Chapter 5 Veil, Not Leash

Maia

Moving house is an exercise in exile disguised as tidying up. I exchanged the cramped apartment for rooms that smelled of new varnish and intention. My belongings, the little that mattered, fit into two suitcases; the rest - faded photos, childhood shoelaces - stayed in the hospital locker, under the promise that one day I would return there calmly. On that first night, the room they gave me had large windows overlooking the woods; the moon leaked silver through the cracks, and the silence came with security and surveillance included.

The pack-house had unwritten rules: the one in charge speaks little, and the one who speaks too much learns to be quiet. The dominant females greeted me with smiles that didn't reach their eyes. There was a routine that immediately sounded theatrical to me - staged dinners, circular conversations, and glances that measured territory. In the corridor, one of them - Juliana - tilted her head as if inspecting a poorly executed project.

"We expected someone more... pliable," she said, her voice unctuous. "But you have courage in your speech, Maia. Courage and... a virus."

I smiled because I learned that, in their mouths, "courage" was a compliment if it wore silk, and "virus" was a disguised threat. I responded with what I had: firmness.

"I didn't come to please. I came to keep my family whole."

The silence that followed was a calculation. I observed the reactions of the others - teeth clenched beneath restrained laughter - and traced for myself the first rules of breathing space. If I wanted to survive intact alongside them, I needed to define my emotional and physical space. I created small barriers that could pass as habits: the rooftop at the end of the day, where the wind wouldn't allow voices to intrude; a small herb garden by the window where I planted basil and lemon balm; minimal rituals of mental hygiene - five minutes of breathing before sleep, writing down three things that kept me human. Small things, like bandages placed on one's own soul.

Rafael observed everything with the patience of one who masters maps. He didn't openly interfere with my gestures; his vigilance was another form of intimidation - silent, almost ancestral. In public, he was courteous. In private, he kept the boundaries between us as clear as the lines of an agreement. I insisted on maintaining my hospital routine, and he made sure to keep his promise: shifts continued, schedules were respected, provided I maintained communication when security operations were involved.

Coexistence demanded diplomacy with the house's internal voices. The females who reigned in the halls looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and distrust. They weren't openly cruel; they preferred subtle strategies - cutting invitations, poisonous comments about the past, glances that left invisible marks. I felt the weight of each one. I survived the first weeks with the same coldness used to close a wound: carefully, without sentimentality.

And it was in the midst of this discipline that he appeared: a young wolf with a lost air, disheveled dark hair, eyes that carried too many questions for his age. The encounter was casual, in the pack-house kitchen, where I was trying to learn the limits between the dishware and the etiquette of the place. He dropped a tray. The plates clinked as if the floor echoed a warning.

"Sorry," he murmured, and there was a humility in his words that sounded like contraband. "I still don't quite know where I fit in here."

Something in the way he spoke touched me with a raw honesty. I could, by function and by custom, deliver an ultimatum; I chose to offer a smile, recognizing that there was a confession of displacement inside that man - because he was no longer a boy. There was also risk: young wolf means fresh blood and impulsive decisions; it also means possible recruitment by rivals who know how to exploit impulses.

"Me too," I admitted softly. "But I learned to plant where I can."

He smiled, and for an instant the kitchen became a less hostile place. Watching him was watching a possibility: the heart that opens with caution. It wasn't easy attraction, it was identification - the strange feeling of having someone there who returned parts of myself that I had tried to hide. I was surprised to feel light next to him, to discover that near that wolf I could be, for stolen minutes, myself.

Gradually, other signs appeared. Messages exchanged in corridors, glances that lingered longer than convenient, questions that were too innocent. I saw in him a desire to belong, and a vector that could be manipulated by anyone who wanted to undermine our house from within. I also realized that my sense of self in his presence - calm, almost maternal - was a weakness I could not expose in public. The young wolf reminded me that there was life beyond the contract, and that was both tempting and dangerous.

The triangle began to form so subtly that only I, between my routines and my shifts, identified it: Rafael, with his posture of command and strategic possessiveness; the young wolf, with his inconvenient truth; and I, between both, trying to weave an identity that would not bend to power or desire. There was tension, yes - not only of body, but of principles. Where Rafael demanded tactical obedience, the young one offered uncertain freedom. I heard the voice of my past - the voice of one who survived pressure and refused to fold - whispering that love and loyalty could be distinct things.

One night, while I was watering the herb garden on the rooftop under the light rain, I felt footsteps approach. Rafael appeared, his usual shadow. He stood beside me, without touching.

"The rooftop is your refuge," he said. "I see you didn't bow to the hall parties."

"Some need a party," I replied. "And some need wings."

He took a deep breath, his sound visible in the steam of the night air. "Be careful who you let land here. Not every bird intends to stay."

"Not every man wants to domesticate," I countered. "Some just want company on the journey."

He looked at me as if I had committed an audacity. The irritation on his face was a visible thing, as if I had touched a delicate instrument of which he was the maestro. I didn't look away. I wasn't going to bow out of a desire to impose. And that made him restless.

The week I thought I could breathe with less pressure was the week the Council brought down the hammer: they demanded to move up the Mark. They argued political urgency, security, and image unity. The order sounded like distant thunder approaching. The Mark sooner than expected meant accelerating rites, confronting fear, and publicly deciding something I wanted to keep private until the terms were refined.

I felt my body stiffen. The Mark was more than an insult or symbolism; it was a decision about my skin, my name, and my freedom. The pressure from the Council, Rafael's interest, and the presence of the young wolf created a knot that pulled me in opposite directions. I took a deep breath, remembering the rules I had established: planting, going up to the rooftop, rituals. I needed to adhere to my own code before they reduced me to a piece on a board.

In the cold of that night, between the scent of basil and the distant sound of the hall, I realized I could no longer pretend that everything was just a contract. It was a battle for intimate territory. And I was not willing to be marked without choice.

The decision was coming. The Council was bringing down the hammer. I would have to answer - not just with words, but with the entire presence of my will.