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Ulrica POV

I watch as people are being picked up one by one by their loved ones, families, friends, or at least someone they know. I wait patiently at the bus stop for my parents to pick me up, but so far there has been no word from them. I flip my phone open and check for messages again, but there is no reply.

Just yesterday, my mom phoned, her voice bright with excitement that I would be returning home after my studies.

I informed her that my flight was delayed and that I would miss the bus. I slept over at a small motel near the bus stop and caught the first bus heading home the next morning. I waited almost an hour after arriving, then finally decided to go to the public bathroom.

I pull my luggage behind me, the small wheels creating a steady rhythm against the pavement. As I walk, I catch a few stares from people around me, but it doesn’t bother me, well, not anymore. The human world doesn’t make a big deal out of silver hair. I simply told them I dyed it that way, and now the people in this small town only glance once in my direction before returning to their phones or refocusing on whoever they are talking to.

I open the ladies’ bathroom door. It isn’t clean, but it isn’t completely filthy either. One toilet is missing a seat, and the other is clogged with toilet paper, and I assume it doesn’t flush anymore. I decide it’s useless to try the last stall; it likely isn’t in any better condition.

I move over to the basins, which look like they haven’t seen soap in a long time. I open the tap nonetheless and rinse my face with cold water, letting it ground me.

I stare at my reflection and frown. I might not be as beautiful as a model, but I have features that don’t need to stand back for any other woman. I’ve learned that much, at least.

I have a calm, strikingly elegant face, marked by softly symmetrical features and a quiet intensity. My eyes are large and almond-shaped, luminous cool grey rather than blue, giving my gaze a misty, steel-toned depth. They appear observant and composed, as though I notice far more than I reveal.

My brows are smoothly arched and well defined, framing my eyes with subtle strength instead of harshness. My skin is porcelain-fair, carrying a soft, even glow that feels almost ethereal, lending me an otherworldly presence. My nose is straight and delicate, harmonizing naturally with the rest of my features. My lips are full yet refined, softly rose-toned, resting in a neutral expression that suggests restraint, control, and quiet confidence.

My hair falls long and flowing, silver and luminous, silky as moonlight as it frames my face and enhances the cool palette of my appearance.

Overall, my face conveys serene strength, not loud or aggressive, but composed, self-possessed, and quietly powerful. My grey eyes, in particular, give me an air of wisdom and emotional depth, as if I have endured much and emerged unbroken.

I never got along with anyone in the pack. I was tolerated, not wanted. So, when Alpha Max allowed me to study abroad, I took the opportunity without hesitation and never looked back. Still, here I am. Coming back was one of the conditions tied to the arrangement I made after my acceptance.

I did not choose nursing because it was easy. I chose it because it demanded everything from me.

Even with a high IQ and a doctorate already behind my name, the path could not be shortened the way people assumed. Nursing does not allow shortcuts, not where it matters. Intelligence helps with theory, yes, but skill is earned with hours, exhaustion, and human lives placed carefully in your hands.

My studies stretched over years. An accelerated nursing degree first, then advanced specialization, then doctoral-level clinical training. Between lectures and research were endless clinical hours, long shifts, aching feet, and the quiet weight of responsibility that no book can teach. In total, it took me six years to reach the highest clinical level, and every one of them changed me.

University itself was a world I had never belonged to before.

At the beginning, I felt like an outsider. Everyone else seemed louder, more certain, more entitled to be there. I kept my head down, spoke when spoken to, and told myself I was only passing through.

But I wasn’t.

Somewhere between shared study sessions and late-night coffees, I made friends. Real ones. People who saw me not as fragile or strange, but simply as Ulrica. They laughed with me, trusted me, relied on me. For the first time, I was not surviving alone.

Going to university was more than education, it was a revelation. I learned that I could endure pressure, master complex skills, and still remain gentle. I learned that I belonged in places I once believed were closed to me. Each exam passed, each patient helped, strengthened something inside me that had once been fragile.

I arrived at university unsure of my worth.

I left knowing it.

I did not become loud or arrogant. I became steady. Certain. I learned that strength does not announce itself, it shows up every day, does the work, and refuses to disappear.

I look down at my luggage. I pick the suitcase up, open it, and take the valuables out, pushing them carefully into my backpack. I add a few clothes I might need, though there isn’t much. I only packed what I thought was necessary.

I smile when I think about my friend, the one who once told me I live like a gypsy, always with minimal baggage. It was her who gave me the suitcase to pack my clothes in. I had told her everything would fit into the backpack, but she refused to hear any of it. Now I’m about to dump the suitcase anyway, with only a few clothing pieces left inside, and nothing I would wear regardless, certainly nothing too revealing.

I drop the suitcase into a donation bag beside the bus ticket station, then turn and make my way toward the Silvermoon Pack border. I know it shouldn’t be an issue to get in, at least, I hope not. Border patrol will recognize me. They always used to. I find myself hoping Clark is on duty, the one friend who made an effort to get to know me since childhood, even when others didn’t.

I smile when I think about him, the blond with his blue eyes. When we hit high school, he was already way taller than me, and he became my protector, staying at my side right up until I left, two years before him. I skipped two grades, but that never bothered him at all. He treated me the same as always, as if nothing about me needed explaining or defending.

I walk toward the border while thinking about my hi, the one I haven’t seen since I left. We talk a lot, or at least, we usually do, but strangely enough, he didn’t answer my text this time.

I take my phone out again and send another message.

Mom did not show up. I am walking home. See you at the border.

I put my phone back, already aware that I’m frowning. Something feels off. The air feels colder against my skin, especially with only my shorts, sneakers, and tank top. I pull the hoodie from around my waist and slip it on, tugging it closer around myself, and pull it over my head.

When I reach the tree line, the area feels familiar, just like it always has. The land recognizes me, even if I’m not sure the people will. I know exactly which direction I’m walking. The path is easy, worn into memory, and my feet follow it without hesitation.

Time passes without me noticing it at all. My thoughts drift, my steps steady, until the exact moment I reach the border line. I feel it before I see anything, an invisible pressure settling against my skin. I smell it. I sense it. The land shifts beneath my awareness, familiar yet wrong, as if it is holding its breath.

There are no guards. No movement. I don’t hear the usual crackle of walkie-talkies or the murmur of patrol voices. The silence presses in on me, thick and unnatural. I open my mind link and call out, sending my presence forward, expecting acknowledgment.

There is no reply.

A cold knot forms in my chest. I try again, this time reaching for Alpha Max, pushing my call farther, stronger. Still nothing. The emptiness that answers me makes my pulse quicken.

Concern sharpens into fear, and I start walking faster, my steps lengthening as I head toward my parents’ house on the outskirts of town. My legs move with purpose now, driven by instinct rather than thought.

They carry me in only one direction.

As I reach the tree line, the scent hits me, metallic, heavy, unmistakable. Blood. So much of it that it has soaked into the ground, staining the earth. My stomach drops. This wasn’t an accident.

It was an attack.

I break into a run, rushing toward our house as soon as it comes into view. Flames are already licking up its sides, blazing bright and violent against the darkening sky. Smoke curls into the air, thick and choking.

I run as fast as I can. The backpack slips from my shoulders and falls behind me, forgotten. Whatever I put in there can be replaced. Nothing inside it matters anymore.

I reach my home in terror, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My eyes find my father first, his body lying still, lifeless, impossibly quiet. My mother is bent over him, her hands shaking as she clutches him, crying out for him to wake up, her voice breaking with every desperate plea.

The world narrows to that single, unbearable moment.

And everything I thought I was coming home to is already gone.

I run over to her and drop to my knees beside my father, forcing myself to study his body even though every instinct screams at me not to look. I check him carefully, methodically, clinging to habit and training when my heart threatens to shatter. The truth is there, undeniable.

I lift my gaze to my mother. She already knows the outcome, she has known since the moment she touched him, but she watches me anyway, waiting, hoping I will deny it. That I will say she’s wrong. I can’t. I only shake my head.

Tears finally spill free, heavy with grief. My mother cries harder, a raw, broken sound tearing from her chest as she collapses over my father’s body. He was her true mate. The other half of her soul. She will not be able to survive without him. Her life ended the moment his last breath left his body.

I move closer, lying over my mother, wrapping myself around her as we cry together, our grief tangled and suffocating. The world fades, narrowing to loss and pain, to the sound of her sobs and my own heart breaking in time with them.

I don’t notice when the air shifts. I don’t hear the footsteps at first.

My mother lifts herself, and me with her, in a single, instinctive motion. In an instant, she is standing between me and the strangers moving toward us. She throws her arms out wide, placing herself directly in their path, trying to shield me with her body. She makes herself bigger, more threatening, every inch of her screaming defiance.

I hear her bones cracking as she prepares to shift, the sound sharp and sickening, driven by desperation rather than strength. She is already broken with grief, but she will still fight. For me.

The men coming toward us are bigger. Stronger. They move with brutal confidence, unnaturally fast. Before I can even scream, one of them reaches her. His hand clamps around her head, and with a single, effortless motion, he twists.

There is a sharp snap.

The sound echoes in my ears, louder than the fire, louder than my own heartbeat. Just like that, her body goes limp and collapses to the ground at my feet.

She doesn’t move again.

The two men stand there, looking down at her, smiling.

And in that moment, something inside me shatters completely, quietly, irrevocably, as I realize I am alone.