Parental Manipulation
The packhouse gardens shimmered under the pale glow of the moon, the cool night air fragrant with the scent of wildflowers. Isla walked slowly among the blossoms, her fingers brushing the soft petals. The chaos of the evening had settled, but her mind was anything but calm. Her parents’ unexpected arrival stirred a storm of emotions she’d thought long buried.
A voice, soft and sweet, broke the silence. “Darling.”
Isla froze, her body tensing as her mother stepped out from the shadows. Her silk gown flowed like water, her delicate hands clasped in front of her. Behind her, Isla’s father appeared, his once-imposing figure now cloaked in a feigned warmth that set Isla’s teeth on edge.
“We wanted to speak with you privately,” her mother continued, her voice lilting with the same practiced gentleness Isla remembered from childhood. She moved closer, clasping Isla’s hands tightly, her grip firm but deceptively gentle.
“This is why family is so important,” her mother said, her silvered eyes gleaming under the moonlight. “In times of chaos, you need people you can trust—people who love you unconditionally.”
Isla stared at her, her heart pounding. She fought to keep her voice steady. “Love?” she repeated, a bitter edge creeping into the word.
Her father stepped forward, his polished demeanor oozing authority. “Forgiveness is the mark of a true leader, Isla,” he said, his tone smooth and calculated. “A Luna must rise above grudges, above the petty grievances of the past. Show us the leader you’ve become.”
For a moment, the words hung in the air like a fog. Isla’s breath hitched, the weight of her parents’ carefully chosen phrases pressing down on her chest. Then, something inside her snapped.
Her silver eyes flashed with anger as she yanked her hands free from her mother’s grasp, the motion sharp and deliberate. “You don’t get to demand forgiveness,” Isla said, her voice ringing with a strength that cut through the quiet night. She took a step back, her gaze icy. “You have to earn it. And you haven’t.”
Her mother’s practiced mask of sweetness cracked, the faintest flicker of indignation flashing in her eyes. Isla’s father, meanwhile, stood frozen, his jaw tightening as though he’d swallowed something bitter.
“Darling, we—” her mother began, but Isla held up a hand, silencing her.
“You don’t get to rewrite the past,” Isla said coldly. “You left me behind when I needed you most. And now you’re here, acting like it never happened.” Her voice shook with restrained fury, each word slicing through the fragile veneer of her parents’ facade. “You want something. That’s all this is.”
Before her father could muster a response, the air shifted. A dark shadow fell over the garden as Draven stepped forward, his presence a wall of unrelenting strength. His amber eyes burned with fury, the feral edge in his stance making the air crackle with tension.
“Isla’s made her position clear,” Draven said, his voice low and cutting. He moved to her side, his hand resting protectively on her back as his gaze pinned her parents in place. “Don’t push her.”
Her father’s carefully curated poise faltered, his shoulders stiffening under Draven’s searing glare. Her mother opened her mouth as if to protest, but the words seemed to die before they could escape.
Without another word, they retreated into the shadows, their departure as quiet as their arrival.
Isla watched them go, her chest heaving as the weight of the confrontation settled over her. Draven turned to her, his voice softening as he asked, “Are you alright?”
She nodded, though her hands trembled slightly at her sides. “I’m fine. I just… I needed to say it.”
Later that evening, Isla sat in the healer’s quarters with Micah, her frustration bubbling over like a boiling pot. She ran her hands through her silver hair, her words spilling out in a torrent. “They don’t care about me,” she said bitterly, her voice cracking. “They only care about what I can give them—my status, my power, my pack.”
Micah, ever blunt, leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Then don’t give it,” she said simply, her tone as practical as always. “You’ve built this life without them. You don’t need their approval.”
Isla fell silent, the truth of Micah’s words settling into her bones. She turned her gaze to the window, where the courtyard bustled with activity. Warriors prepared for the coming challenges, their movements purposeful and unwavering. They trusted her. They fought for her. They followed her.
“I’ll never let them manipulate me again,” Isla said softly, her voice laced with quiet determination.
Micah nodded. “Good. Because you don’t owe them anything, Isla. Not anymore.”
