Prologue - Morgan
In the beginning, there was loss.
MORGAN - AGE 13
The house smells wrong.
It’s been forty days and sixteen hours since Mama’s funeral. The scent that used to wrap around our home like a warm blanket, that perfect blend of black tea, caramel, orange and cedar has faded to nothing. Now there’s only the stale air of a house where people exist, but don’t live anymore.
I press my nose against the window in the kitchen, watching the neighbor girls play with ribbons in their yard. Their laughter sounds like it’s coming from another world, one I used to belong to but have forgotten how to reach. Mrs. Thera waves at me from her garden, her smile sad and pitying. I duck away from the window.
Everyone looks at me like that now. Sad eyes, pitying eyes, understanding eyes.
The kitchen door creaks, and Papa Kieran, my Beta father, shuffles in wearing the same wrinkled tunic he’d had on for four days. His dark hair sticks up at odd angles, and there’s a tea stain on his chest that’s definitely older than today.
He used to make me honeycakes shaped like animals every Sunday. Today is Sunday.
“Morning, Morgy,” he mumbles, not really looking at me as he reaches for the teapot with shaking hands.
“It’s three in the afternoon, Papa.”
He pauses, staring at the cold hearth like it might tell him what time it actually is. “Right. Afternoon.”
I made bread with honey, the only thing I can manage without lighting the cookfire, and eat it standing up, watching him pour tea into a dirty cup with yesterday’s dregs coating the bottom. He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.
Dad Lucian, my Omega father, the one who used to sing while he tended to his garden and always smelled like oranges and syrup, hasn’t come downstairs in days. I can hear him sometimes, moving around in his nest, but mostly it’s just silence from up there. It feels heavy and wrong.
And Father Darius, who used to help with homework and make sure I brushed my teeth, now leaves for work before I wake up and comes home long after I’ve gone to bed. When I do catch glimpses of him, he looks like a stranger wearing my father’s face. He and Mama were the only Alphas in our family.
None of them know what to do with me anymore. I think they look at me and see her. Mama’s gray eyes. Mama’s black hair. Mama’s chin. But I’m not her. I’m me, and I’m not enough to pull them back from wherever they’ve gone.
I finish my bread and rinse some of the plates because someone has to. The washbasin is full of dishes that have been soaking for days, and the waste bucket is overflowing again. I pick it up and carry it to the compost heap behind the house.
Mrs. Thera appears at her fence like she’s been waiting for me. “Morgan, honey, how are you holding up?”
I shrug, because what am I supposed to say? That I wake up every morning hoping this is all a nightmare, only to remember all over again that she’s gone? That my fathers have become ghosts haunting their own house?
“Fine,” I lie, the word tasting bitter in my mouth.
She frowns, her eyes soft. “You know, if you ever need… a hot meal, someone to talk to, anything, just come right over, all right?”
I nod and escape back inside before she can say anything else. Before she can remind me, with her kind eyes and gentle voice, that I’m completely alone.
The house feels bigger without Mama’s presence, like the walls have stretched out and all the furniture has moved farther apart. I wander from room to room, looking for something I can’t name. In the living room, her favorite blanket is still draped over the back of her reading chair. It still smells like her, a little. In the hallway, her portraits hang on the walls. In one of them, Mama is wearing her uniform, standing proud and strong next to her unit. She’s smiling and her eyes are fierce. Alpha eyes. Leader eyes. She looks invincible.
If only.
I climb the stairs, my feet easily finding all the spots that don’t creak from years of sneaking down for midnight snacks. Dad’s door is shut, but I can hear him moving around in there. Sometimes I sit outside and listen, imagining he’s getting better, that tomorrow he’ll come downstairs and tell me all about which flowers are in bloom.
But tomorrow never comes.
In my room, I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. There’s a water stain in the corner shaped like a dragon, and I used to make up stories about it with Mama. She’d tuck me in and we’d talk about where the dragon came from and what adventures it was planning. Now it looks like a stain.
I pull out my journal, the one she gave me for my birthday last year, and try to write something. Anything. But the pages stay blank, because I don’t know how to put this feeling into words. How do you describe the weight of being thirteen and watching your whole world crumble while you’re powerless to stop it?
The front door slams downstairs, probably Father coming home from work. I wait for him to call my name, to ask about my day, to remember that I exist. But there’s just the sound of his footsteps heading straight to his study, and then the soft click of a door closing.
I throw my journal to the floor and pull my pillow over my face, breathing in my growing scent. Jasmine and something that is too faint to recognize yet, but that smells nothing like Mama’s comforting cedar and rain. Everything smells wrong now. Everything feels wrong.
And I’m starting to think it always will.
MORGAN - AGE 15
“So his name is Leon, and he’s in my Advanced Literature class, and you should see how his eyes light up when he talks about poetry.” I’m bouncing on my toes in the kitchen, hands gesturing wildly as I tell Papa about the boy who’s been occupying all my thoughts lately. “He’s got this way of seeing things, you know? Yesterday, we were discussing Arthur, and he said something about innocence and experience that was just—”
“Mm-hmm,” Papa murmurs, not looking up from the letter spread in front of him. It’s a missive from the village council, and he’s been staring at it for twenty minutes without actually reading.
“And then,” I continue, because I’m nothing if not persistent, “he offered to walk me to my next class, and I swear I nearly tripped over my own feet because—”
“That’s nice, sweetheart,” he says in a way that makes it clear he’s not listening. Not really. Well, I could tell him I’d decided to run away and join a traveling troupe, and he’d probably give me the same response.
“He asked me to the Spring Festival,” I press on, watching his face for any flicker of the man who used to exist. The one who would have demanded to meet any boy interested in his daughter. The one who would have given me the talk about boys and boundaries and how I deserve to be treated like a princess.
“Hmm.”
Something twists in my chest, sharp and familiar. It’s been two years since Mama died, and most days I think my fathers died with her. What’s left are these hollow versions, going through the motions of living without any of the substance.
I try a different approach. “I’ll need a dress. Something green, maybe, to match his eyes.”
This gets a slight nod, but his eyes remain fixed on the words on the parchment. I know what it says. The council has been droning on and on for weeks about a new well they want to build. I represented our family at the last village meeting. And if Papa turned the letter around, he’d see it’s addressed to me.
“Or maybe red. Something that screams ‘look at me, I’m fifteen and desperate for attention because my own fathers barely remember I exist.’”
“Sounds good, Morgy.”
The nickname hits differently now. It used to be wrapped in affection, but coming from this ghost, it just sounds like he’s reading lines from a book.
I lean against the counter, studying him. When did his shoulders get so narrow? When did those lines etch themselves so deep around his eyes? He looks older than his forty-five years, worn down by a grief that’s carved chunks out of all of them.
“I was thinking maybe you could meet him,” I try again, injecting hope into my voice even though I know better. “He could come for dinner this weekend. I could make that stew you used to like.”
Used to like. Everything is past tense now.
“If you want,” he says, putting the letter down and reaching for another one.
I want to scream. I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until my real father falls out. I want to demand that he look at me, really look at me, and see that his daughter is standing right here. I’m growing up without him, navigating first boyfriends and formal dances and all the terrifying, wonderful mess of being fifteen… and guideless.
Instead, I pour myself a cup of water and try one more time.
“Leon writes poetry,” I say, settling into the chair across from him. “He wrote one about autumn leaves that made me think of Mama. About how beautiful things can be even when they’re gone.”
Papa’s hand stills on the letter for a moment, and for a heartbeat I think I’ve reached him. But then he’s back to his methodical reading, and the moment passes like it never happened.
“That’s nice.”
Upstairs, I can hear Dad moving around in his room. He’s been a little better lately. He comes down for meals sometimes, mumbling responses when directly addressed, but he’s still more shadow than body. Still more memory than man.
And Father continues to come home only to sleep and leave again before dawn. I think he’s afraid that if he stops moving, the grief will catch up and drag him under completely. Who knows, maybe he’s right.
I grab my leather satchel and head toward the door. “I’m going to study at the library with some friends,” I announce to the kitchen at large. Hopefully the walls will listen to me.
“Be careful,” Papa says, still not looking up.
“I will. Love you.”
Outside, the spring air is crisp and full of possibility. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming, life is happening all around our little tomb of a house. I breathe it in deep, trying to fill the empty spaces inside me with something other than disappointment.
Leon is waiting for me at the corner, leaning against the signpost with a crooked smile that makes my stomach flip. When he sees me, his whole face lights up, and for a moment I remember what it feels like to be seen.
“Ready for our poetry adventure?” he asks, falling into step beside me.
I nod, pushing thoughts of my ghost fathers away. Maybe they can’t see me anymore, but Leon does. And for now, that’s enough.
MORGAN - AGE 17
I slam through the front door with more force than necessary, the letter crumpled in my sweaty fist. The sound echoes through the house like a thunderclap. And for the first time in years, I hear actual movement coming downstairs.
Good. It’s about time they paid attention.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I stride into the sitting room. Papa is in his usual spot on the couch, staring at the fire. But something’s different—his head turns toward me when I enter, like he’s remembered I exist.
“What’s all the noise about?” Dad’s voice drifts down from the stairs, and I look up to see him for the first time in weeks. He’s wearing real clothes instead of the threadbare night robe that’s become his second skin. His hair looks like it might have been brushed recently, though I can’t be sure.
Father appears from his study, irritated that something has disturbed his precious work. All three of them are looking at me, and I realize this is the first time I’ve held their complete attention since we buried her.
“I got in,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. I smooth out the letter and hold it up like a weapon. “Military Academy. Full scholarship.”
The silence stretches like a chasm. I watch as the words hit their mark and comprehension dawn in their eyes. The emotions that surface are wild and desperate. And none of them are pride.
“No.” The word comes from Father. He steps forward, his face harder than I’ve ever seen it. “Absolutely not.”
Papa rises from the couch like a man surfacing from deep water, hollow eyes wide with panic. “You can’t be serious. Morgan, you can’t—”
“The hells I can’t.” The words rip from my throat, fierce and final. “I’m seventeen. I can make my own choices.”
“Not this choice.” Dad’s voice breaks on the words, trembling with a pain I haven’t heard since the funeral. Both Papa and Father turn to him, reacting to his pain. “Not this path. Haven’t we lost enough?”
“Lost enough?” The question detonates between us, years of silence finally finding their voice. “You lost her four years ago and forgot you had a daughter at all!”
Papa flinches as if struck. Dad grabs the banister with white knuckles. Father goes stone-still, his expression as unreadable as winter.
“That’s not—” Father begins.
“It’s exactly true.” I cut through his denial like it’s made of paper. “When was the last time any of you asked about my lessons? My friends? Anything that matters to me? When did you last act like you cared whether I drew breath or not?”
“Of course we care,” Dad whispers, but the words fall hollow.
“Do you?” My laugh tastes like copper and old wounds. “Because from where I stand, it looks like you buried your daughter right alongside your mate.”
Father’s jaw turns to granite. “Don’t you dare—”
“What? Speak the truth?” Four years of neglect pour from me like a dam breaking. “I’ve been raising myself since I was thirteen. I handle the market runs and manage the household. I haven’t seen you at a single meeting with my tutors, not one harvest festival, nothing that required remembering I exist.”
“Morgan—” Dad’s voice shatters on my name.
“You think being in the military killed Mama,” I say, my voice dropping to something quiet and dangerous. “But you’re wrong. She died doing what she loved, protecting people who mattered to her. You three? You’re not even living. You’re just… You’re just shadows of the men she loved, going through the motions, waiting for her to come back. She’d be ashamed of you all.”
Dad actually staggers back a step, and for a moment I think he might fall down. Papa’s face has gone gray, and Father… Father just looks stricken.
Good. It’s about time they felt something.
“She was everything to us,” Dad says, tears streaming down his face. “She was our center, our anchor, our—”
“Your excuse,” I finish for him. “She was your excuse to stop trying. To stop caring. To stop being fathers.”
Father steps toward me and there’s real fire in his eyes, “How dare you stand there and judge us? You have no idea what it’s like to lose your mate, your other half—”
“You’re right,” I say, standing my ground even though he’s twice my size and radiating waves of Alpha authority that would make most people crumble. “I don’t know what that’s like. But I know what it’s like to lose your parents while they’re standing right in front of you.”
That stops him cold.
“I know what it’s like to grieve alone,” I continue. “To grow up alone. To realize that the people who were supposed to love you most in the world have forgotten you exist.”
“We never forgot—” Father starts.
“Yes, you did.” My voice is quiet now. “You forgot that I lost her too. That I needed you too. That I was thirteen years old and scared and alone, and instead of helping me through it, you abandoned me to deal with it by myself. When I presented as an Omega, all I wanted was my Omega Dad to tell me it would be okay, to help me understand what was happening to me. But he locked himself in his nest for years… and locked me out completely.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with years of unspoken resentment and pain. I can see them looking at me for the first time in forever—seeing the person I’ve become in their absence. Dad buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Military Academy isn’t negotiable,” I say finally. “I’m going. I’m following in Mama’s footsteps, and I’m going to become someone she would be proud of. Someone who doesn’t give up when things get hard.”
The jab hits its mark. Father’s hands clench into fists at his sides.
“And what happens if you don’t come back?” Papa asks, his voice a whisper. “What happens if we lose you too?”
I look at him, this man who used to cook for me and make me feel safe.
“You already lost me,” I tell him, and the words are gentle but final. “You lost me the day you decided grief was more important than the daughter you still had left.”
I turn to go, to pack the few things that matter to me and get out of this tomb they’ve made of our home. But Father’s voice stops me.
“Morgan, wait. Please.”
I pause but don’t turn around. “Yes?”
“If you go…” His voice breaks on every word, thick with tears that should have fallen years ago. “If you go and something happens to you, I don’t know how we’ll survive it.”
I close my eyes against the tears that betray me, hot tracks down my face that I can’t stop. “Then you’ll know exactly how I felt at thirteen.”
Papa steps aside reluctantly as I approach, his face crumpled with grief.
I walk up to pack my bags. The floorboards creak under my feet as I climb the same stairs I used to run up as a child. I can hear the echoes of the past—my voice calling for Mama to tuck me in, for Father to read me stories.
But I don’t look back. There’s nothing left down there but ghosts.
