Author's Note (Chapter 16 – Update)
A quick clarification and correction for longtime readers:
Earlier in the story, I mistakenly used the word kanima as if it were a term for vampiric hybrids. That was incorrect. Kanima is actually a canon term used for a werewolf-adjacent shapeshifter in other lore, not a vampire or hybrid. My bad on that one.
To better reflect the mythic weight of the beings I'm writing—especially hybrids like Bellas children—I've updated that section with a new term:
Antüñir, which is a fictional word inspired by Mapudungun, the language of the Mapuche people, an Indigenous group native to parts of Chile and Argentina.
•Antü = "sun"
•Ñir = "to drink"
Together, Antüñir loosely evokes "sun-drinker"—a term that works both ironically and symbolically for vampires or hybrid beings who blur the line between life and myth.
Please note: Antüñir is a fictional invention and not a real word in Mapudungun.
It's meant as respectful homage and worldbuilding, not a direct lift or claim on the culture or its sacred terms.
If you're Mapuche or speak Mapudungun and want to share more insight, I'd love to hear from you and give credit where it's due.
Thanks for sticking with me through the lore drops and edits!
This term was inspired by Huilen, Nahuel's aunt, who was the first to share knowledge of vampire-human hybrids with the Cullens in canon.
⸻
Chapter 21 – Oregon
The fluorescent hum of the half-gas station, half-bar buzzed against the static hush of the surrounding forest.
A trio of truckers hunched over clamshells of microwaved food, muttering in low, tired voices. Music crackled from a radio behind the counter. Somewhere, a hand dryer shrieked and died in the bathroom hallway.
At the back near the cooler, the storage room door creaked open.
A man stepped out, adjusting the collar of a black mourning coat. The hem swished slightly with each measured step. His face was sharp, unreadable—like someone who had long since stopped needing to emote.
Dimitri.
He didn't make a scene. Just walked slowly toward the front, weaving past aisles and snack displays with a grace too fluid to be anything but unnatural.
A few customers looked up. None lingered. None asked about the faint blood speckling his collar—just above the shoulder, just enough to stir something instinctual.
Maybe they didn't see it.
Or maybe the part of them that did had already quieted.
⸻
The door creaked again.
Samantha stepped inside, the buzzing lights above turning her pupils to slits. Her eyes scanned quick, but her nostrils flared wider—just once.
She wasn't searching for trouble. Not at first.
But the scent hit before the sound.
Not human. Not Cullens. Not even just vampire.
Burnt sugar and coinmetal.
Clean. Controlled.
Ancient.
Her skin prickled. Not in fear—in memory, like her body remembered something her mind had never lived.
Bradley was already tossing bags of jerky into a cracked plastic basket, nodding along to the background static.
Samantha adjusted her hoodie, annoyed by the lights. They made it harder to smell—harder to listen with her skin. But the scent returned again. Sharper this time.
She froze.
Across the room, leaning near the vending machine that hadn't worked in years, a man stood with the stillness of a statue.
Mid-30s, maybe. Mourning coat. Crisp black. Cigarette burning lazily between fingers too elegant for a gas station.
Her eyes slid past him the first time.
But then his scent coiled back, wrapping itself around the smoke and slipping into her lungs like sugar and rust.
That was enough.
She stiffened. Her hackles rose.
⸻
Outside, the dusk pressed low.
Quill moved through the truck-strewn lot in wolf form, dark and shifting, a whisper in motion. Emilio mirrored him from the opposite end, staying low.
Together, they worked a wide, wordless perimeter around the gas station—scanning, not standing still.
And then: scent.
Not just blood.
Something more refined. Cold-blooded. Predatory.
Emilio paused behind the shadows of a billboard, glancing through the grimy side window toward the vending machine.
And there—he caught it.
A glint of silver at the cuff. Black embroidery. Old insignia.
He didn't need the others to say it aloud.
Volturi.
⸻
Back inside, Samantha whispered without looking at Bradley, "That's not a drifter."
Bradley stopped mid-step, expression sobering.
"He's fed," she added. "He's just… lingering."
They didn't look directly at the vampire. Didn't speak again. Just drifted casually toward the entrance, like two kids debating soda flavors—until they slipped out.
⸻
Outside, Dimitri smoked like he had nowhere else to be.
His back was to the door. Head tilted just slightly toward the trees behind the lot. The faded trail beyond the pavement looked like an accident of time. Moss-covered and half-eaten by the forest.
But he was headed for it.
Emilio's claws scraped the mulch in warning. Quill was already circling wide.
Samantha and Bradley emerged just as Dimitri flicked his cigarette away, the ember sparking against concrete.
He didn't look back.
But his steps slowed.
⸻
The packling didn't wait for an invitation.
Samantha gave the signal.
Bradley's fingers twitched.
Quill and Emilio tightened their arc.
And then the woods came alive.
⸻
The woods answered first.
A snarl from the left. A blur of motion from the right.
Quill launched out of the shadows, a black streak slicing between cars, aiming for Dimitri's flank.
His teeth bared mid-lunge. No warning growl. No time to announce.
Just teeth.
Dimitri turned—just enough.
Quill's jaws missed his neck but tore clean through the coat at his shoulder. Fabric split. A streak of cracks appeared where skin should've resisted.
Too fast. Not for a vampire—faster than a Volturi tracker should've had to be.
Dimitri moved like a whisper—one that could crack stone.
He twisted, fingers arcing like scythes, catching Quill mid-air and slamming him spine-first into the asphalt.
The ground buckled under the impact. Quill yelped but rolled, scrambling to his paws with a growl that shivered through the trees.
Bradley was already there, fists wrapped in duct-taped gloves, knuckles stained with old blood. He came in fast and reckless—he liked to fight.
Dimitri dodged low, letting Bradley's punch whistle past his cheek, and brought an elbow into the boy's ribs hard enough to make him gasp.
But Bradley grinned through the pain, and Samantha was already airborne.
She landed on Dimitri's back with her full weight, claws raking down his spine.
He staggered. Hissed.
Her claws connected.
from shoulder to lower back—three perfect, gleaming cracks across his pale skin.
The scent of fresh Volturi blood hit the air like ozone.
Dimitri whirled and flung her off him with a snarl, but not before Bradley landed one last punch—hard enough to split his lip.
"Enough."
His voice cut the air like a blade—low, accented, centuries old.
His eyes, once calm and clinical, now burned. Not rage. Not panic. Just clarity.
Emilio emerged from the woods, panting in wolf-form. His coat bristled, but his eyes were calculating. He circled slowly, not attacking—watching.
"You're not civilians," Dimitri muttered, adjusting what was left of his collar. "And you're not werewolves."
Samantha shifted & spat to the side. "And We're not interested in monologues."
"No," Dimitri said, brushing the blood from his lip, "but you might be interested in… opportunity."
He didn't sound winded. Just intrigued. Like a man who'd expected a snack and found a challenge instead.
From the shadows, Emilio caught it again—the cufflink.
Volturi.
He didn't know what this one wanted, but whatever it was… he wasn't here to kill them.
Dimitri didn't flinch as Samantha circled back in, blood still on her nails.
He didn't tense when Bradley cracked his knuckles again. He just—paused.
And lit another cigarette.
The flame flared at the tip, a soft orange against the forest dusk.
He took a slow drag, then exhaled upward, like this was an awkward conversation and not a coordinated ambush.
"You're disciplined," he said, glancing between them. "Not wild. Not aimless. Wolves, yes—but not dogs."
Bradley growled, but Samantha stopped him with a look.
It was Emilio—still in phased form—who moved first.
He stepped into the clearing from behind a wide tree trunk, fur bristling just slightly, and then, with a breath, shifted mid-step.
The forest went still.
He stood tall, naked but composed, skin steaming in the cool air. His voice, when it came, was steady.
"You're Volturi."
Dimitri raised an eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying.
Emilio gestured toward the cufflink, silver catching what little light remained. "That crest is a little too polished to be an old souvenir."
Dimitri smiled. "Observant."
Samantha stepped closer to Emilio's side, still wary. "Why are you in Oregon, bloodsucker?"
Dimitri didn't bristle at the slur. Instead, he tilted his head, studying her with a slow, assessing gaze.
"I was… hungry," he said plainly, gesturing loosely back toward the gas station. "And curious. Then you followed me. Well. That made it interesting."
He flicked ash toward a patch of gravel, then looked directly at Samantha.
"You didn't kill me when you could've. And I didn't kill any of you—though I could have."
Silence fell for a breath.
Dimitri let it hang there, then continued, smoke curling around his words.
"You're not part of Oregons ecosystem. You're not protecting the humans-not really or you would've intervened sooner. & You're not children. That makes you… available."
"Available for what?" Sam snapped, blood still on her teeth.
"A higher purpose."
That caught them.
Dimitri stepped closer to the treeline, but not into it—still in view, still relaxed.
"You're powerful. You're angry. And you're free."
He paused again, this time glancing at Bradley.
"Which means you can be… redefined. Not used. Not leashed. But given a history to stand behind, and a future that matters."
Samantha narrowed her eyes. "You think you know us?"
"No," Dimitri said. "I know potential. And the Volturi are in need of new potential. Not sheep. Soldiers. Leaders. Guards."
Samantha didn't answer right away. SHe watched him—watched the stillness behind the words, the intent between each exhale of smoke.
And finally said, "We don't follow anyone blindly."
"I wouldn't ask you to," Dimitri replied. "I'd ask if you're tired of hiding in borrowed clothes and shadow packs, hoping no one notices you exist."
Bradley stepped forward, jaw tight. "Let's say we were interested. How could we trust you? Or any of the other leeches you work for? What do they get out of this?"
There was a flicker—maybe a smile, maybe not—at the corner of Dimitri's mouth.
"You're not enemies," he said, lighting another cigarette with a deliberate flick of his wrist. "You're options."
The smoke curled upward, slow and clean. "And options are rare. But not… unlimited."
Bradley narrowed his eyes, but didn't speak again. The wind shifted.
The cigarette hissed as he flicked it into the damp gravel, embers dying.
Dimitri let the silence linger before turning toward the trail, the ember at the tip of his cigarette glowing like a final period.
He didn't look back.
But Emilio stepped forward.
Dimitri stood still beneath the tree line, smoke curling from the tip of his cigarette, the forest holding its breath around him.
From behind his collar, a soft chime clicked. He tapped the concealed communicator once—encrypted, Volturi-issued. It hissed faintly as it connected.
"Ruby," he said dryly, using the codename she loathed.
His voice was quick, crisp, almost too fast—like it had been tucked behind his teeth, waiting for her.
"I was enjoying my dinner when I stumbled onto three potentials."
He adjusted his torn coat, still damp at the shoulder. "One of them bit me. Mildly embarrassing."
A pause. No laughter. Expected.
Then Jane's voice—light, incredulous: "You?"
"They're gifted," he continued, voice quieter now. "Not werewolves. Not vampires. Something tangled."
He caressed the side of his neck where Samantha's claws had raked down.
"One: female. Black wolf. Alpha-aligned. Another: mottled gray, bulky, scent's erratic. Third's smaller, sand-colored. Keeps vanishing."
A brief buzz of static. Then Jane's voice, even and unreadable: "Names?"
"Unofficial. Samantha. Emilio. Bradley."
In the background, the shifters murmured—low, urgent. He could smell the change in their body chemistry.
Hear their pulse rising. The scent of their defiance was wild and strangely grounding.
Dimitri wasn't used to this—he didn't like wolves, but these weren't the old ones.
These were new.
"Your recommendation?" Jane asked.
"I can handle them," he said. "For now. But the moment's thin. K.A.V. will want them."
Of course He would.
He could hear the calculation in her silence.
He glanced at the fading trail ahead of him, then at the cuff of his sleeve—blood there too.
Still no reply.
"You should return."
There was a longer silence this time—barely a breath, but in vampire time, noticeable. Dimitri didn't push.
"I'll return," Jane said quietly, "after I'm done."
Dimitri waited a beat, but the channel clicked out without further explanation. Transmission ended. No location ping. No trail to follow.
He exhaled. Lit another cigarette.
Behind him, the brush rustled.
Dimitri tilted his head, burgundy eyes piercing the wolf.
"I don't like loose threads," he said softly.
Quill flinched. Just slightly.
"You'll run," he said, quiet now. "I expect that."
Behind the edge of his hearing, the wolves murmured—low vocalizations he couldn't parse, language that didn't belong to human throats.
Their scent was everywhere: hot, sharp, animal. Their heartbeats pounded like war drums just beneath his awareness, disorienting in their rhythm. He was used to big cities, cold halls, the quiet civility of monsters like himself.
This was something else.
He didn't turn back. He didn't let them see him flinch.
But he listened.
Quill hadn't moved. Not quite. Still phased, still present, but not charging. Watching. Breathing. Trembling just slightly beneath the fur. Not in fear—something closer to dissonance.
Something knotted in the air between them. Choice. Not surrender.
Bradley noticed first. "Quill," he snapped, "what the hell are you doing?"
Dimitri glanced over his shoulder, just barely.
The black wolf—Quill—took a step back. Then two.
But he didn't run.
Didn't bow.
Quill's ears twitched. His posture stiffened, torn.
Dimitri exhaled slowly, almost a sigh. He could hear the wolves—every breath, every heartbeat—like drums played off-rhythm. Their scent muddied the air, wild and loud.
Quill took another step back. Just one.
Enough to insult.
Samantha's snarl burst out of her before she could stop it. "You coward—"
She lunged, claws raised—not to kill, but to remind him of his place.
And then—motion.
Quill stepped forward, wolf-form trembling with hesitation. His claws curled into the dirt.
He phased mid-step, human and steaming with adrenaline, mouth twisted in conflict.
"I'm not going," he said. "I'd rather love a child than sell my autonomy and heritage to the European vampire police."
Samantha's head snapped toward him. "Quill—"
She moved in fast, eyes lit with fury—punishment already half-formed in her throat.
But Dimitri's voice slid in like frost.
"Allow me."
He was already beside Quill before the pack could blink.
His eyes flicked to Samantha. "You're their leader. he's still yours to carry home."
"To sneer at an invitation from the Volturi is… an insult," he said. "But this? This is restraint."
Quill's eyes widened, and then he dropped.
Dimitri looked down at the writhing wolf, then back at the others, his voice calm.
A sound like wet wood cracking echoed off the trees—his leg bent wrong, dropped out from under him.
He hit the ground hard, teeth gritted in agony, but he didn't cry out.
He growled instead. A wounded thing with pride still flaring in his chest.
Dimitri knelt beside him briefly, cigarette still glowing. "Now you'll remember my scent. And the lesson."
Dimitri crouched beside Quill, his voice low and clinical. "That bone will heal in days. The memory will last longer."
He didn't sneer. He didn't smile.
He simply brushed the invisible dust from his coat.
He stood, brushing ash from his coat sleeve, eyes flicking back toward the rest of the pack.
Bradley swore under his breath.
Samantha didn't speak—she just stared.
"I don't need your loyalty," he said, now addressing them all.
"I need your precision. Your rage. Your hunger. The Volturi can elevate that."
Bradley looked at Samantha.
Samantha looked at Emilio.
Emilio didn't nod. But he didn't walk away either.
"When you're ready," he said, "find me. But don't wait long."
Bradley was the first to step forward, jaw tight. His knuckles were still split, chest heaving like he hadn't decided whether to fight or run.
But there was something behind his stare—something curious.
raw.
Hungry.
"You said purpose," Bradley said. "What do you get out of it?"
Dimitri didn't hesitate. "Legacy. Survival. Bloodlines that might do more than survive fractured myths."
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, then added, almost offhandedly:
"And power."
His voice shifted—calmer, colder. "The freedom to hunt without shame. To be what I am… without apology. That's what the Volturi give."
Bradley's lips twitched. "And if we say no?"
"You wouldn't be the first." Dimitri's voice stayed even, almost casual. "But I don't extend the offer twice."
He stepped back, brushing ash from his sleeve.
"You want purpose?" he said again. "I'm offering it."
Dimitri turned once more toward the trail, voice fading like a thread in the trees.
Then he turned back toward the trail—toward Italy.
And still, he didn't look back.
The forest peeled back into a narrow trail skirting the edges of a fog-thickened town, where moss clung to leaning trees and the chill air hung quiet with potential.
This was old ground. A sacred border for some.
A burial site for others.
Carlisle Cullen walked with hands folded behind his back, coat brushing softly at his knees, his steps unhurried but thoughtful.
Seth trotted alongside Jane in his wolf form, his sandy fur catching the dappled light.
A skateboard was strapped across his back with a makeshift harness, bobbing slightly with each step.
At his side, Jane moved like a knife in a sheath. Her high ponytail swayed slightly with each step, black boots sinking shallowly into the soft soil.
Jane's hand occasionally drifted into his fur, fingers absently tracing patterns. Seth responded with a contented rumble, his tail swishing in quiet delight.
Her right hand tapped steadily on the screen of her volturi Watch, mapping something crude but meaningful: the blurry territorial divide of vampire and shifter, sketched from Carlisle's description.
"You know," Carlisle said softly, returning Jane's attention, "we've lived here longer than almost anywhere. But it's not the humans that keep this place safe."
Jane arched an eyebrow.
"It's the wolves," Carlisle continued. "Not just Jacob's pack—their whole bloodline. Vampires that don't know better? They die before they can even ask whose land they're crossing."
She hummed and added a note to her watch: death radius unmarked—relying on oral law. She didn't ask if it was intentional.
She knew it was.
As they continued, Jane tapped on her smartwatch, sketching a rudimentary map. "So, this side belongs to the shifters, and this to the vampires?"
"More or less," Carlisle replied. "But the lines are fluid, maintained by mutual understanding rather than strict borders."
Emmett trailed them loosely.
Half-grinning, half-scouting, he flicked rapidly through his new Motorola flip phone—on one screen, Geometry Dash bounced in chaotic rhythm.
On the other, he was texting at supernatural speed.
Names lit up: Jacob (Wolf Emoji), Leah (Lee-Lee), Mama Cullen, Paulie D.
"Em," Leah had texted earlier, "don't think I won't body-slam you next time you call me Lee-Lee."
To which Emmett had replied with: "You're just mad I make it sound cute."
Back on the trail, he smirked to himself and kept half an eye on the perimeter.
No threats. Just birds and bored wind.
Every so often, he'd pause, fingers flying over the keypad, sending rapid updates to the wolf pack.
He chuckled to himself, the sound blending with the rustling leaves
Jane glanced back, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Is he always like this?"
"Emmett has his own… methods," Carlisle said with a smile.
As they approached a clearing overlooking the airport, Jane halted.
She turned to Carlisle, her gaze piercing. "You've been keeping interesting company."
Carlisle met her eyes, the corners crinkling with a hint of mirth. "The Cullens are reforming. Frankly, I thought we'd tear each other apart before reaching this point."
To his surprise, Jane laughed—a soft, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even her.
She looked down at Seth, who pressed closer, his body language protective yet relaxed.
"You're all sentimental fools."
"Not all," Carlisle replied. "But I've missed the days when reason guided our race. Marcus once made that feel possible."
That gave her pause. She looked at him.
"I met him centuries ago, before he was… lost to grief," Carlisle continued.
"He and his mate had a kind of dignity—an old-world charm. Authority you wanted to follow, not just feared to cross. We would've become something better under them."
Jane didn't respond at first. But she nodded, just once, and the motion was small but significant.
Then Seth's tail wagged once, too eager for his own dignity. He tried to hide it, curling against her leg again.
She plucked the skateboard tied to his back, holding it casually at her side.
He gave a low, pleased huff. Jane didn't smile, but her eyes did seem warmer when she gazed at him.
"I've never taken a personal vacation before," she mused. "But I think I might… linger. I'd like to see more of Washington."
Emmett, catching up, grinned. "So, is the King going to chaperone your vacation? Daddy's little demoness on a field trip?"
Emmett, with perfect timing.
A shadow crossed her face. The idea of her intimate relations being made into a personal spectacle—and the thought of Aro's possessive presence—was clearly unwelcome.
Carlisle placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Marcus once spoke of autonomy, of leading without chains. Perhaps it's time that vision is realized."
Jane's body tensed like a coiled spring. She didn't move her face—but something flared in her posture. Not rage. Just something deeper. Struck bone.
"The master," she said carefully, "is unpredictable. But he has a habit of inviting himself."
The last word tasted sour on her tongue.
She didn't want Aro near this—near Seth, near her peace, near whatever this was becoming.
Carlisle, ever perceptive, caught it. He stepped closer, voice quieter.
"Victoria's still alive," he said. "Our wolf allies have caught her scent multiple times. She keeps circling our land but never shows her hand. I believe she's here to hurt Edward. And Edward…"
Carlisle paused.
"He's brooding somewhere in Europe. I doubt he'll return anytime soon."
A beat.
Then Jane nodded.
They reached the clearing's edge, trees parting just enough to hint at the sky beyond—an unfinished goodbye.
Jane turned to Carlisle. "You've handled the funeral well. I had my doubts. I thought I might have to… exterminate."
"I'm glad we disappointed you," Carlisle said with gentle sarcasm.
That made her smile. Not a cruel one. A real one.
Then—suddenly, with no ceremony—she stepped in and hugged him. Her arms were cool and stiff, but sincere.
Carlisle froze.
Then melted, returning it like a father would. No question. Just warmth.
She whispered into his shoulder, "I'm relieved. That you're still here. That I don't have to… again."
"I know," he said. "And thank you."
Jane's eyes softened, a rare hint of ruby flickering in their depths.
"Expect more visits. Especially now that I've found my… Greek model."
As they parted, Jane looked back at Seth, who was now playfully nudging Emmett, trying to knock the phone from his hands. Emmett laughed, dodging the wolf's antics.
"I'll put in a good word," she said.
"Try to soften it," he replied.
A snort. "No promises."
Seth whined softly. Emmett slapped his phone shut with a grin and called out, "Alright, group hug's over. We gonna give the pup a proper skate tour or what?"
Jane rolled her eyes, but her hand settled firmly on Seth's head.
And for once, no one said anything cruel. Or clever. Or calculated.
They just stood there.
Maybe even belonged there.
With that, she turned, Seth falling into step beside her, the two disappearing into the forest's embrace.
The sky above Washington was always the same shade of forgetting.
Cloud-thick. Low. Damp.
Quill limped through the underbrush, each step a raw pulse in his leg. The memory of it still throbbed through bone and nerve.
The scent of coin metal and Volturi lingered in his lungs. He could still feel the vampire's fingers wrapped around his femur like a conductor holding a tuning fork.
Behind him, the forest shifted.
Bradley paced in wolf form—too long-legged for his size, chocolate-colored with oversized paws that thudded softly through the mulch.
A mismatched beast with a heartbeat too big for his chest.
Further back, barely making noise at all, was Samantha. She didn't call out. Didn't nudge. Just followed.
Watching.
He could feel her anger radiating from the trees like heat. She hadn't forgiven him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Quill breathing harsh, leg dragging in a rhythm that matched the quiet ache in the air.
The direction was familiar—toward Washington. Toward home, if it still was that.
Behind him, Samantha watched. Silent. Shadowed. Her claws flexed, but her face didn't move.
She didn't call out.
She didn't need to.
The bond—the old one, the pack-tethered one—was fraying between them like split thread. Not severed, not whole.
A mental fog where words used to echo. Where once there had been laughter, snaps, growls—now: static.
She could still feel him, just enough to hear the guilt.
Crackling. Broken glass over a speaker. Not quite severed, but no longer whole.
:Quill.:
The voice filtered in like wind through a cracked window.
Emilio.
Not close. Not watching. But thinking loudly enough that it slid through the fractured connection anyway.
:They want us dead anyway, don't they?: Emilio's voice was steady, maybe too steady.
:We're not the tribe anymore. We're the stains. The ones who slipped through.:
Quill's breath caught.
He stumbled over a root, caught himself.
Ahead, the path turned toward the highway.
And then—through the fractured pack-link—Emilio's voice shimmered through like heat off pavement.
Clearer than before.
Closer.
"He's not threatening us," Emilio said. "He's offering something. He can't promise safety. Just the chance to matter."
Another voice followed, colder. Calculated.
Dimitri.
"My king has many titles. Caius. A name ripped from scripture. A militant man. He nearly wiped out your second cousins. Called it a purge. You think you're safe in your woods? You're not. But with us… you might be powerful."
Bradley's lips curled.
"What kind of leash is that?"
"A longer one," Emilio answered. "And we get to choose where it fastens. We'd be the first modern shifters to define ourselves. Not as freaks. Not as local legend. As history."
There was silence, and then:
"I want more than hunting in the woods. I want my cooking funded by Dracula. I want to live. I want to be known. Even if it's in a golden cage—at least it's not a forgotten one."
Bradely closed his eyes, jaw tightening.
Quill clenched his jaw.
Behind him, Sam growled low, almost conversational.
:Dimitri said he can't promise us safety.: Emilio's voice pushed on, like wind through broken feathers.
:Only a seat. A chance to make something. To lead something. Not just fade into small-town background like a footnote with a heartbeat.:
Quill swallowed. The trees blurred.
:We'd be the first modern shifters in history: Emilio continued.
:To write our own chapter. Not Jacob's. Not Sam's. Ours.:
The Pack Link vibrated—shaky, thin.
:Imagine, Sam: Emilio added,
:your claws on marble. Your voice, heard in Italy. Not just in the dark corners of a reservation nobody maps correctly.:
A hush followed.
Then Samantha's voice—sharp as flint.
:You'd rather be caged in velvet than fight for what's ours?:
No reply.
Quill turned slightly, limping. His leg flared with memory.
Bradley glanced at him but didn't shift. Just kept walking. Loyal, in his own silent way.
Sam stepped forward, teeth bared, voice sharp enough to slice through marrow.
"So you'd rather be a pedophile than free?"
The words hung. Bitter. Searing.
Quill froze.
His throat worked. His voice came out cracked, like a pine branch in winter.
"I never touched her."
Samantha stared at him—like a storm that hadn't decided where to land yet.
"You imprinted," she said, venom low and close.
"I didn't choose it," Quill muttered. "I didn't ask for it. I hate it."
The woods breathed.
"I'd rather be broken," he said finally, "than bought."
And then—he turned. Limped forward.
Quill's face crumpled, and he limped on.
Didn't ask for forgiveness.
Didn't expect a reply.
Just moved.
Far behind them, the forest swallowed the path to Italy.