|c.7|

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur for Channary. Laughter echoed around the dining table, stories were shared, and the twins were doted on by Claire’s parents, who seemed genuinely enchanted by them. Yet, Channary couldn’t fully immerse herself. Her thoughts remained tethered to the eerie resemblance her daughters shared with the late Elena DuPont, the silver-haired twin who had captivated the family’s hearts even in death.

The connection didn’t end there—Channary herself felt it, an inexplicable pull that left her unsettled. She was drawn to the warmth and familiarity of the DuPont family, as though she belonged among them. It was a sensation she couldn’t shake, no matter how much she tried to distract herself with polite conversation or the twins’ innocent chatter.

By the time they arrived home, the girls were yawning and rubbing their eyes, their energy from the eventful evening finally spent. Channary moved on autopilot, guiding her daughters through their bedtime routine. She dressed them in their favorite pajamas, the ones with little moons and wolves printed on the fabric, and brushed their silver hair until it gleamed.

“Goodnight, my little moonbeams,” she whispered, kissing Elara’s forehead first, then Sienna’s.

“Goodnight, Mama,” they replied in unison, their voices drowsy but filled with love.

She lingered at the doorway for a moment, watching them as they drifted into sleep. A pang of guilt hit her chest. She’d always tried to shield them from the complexities of their world—being moon-kissed wasn’t easy, and neither was their status as exiles. Yet tonight had been a reminder that the past, no matter how much she tried to bury it, had a way of creeping back into her life.

Once she was alone in the quiet of her own room, the dam broke. Her mind raced, an endless loop of questions and theories swirling like a storm. The resemblance between her daughters and the late Elena was too precise to dismiss as mere coincidence. The pull she felt toward the DuPont family only deepened her unease.

What if my parents aren’t really my parents?

The thought struck her like a lightning bolt, leaving her breathless. She tried to shake it off, but it persisted, clawing its way to the forefront of her mind. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? She had seen the photos and videos of her birth. Her mother had always told the story of that night with vivid detail—how the Moon shone brighter than ever, how the pack celebrated her arrival as if the stars themselves had blessed them.

She pressed her palms against her temples. “No. That’s not it. It can’t be,” she whispered to herself.

But then... what was it? What tied her daughters so intimately to the DuPonts?

Her wolf stirred within her, restless and uneasy. Channary knew she wouldn’t find peace until she had some answers. Reaching for her phone, she hesitated only briefly before calling Keaton. The line barely rang before his familiar, slightly groggy voice answered.

“Chan? What’s wrong?” he asked, concern laced through the sleepiness in his tone.

“I need your help,” she began, her voice trembling slightly. “Something happened tonight at Claire’s parents’ house, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Slow down,” Keaton said gently. “What happened?”

She took a shaky breath and explained everything—the painting of the twins, the way Claire’s mother had reacted, the undeniable resemblance between her daughters and Elena DuPont.

By the time she finished, her words had tumbled out in a rush, leaving her breathless. “Keaton, have you ever heard of something like this happening before? With wolves like us?”

There was a heavy silence on the other end, save for the faint rustling of sheets as Keaton sat up.

“No,” he finally said. “I haven’t. Chan, this isn’t... normal. But then again, moon-kissed wolves are anything but normal.”

She huffed a soft, humorless laugh. “Tell me about it.”

He paused, his voice turning thoughtful. “Have you tried digging into our family history? Maybe the answer’s there.”

Channary frowned. “Family history? Like the old stories and records?”

“Exactly. If there’s a connection between you and the DuPonts, it might be buried in the past. Start there.”

Another voice, this one distinctly feminine, cut through the phone, murmuring something indistinct but unmistakably impatient.

“Keaton, come back to bed,” the woman whined softly.

Channary couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled up. “I see you’re busy. Should I let you go?”

There was an audible sigh from Keaton. “I’m not busy, just—”

“Keaton,” the woman interrupted, louder this time.

“Get back to bed,” Channary teased, unable to suppress the amusement in her voice.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, alright? Get some rest,” he said, ignoring the woman entirely. “And Chan... don’t overthink it. You’ll figure this out.”

“I’ll try,” she murmured, her smile fading as the weight of her thoughts pressed down on her again. “Goodnight, Keaton.”

“Night, Chan. Call if you need anything.”

The line went dead, leaving her alone once more. Channary stared at the phone, her fingers tightening around it. She knew Keaton would probably give the poor woman an earful for trying to stake a claim on him. But even the mild humor of the situation wasn’t enough to distract her from the nagging questions clawing at her mind.

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the Moon hung high in the night sky, its light casting a silvery glow across her room. It had always guided her, comforted her.

“Then guide me now,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the faint rustle of leaves outside.

But the Moon offered no answers, only silence.