|c.5|

The sound of tiny feet racing across hardwood floors echoed through the modest house Channary had worked so hard to make a home. The twins, Sienna and Elara, were bundles of boundless energy, their laughter ringing out like chimes. Channary, now twenty-five, stood at the kitchen counter, rinsing paint brushes she had used to restore a faded piece of art she had picked up from the local flea market. Her long hair was pulled into a messy bun, strands sticking to her neck as the late afternoon sun streamed through the curtains, bathing the room in a golden glow.

“Mama!” Sienna cried, bursting into the kitchen. Her dark curls bounced as she waved a drawing in her hand. “Look! I made a wolf!”

Channary dried her hands on a towel and leaned down to examine her daughter’s work. The crude crayon drawing did indeed resemble a wolf, though its proportions were cartoonish. “That’s amazing, baby,” she said, ruffling Sienna’s hair. “You’ve got real talent.”

Sienna beamed, but her twin, Elara, peeked around the corner with her lips pursed. “Mine’s better,” she announced, stepping forward to show her own drawing—a wolf surrounded by a glowing moon.

Channary froze for a moment, her heart skipping a beat. The Blood Moon. The memories were hazy but powerful enough to twist something deep inside her. She forced a smile, hiding the unease that threatened to creep into her voice. “Yours is beautiful too, Ellie,” she said softly, pulling both girls into a hug.

Her daughters had inherited their father’s sharp, angular features, the slight tilt of his eyes, and the dark lashes that framed them. Sometimes, looking at them felt like reopening an old wound—one that hadn’t properly healed.

When Channary had first learned she was pregnant, the shock had almost knocked her off her feet. Keaton had been her rock, just as he’d promised. He’d driven her to doctor’s appointments, helped her find maternity clothes, and even held her hand during the delivery.

The twins had been a surprise—twins didn’t run in either side of her family. Keaton had laughed when he saw them for the first time, his deep voice rumbling as he cradled both girls in his large hands. “Well, Chan,” he’d said, “you’ve got your hands full now.”

Despite the struggles, Channary had fallen in love with her daughters the moment she held them. They were her light, her redemption. But there were nights when she would watch them sleep and feel a pang of resentment she couldn’t entirely suppress. The shape of their eyes, the curve of their cheeks—features that didn’t belong to her but to him, the man whose name she still didn’t know, the man who had marked her and disappeared.

The preschool where Sienna and Elara now attended was a well-kept brick building nestled in a small, picturesque neighborhood. The playground was always buzzing with laughter and chatter, the vibrant colors of swings and slides popping against the backdrop of lush green trees.

Ms. DuPont, their teacher, was in her late twenties, with long chestnut hair that framed her heart-shaped face. Her kind hazel eyes always seemed to light up when she saw the twins, though she couldn’t explain the magnetic pull she felt toward them.

“Ms. DuPont!” Sienna called, running toward her with open arms. Elara followed close behind, clutching a leaf she had found outside.

The teacher knelt, scooping both girls into her arms. “Good morning, my stars,” she said with a smile. She always called them that. “Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yes!” they chorused, their voices bright and cheerful.

As Ms. DuPont helped them settle into the classroom, her gaze drifted to the door where Channary stood. Channary wore a simple blouse and jeans, her posture relaxed but her eyes guarded. She exchanged a polite smile with Ms. DuPont before walking the girls to their cubbies.

“Thank you, Ms. DuPont,” Channary said softly, her tone pleasant but distant.

“You’re welcome,” the teacher replied, studying her. There was something familiar about Channary, though Ms. DuPont couldn’t quite place it.

The gossip among the preschool staff had become a constant hum, whispers that floated through the break room and hallways.

“Do you think Alpha Keaton is the father?” one of the younger teachers whispered, her voice tinged with envy.

“He must be,” another said. “Look at how he dotes on them. And their mom! She’s gorgeous. Of course, he’d go for someone like her.”

Ms. DuPont overheard the murmurs but remained silent. The idea of Alpha Keaton being the twins’ father didn’t sit right with her. It didn’t make sense. She had seen the way the girls looked at him—more like an uncle than a parent.

Still, the twins felt… significant. Every time she was near them, a strange warmth blossomed in her chest, an instinctive pull she couldn’t ignore.

Ms. DuPont sat at her desk after hours, her hands folded tightly as she stared at the twins’ artwork. Both pictures depicted wolves under a moon, but Elara’s drawing had an eerie familiarity to it.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered to herself, tracing her finger over the crayon lines.

She had never met the girls’ mother before they enrolled, and she certainly didn’t know their father. But that feeling—the tug deep in her chest, the unspoken connection—had been there from the moment she laid eyes on them.

Ms. DuPont leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling as doubt and curiosity warred within her. “Who are you?” she murmured, her thoughts swirling.

*

Channary’s evening was a whirlwind of activity. After picking the girls up from preschool, she prepared dinner while they played in the living room. Their laughter filled the house, but Channary’s mind was elsewhere.

“Keaton,” she muttered into the phone as she stirred a pot of soup. “The teachers at the preschool are acting weird. I think they’re gossiping about us again.”

“Let them talk,” Keaton replied, his voice calm. “You know how people are. Small town, big mouths.”

“I know, but… it’s starting to feel like more than that. Ms. DuPont—she’s their teacher—she’s been giving me these weird looks. Like she knows something.”

“She doesn’t,” Keaton assured her. “And even if she does, you’re protected. No one’s going to touch you or the girls while I’m around.”

Channary sighed, her grip on the spoon tightening. “I just… I want to move on, Keaton. I want the past to stay in the past.”

“And it will,” he said firmly. “You’ve built a good life here, Chan. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

Channary tucked the girls into bed, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. The scent of lavender and chamomile from their lotion clung to their small forms, comforting and familiar. “Goodnight, my loves,” she whispered, smoothing their blankets.

Elara rolled over, clutching her favorite stuffed wolf, while Sienna yawned and nuzzled into her pillow. “Night, Mama,” Sienna murmured sleepily, her voice soft as a feather.

Channary stood there for a moment longer, watching their even breathing, their little chests rising and falling in rhythm. They looked so peaceful, so innocent. The sharp contrast to her own churning thoughts made her chest ache.

As she closed the door softly behind her, she leaned against the wall, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on her shoulders—not just from the day, but from something deeper. Something she couldn’t quite name.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the silence. Channary walked over, picking it up to see Keaton’s name flashing on the screen. The text read:

“Everything okay?”

She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. What could she say? That everything felt like it was slipping out of her control? That there was this nagging feeling in the back of her mind she couldn’t shake? Finally, she typed back:

“I hope so.”

The response felt hollow, even to her. She set the phone down and rubbed her temples, her thoughts swirling.

The uneasy feeling had been growing for weeks now—like a distant hum just beyond her hearing. At first, she’d written it off as stress. After all, balancing a full-time internship, raising two energetic toddlers, and managing her complicated relationship with Keaton was enough to wear anyone down. But this was something else.

It wasn’t just her, either. The girls had been… different lately. Their sudden attachment to Ms. DuPont had caught her off guard. They’d had teachers before, but none who made them cling to her skirts at drop-off or gush about how amazing she was during dinner.

And then there was her.

Channary frowned, pushing herself off the wall and pacing the small living room. She couldn’t deny the strange pull she’d felt toward the teacher as well—a subtle, almost magnetic sensation. It wasn’t attraction, and it wasn’t entirely friendly either. It was just there, like a thread connecting them that she didn’t know how to unravel.

But she knew Ms. DuPont wasn’t Moon-Kissed. Channary would have recognized the signs. There were no silver eyes, no silver-streaked hair catching the light in an otherworldly way. No aura that made people instinctively bow their heads or step back in awe. No, Ms. DuPont carried none of the markers Channary had grown up with, none of the traits that had made her feel like an outsider, even among her own kind.

So why did it feel like their lives were intersecting in a way that wasn’t coincidental?

She sank onto the couch, the soft cushions doing little to ease her tension.

“What are you?” she murmured aloud, the question directed at no one in particular.

The phone buzzed again, pulling her from her thoughts. Another message from Keaton:

“Chan, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

She sighed, staring at the screen before finally calling him. He picked up on the second ring, his deep, steady voice filling the line. “What’s going on, Channary?”

She hesitated, unsure where to begin. “It’s… it’s the girls’ teacher,” she said finally, her voice low.

“What about her?” Keaton asked, his tone sharpening.

“I don’t know,” Channary admitted, dragging a hand through her hair. “It’s hard to explain. The girls are obsessed with her. They won’t stop talking about her, and they act like she’s the best thing in the world. And then there’s me…”

“What about you?”

Channary’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I feel it too, Keaton. This… pull. Like she’s someone I’m supposed to know, but I don’t. It’s like my wolf recognizes her, but my mind can’t catch up.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Channary could practically hear Keaton thinking. “You’re Moon-Kissed,” he said carefully, as though testing the words. “If she were too, you’d feel it stronger. This sounds different.”

“That’s the thing,” Channary said, her frustration bubbling up. “She’s not Moon-Kissed. I would know. There’s none of the signs, none of the…” She trailed off, searching for the right word. “She doesn’t shine like we do. But there’s still something.”

Keaton’s sigh crackled through the phone. “You think she’s a threat?”

Channary bit her lip. “I don’t know. But it feels like something is… off. What if she’s connected to all of this somehow? To me, to the girls? What if this is another mess waiting to happen?”

“Then we’ll handle it,” Keaton said firmly. “Just like we always do.”

His confidence was comforting, but it didn’t erase the knot of unease in her stomach. “I don’t want them to get hurt,” she said softly. “They’ve been through enough already.”

“They won’t,” Keaton promised. “Not while I’m here.”

After they hung up, Channary sat in the quiet living room, her thoughts circling back to Ms. DuPont. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the couch as a memory surfaced—one she hadn’t thought of in years.

The Blood Moon.

She remembered the way the light had painted the forest in hues of red, the way her wolf had felt alive in a way it never had before. And then, after everything fell apart, the moon’s glow had felt like a curse instead of a blessing.

Was this somehow connected to that night? Or was she just letting old wounds cloud her judgment?

She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, a whisper of resolve settling in her chest. She didn’t have answers yet, but she’d find them. For her daughters, for herself.

Because the past always had a way of catching up to her, and Channary had learned the hard way that running never worked.