides into knots. The image of her perfectly styled hair and calculating smile burned behind my eyelids.

Amelia's hand remained steady on my back, but her comfort felt hollow against the void expanding in my chest. "Listen to me," she urged, her voice gentle but firm. "Killian has never shown any interest in her. She's nothing but a political pawn, desperate for power."

I choked out a bitter laugh. "A political pawn who had a contract to be Queen Luna." The tears continued their relentless descent, each drop carrying fragments of my naïve happiness. "While I'm just… what? The unexpected variable in their carefully laid plans?"

The corridor seemed to shrink around us, the elaborate decorations that once spoke of grandeur now feeling suffocating. My mind raced with images of Taylor and Killian together, of council meetings and secret arrangements, of a world I had stumbled into without understanding its complex web of politics and power.

"Six months," I murmured, sliding down the wall until I hit the floor. "They gave him six months, and then I appeared." A horrible thought struck me. "What if I'm just his escape route, Amelia? What if he's only choosing me to avoid being forced into a political marriage?"

Amelia crouched before me, her eyes fierce with conviction. "Don't. Don't let her win by putting these doubts in your head. I've served this pack for years, and I've never seen Killian look at anyone the way he looks at you."

But the seed of doubt had been planted, taking root in fertile soil of my insecurities. Somewhere in this very building, Killian was meeting with the people who had tried to orchestrate his future, including a woman who had once been considered worthy of being his mate. And here I sat, crying on the floor, feeling more like an intruder than ever before.

The truth about Taylor didn't just hurt – it shattered the perfect little bubble I had been living in, leaving me to wonder if I could ever piece it back together again.

The words hang heavy in the air between us, like toxic smoke that refuses to dissipate. My legs feel weak as I stand, but I force myself to appear steady. I can't let Amelia see how badly her confession has shaken me to my core.

"I need a bath," I manage to say, my voice surprisingly calm despite the storm raging inside. "Some time to myself." The last part comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Amelia's face crumples slightly, but she nods. She knows me well enough to recognize when I'm retreating into myself. The guilt in her eyes makes everything worse, somehow. Even now, after everything she's just told me.

I walk to the bathroom on autopilot, each step feeling like I'm wading through concrete. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving, as I turn the faucet to its hottest setting. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, blurring my reflection – a small mercy.

My hands shake as I peel off my clothes, letting them fall to the tile floor in a heap. The water is nearly scalding when I step in, but I welcome the burn. It gives me something physical to focus on, something other than the words that keep replaying in my head like a broken record.

The water rises around me, and I slide down until it covers my shoulders, my neck, my chin. I want to submerge completely, to let the water drown out the thoughts crowding my mind, but I resist. Instead, I watch the steam dance above the surface, creating ghostly shapes that dissolve as quickly as they form.

My skin turns pink, then red, but I barely notice. Time becomes fluid, marked only by the steady drip of the faucet and the gradual cooling of the water. Outside this room, Amelia is waiting. Outside this room, decisions need to be made, conversations need to be had, lives need to be rebuilt or torn apart.

But for now, in this moment, I let myself feel everything: the betrayal, the anger, the grief for what we had – or what I thought we had. The water holds me as I finally allow the first tears to fall, silent drops joining the bathwater, indistinguishable from the rest.

Some truths are too heavy to process standing up.