She watched as families chatted happily, a bizarre charade of normalcy at what felt like some twisted orphan exchange. Everyone was picking up their pieces, celebrating a reunion that felt like a blatant lie to Trinity, one she wanted no part of. The air hummed with forced joviality, the manic energy of people trying too hard to appear happy.
From the moment she sat at the long, linen-draped table, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her. But she stubbornly refused to meet his eyes. She knew Hank, the man who shared her blood, was staring. Maybe he was a good man to these people. Maybe they all loved him. But Trinity had no reason to. In her eyes, he was a bastard, a label she wouldn't easily discard. Every thought of him was tangled with the worst moments of her life – the times he made no effort to ensure her safety, the years he didn't even bother to check if she was alive. He had simply cast her aside, and whether it was his choice or not, he had left her to a terrifying fate.
The entire welcome dinner felt like a carefully constructed facade. Upbeat music, the kind that made your teeth ache with its cheerfulness, played as some people stood and danced with exaggerated enthusiasm, as if this were a genuine celebration. Trinity and Ryan had watched in uncomfortable silence as Jess's family had all but rejected her presence. And now, barely fifteen minutes later, here they all were, swaying to the music and devouring catered food. Laughter echoed around them, a sound so discordant with the palpable tension that it made Trinity's stomach churn. It was as if their suffering, the raw, gaping wound of their pasts, was nothing more than background noise, a footnote barely worth mentioning in the grand narrative of this joyous night.
She observed the people in their pretty cocktail attire, their Sunday best, the clothes they had likely dreaded putting on for a dinner they probably wished hadn't happened. Now they were acting as if it were a delightful meet-and-greet, a chance to rub shoulders with those they might normally exchange sharp words with – a grotesque social climbing event played out on the stage of their shared trauma. The manicured lawns stretched out beyond the tent, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows that seemed to underscore the artificial brightness of the scene.
"I'll get the food," Ryan said, his gaze flicking over to her, concern etched on his features. Trinity was radiating a foul mood, a dark cloud that seemed impervious to any attempt at cheer. He had expected her to be upset, but this was different. This was a level of "I could give a fuck if the world burned" that bordered on alarming. It felt too close to something dangerous.
Trinity had intended to let him go alone, but the moment he stood and began to walk towards the buffet, she glanced in Hank's direction. Their eyes met, and with a sinking feeling, she saw him rise and start to move towards her. "Damn it," she cursed under her breath. The last thing she wanted was to be cornered by the overexcited Whitby father, a man seemingly oblivious to the reality of her feelings. It was as if he wanted to ignore the fact that she couldn't stand him, to sweep their history under the rug with forced pleasantries. Trinity was not in a forgiving mood, not even remotely inclined to hear whatever platitudes he had prepared.
She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to hear his explanations or apologies, hollow as they were bound to be. So, with a sudden surge of urgency, she got to her feet and followed Ryan. She needed to escape before Hank could reach her.
"We are not bringing you home with us!" Hank's voice, laced with a cruel mockery, cut through the air, aimed directly at Jess. It was as if he couldn't fathom the audacity of this… defect… even considering entering his home. Her very existence had already stained the family name. The last thing he needed was guests witnessing this unsightly blight within his polished world. Even her appearance was an affront to his sensibilities – the jarring blue of her hair, the glint of metal in her nose. He had lost count of the piercings that marred her ears, and he was certain he had glimpsed a tattoo peeking from beneath her sleeve. All things utterly unacceptable in any child of his, further solidifying in his mind that she was truly not one of them.
Jess stood frozen, overwhelmed by the suffocating atmosphere. Her father spoke to her with a firm dismissiveness, not even bothering to look directly at her. It was as if he were assessing a cheap, unwanted hand-me-down, wondering how it had ever ended up in his pristine closet. She felt unreal to him, a box to be ticked off a list, and she was clearly failing the inspection.
She wished she had never known who they were, never laid eyes on them. This was a unique form of torture – spending her entire life wondering and searching, clinging to the hope that they hadn't been able to care for her, that she had been lost or even stolen at birth. Anything was better than the glaringly obvious truth: they simply hadn't wanted her. The crushing weight of that realization was compounded by the knowledge that they had gone on to have more children. She was the eldest, a discarded prototype, while her siblings were perfect, embodying everything she was not.
"Dad, but where would Jess go? The alpha has commanded we explained things." Johnny's voice, though laced with worry about angering his father, held a note of excited curiosity. His sister. She looked a little like them, though the blue hair made it hard to tell. But there was a resemblance, a sharper, more defined version of his younger sister. An elegant jawline, fierce brown eyes, a perfectly straight nose, and small dimples – details he had only registered in their brief initial greeting. He was bursting with questions, a lifetime of unanswered inquiries finally standing before him. He desperately wanted the chance to ask them all.
Jess felt a surge of unexpected gratitude towards her younger brother. She didn't want him to face his father's wrath on her behalf. It felt strange to be defended. She had spent her life yearning for her parents, but the reality of siblings was a new and somewhat unsettling development. Even if everyone else seemed to despise her, her brother didn't seem so bad.
A dark thought had always lingered in the back of her mind – maybe they just didn't want her. It was a painful notion she usually tried to suppress. But here she was, close enough to smell her family, and the truth was undeniable. The childish ache of abandonment was nothing compared to this adult realization. Now, she didn't need their care, their support in a practical sense. She simply craved the feeling of belonging, of having a family, and that seemed impossibly out of reach.
In her head, she unleashed a torrent of curses, barely pausing for breath between each venomous word. But outwardly, she remained silent, a pathetic display of self-control. She simply got up and walked away.
The backyard was vast, the manicured lawn stretching towards a line of proud, ancient trees in the distance. She found herself drawn to the open space, sinking down into the cool grass, her back resolutely turned to the forced merriment of the welcome home party. She expected tears to fall, a release of the pent-up anguish, but her eyes remained dry. She felt hollowed out, as if every emotion had been surgically removed, leaving behind an empty shell unable to even identify what she was feeling. In some strange act of mercy, her body seemed numb, a temporary shield against further pain.
Shaking his head, Jonathan watched as the blue haired girl. Drifted towards the edge of the lawn, settling down in the grass a few yards away, utterly alone. He had tried to warn them, about the inherent viciousness that lay beneath the surface of their kind, a ruthlessness they, in their youthful naivete, couldn't possibly comprehend. The casual disregard for their own offspring, the brutal efficiency with which they could eliminate perceived threats, all while maintaining a facade of normalcy. It spoke of a deeply ingrained, animalistic cruelty that someone as human as the defectives could never truly understand.
He hadn't grasped the extent of it himself until the people he had called neighbors, friends even, had turned on him, their eyes filled with a primal hatred simply because he lacked the wolf form. The memory still burned, a festering wound that forty-five years hadn't managed to heal. And being here, witnessing others stumble into the same abyss of pain, only intensified his simmering rage.
He didn't know the blue-haired girl sitting in the grass, but he knew, with a chilling certainty, that they were all doomed. Every last one of them.
"Will you talk to him?" Ryan asked, glancing over his shoulder at her. He knew there was a high probability, almost a certainty, that Hank could hear them. As the beta, one of the strongest wolves in the pack next to the alpha, his senses would be acutely tuned. In a way, Ryan felt a pang of sympathy, sensing a flicker of genuine care beneath the gruff exterior. He was trying, in his own clumsy way, to offer a sliver of hope without betraying Trinity's raw emotions.
Trinity considered Ryan's question. Talk to beta carter? The truth was, she didn't want to. But she also didn't see how she could avoid it. She wasn't exactly free to leave.
"It could be good, to say some things," Ryan offered gently, hoping she might find some semblance of peace with her biological father. As a true orphan, he understood the profound ache of being without parents. Trinity had been abandoned, a different kind of pain, but still a deep wound. Alive was better than dead, he knew that. His own parents had loved him unconditionally, but he still yearned for them, even if they had succumbed to the pack laws and left him. In another life, he could have been her, and she him. He only hoped that if he had ever been in her position, he would have craved his parents more than the satisfaction of holding onto anger. Because once they were gone, no matter the bitterness, all that remained was the longing for their presence.
"Are you his spokesman!?" she asked dryly, the sarcasm a thin veil over her raw emotions. She didn't want to discuss beta Carter, and her mother was clearly not an option. Best to just not think about it, for as long as that fragile possibility lasted.
The tension around them eased slightly as Ryan seemed to sense her resistance and dropped the subject. No longer pressing her, they turned their attention to the buffet, silently filling their plates.
"Isn't that Jess?" Ryan questioned, noticing the solitary figure walking towards the grass, her back to the festivities. Her posture spoke volumes of her inner turmoil.
A shared glance passed between Trinity and Ryan. They knew that Jess would be their next destination.
Deciding to join her, they picked up their plates and headed in her direction, each snagging a glass of champagne for the three of them on the way.
Jess didn't even bother to look up as two figures settled beside her. Only two people at this entire gathering would likely notice her solitude. She didn't need to see them to know who they were. A glass of champagne was placed in her hand. The three sat in comfortable silence, eating from their plates, each lost in their own thoughts, no one brave enough to break the quiet and voice their pain.
In true Ryan fashion, the one among them who seemed to possess an effortless acceptance of all facets of himself, the good and the bad, he simply spoke from the heart, as he always did. It was one of the reasons Trinity both admired and trusted him. He wasn't afraid to lay himself bare to the world, even if it meant exposing his vulnerabilities. Ryan seemed genuinely comfortable in his own skin, scars and all.
"I'm worried about my brother. That he'll die if he comes here," Ryan admitted, knowing it wasn't his place to delve into pack laws and rogue wolves, but unable to suppress his genuine concern.
Trinity marveled at his ease. Ryan had always possessed this innate ability to articulate his feelings without hesitation or fear. Perhaps it stemmed from a stable upbringing, a stark contrast to her own fractured past. It was a skill Trinity had always struggled with, a tendency to internalize pain. That was part of why she valued Ryan's presence. She never had to explicitly state her emotions; he simply understood, somehow creating a space where owning those feelings felt less daunting.
"Mr. Dean made it clear I wasn't welcomed in their home. And I feel stupid." The familiar sting of foolish hope resurfaced, the same feeling she had experienced as a child, sitting on foster home steps, stubbornly insisting her real parents were coming, needing only a little more patience. But they had never come. She had been naive enough to believe they would somehow instinctively know she needed them. Now, standing here, facing the cold reality of their rejection, she felt like that same stupid five-year-old, only this time, she should have known better.
Complex emotions flickered across Jess's face, a fleeting display of vulnerability. Her fingers tightened around the blades of grass beneath her, her body trembling almost imperceptibly. But no tears came. She simply lowered her head, a gesture of weary resignation to a life perpetually marked by disappointment.
Watching her, Trinity reached her breaking point. The fragile thread of her restraint snapped. The simmering anger from before intensified, a burning inferno threatening to consume her. She felt a primal rage, as if red light was radiating from every pore of her skin. How could a father say such things? It was one thing to not want them, but to actively inflict pain, to kick them when they were already down, trapped in this bizarre charade simply because this was where their families were.
She squeezed her eyes shut, taking slow, deep breaths, desperately trying to quell the rising tide of fury. But it was futile. It felt like it was devouring her from the inside out, a red haze clouding her vision, obscuring everything but her growing hatred. If she didn't release some of it, it would consume her entirely. Without a word, she pushed herself to her feet.
Moving as if controlled by an unseen force, she barely registered the sensation of her feet leaving the ground. She simply turned and began to walk, her mind a blank canvas of rage. She didn't know what she was looking for, who she was seeking, but the closer she got, the more her anger intensified. She saw the back of his head, the familiar set of his shoulders. The glass clutched in her hand shattered, shards digging into her palm, blood dripping down her fingers, but she felt no pain.
With the broken glass now a jagged weapon in her hand, the darkest impulses within her screamed, do it. And as if those words granted permission, she slammed the shard into Jessica's father's shoulder, the force of the blow not only slicing his skin but tearing her own hand to shreds in the process. A guttural bellow of rage escaped her lips.
Trinity's entire body trembled with unchecked fury. This wasn't her. She would never intentionally harm someone like this.
Boris watched as his daughter's suppressed anger resurfaced, a palpable wave of raw emotion that seemed to thicken the air around them. Everyone could sense it, a potent, almost animalistic fury. He didn't understand what had triggered it. He knew she was angry with him, but she had been sitting quietly in the grass. What could have happened? He watched with a growing unease as she stalked away from her friends, her posture radiating menace. The closer she got to the assembled guests, the more intense her anger seemed to become. Her head was bowed, obscuring her eyes. As she reached the edge of the tables, the glass in her hand suddenly shattered.
The action shocked him. Defectives weren't typically strong. While it was possible to break a glass in one's hand, it required significant effort. And considering her small stature, he hadn't thought she was capable. Boris started to rise, intending to offer help, but then he noticed something unsettling. She didn't seem affected by the injury, hadn't even flinched or cried out. There was something subtly wrong in the way she moved, an almost imperceptible tremor that reminded him uncomfortably of a wolf struggling to contain its shifting form, the skin rippling as the human shell became too constricting.
Just as he was about to reach her, she drew back her arm and plunged the broken glass into Hank Dean's shoulder. And her expression was eerily calm, devoid of panic or regret. She simply stood there, having just assaulted a powerful wolf, almost in a daze.