Chapter 3

Elara Thorne POV:

Cole's question was a punch to the gut. "Who... are you?"

My heart clenched. I knelt down, trying to meet his gaze, but he flinched away. "I'm your mother, Cole," I said softly, my voice aching with a pain deeper than any physical blow. "I will always be your mother."

He took another step back, pulling Faye behind him. His small face was a mask of suspicion. "My mother... she doesn't use black whips on people."

Before I could answer, a tiny gurgle broke the tense silence. Faye's stomach. Hunger, a more immediate and honest need than fear.

The worn blanket serving as our door was pushed aside. Moira Blackwood, my mate's mother and the pack's former Luna, stepped inside. Her sharp blue eyes took in the broken doorframe and the fear on her grandchildren's faces. She ignored me completely.

"Here," she said, her voice clipped, handing Cole and Faye a piece of stale bread. "Eat. Don't expect anything from her."

Her gaze finally fell on me, cold and sharp as ice. "Jax was here. What trouble did you cause this time? Did you renege on your deal, and he came to collect his due?"

In her eyes, I was and always would be a disgrace who consorted with rogues. The old me would have dissolved into tears, babbling denials. The new me simply met her gaze.

"I sent him away," I said, my voice calm. "He will not come near my children again."

Moira let out a disbelieving scoff. The fear in the children's eyes only confirmed her assumptions about me.

I knew words were useless. "Wait here," I told my children, my tone gentle but firm. "Mama is going to make you a real breakfast."

I went to a corner of the hovel, closed my eyes, and entered the Sacred Hunting Ground. My intent was clear: I needed something gentle, nourishing, something that radiated life, not violence.

My consciousness drifted over a moon-drenched meadow. I saw them. A small herd of creatures like rabbits, but their fur glowed with a soft, internal light. Moon-rabbits.

I chose the plumpest one, focusing my will. When I opened my eyes, a rabbit-like creature, warm and pulsing with a faint light, lay in my hands. It smelled of sweet milk and fresh grass.

Moira gasped, her eyes wide with shock and suspicion. "What is that? What dark magic did you use to conjure such a thing?"

I didn't answer. I moved to our small fire pit, my hands moving with an instinct I didn't know I possessed. It was as if the Luna blood in my veins knew exactly how to prepare this blessed food. With my last few embers and a dented pot, I began to stew the meat.

Soon, an incredible aroma filled our small home. It was a warm, rich scent, one that seemed to soothe the soul and promise comfort.

Faye's little nose twitched, and she swallowed audibly. Cole's rigid, defensive posture relaxed slightly. Even Moira's harsh expression softened with a flicker of something I couldn't name. Their inner wolves, starved for so long, were captivated.

When the stew was ready, I ladled the first bowl. I didn't taste it myself, nor did I offer it to anyone. I walked to the small, crude stone shelf in the corner-our altar to the Moon Goddess. I placed the bowl there.

"Thank you for your gift," I murmured, my head bowed.

The simple act of reverence seemed to chip away at the wall of Moira's suspicion. Just a little. She watched me, her expression unreadable.

Then she looked at the steaming pot, and back at her hungry grandchildren. Her eyes narrowed, her face hardening once more into a mask of maternal defiance.

She pointed a stern finger at me. "Before my grandchildren touch a drop of that, you will eat it. In front of me."