Elena’s POV
The ssage arrives without fanfare, slipping through official channels that once required my direct authorization but now simply bear my signature from protocol. A simple request sits on my screen: private eting needed, followed by a na, a ti slot, and nothing else.
I find myself staring at those few lines far longer than necessary, my fingers hovering over the tablet’s surface while sothing restless stirs inside . My wolf responds to the quiet tension radiating from those words, not with alarm but with careful attention, as if recognizing the weight of unspoken truths.
I don’t respond imdiately.
Routine becos my anchor when forward planning feels impossible. I step into the shower, allowing warm water to cascade over my shoulders and down my spine, focusing on the steady rhythm against ceramic tiles while my breathing gradually steadies. The crash’s aftermath still lingers in my bones, leaving feeling slightly disconnected from my own skin.
I select clothing with deliberate care, avoiding anything that screams authority or submission. Neutral territory seems safest. When I brush my teeth, my reflection shows a face that appears more composed than my body feels, as though the recent upheaval hasn’t finished settling into all my corners yet.
My stomach knots tight when I finally accept the eting.
I choose a modest conference room tucked away from the main administrative corridor, sowhere without the burden of institutional mory or power dynamics embedded in its walls. Whatever this conversation holds, it doesn’t belong in public spaces. The furnishings are deliberately unremarkable: a basic table, chairs designed for efficiency rather than comfort, and a window overlooking an unremarkable courtyard.
She’s already there when I arrive, which imdiately shifts my understanding of this encounter.
Her posture screams tension as she sits rigidly upright, hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles show white. When I enter, she springs to her feet with the nervous energy of soone who’s been rehearsing this mont while simultaneously dreading it. Her gaze darts up to et mine before quickly dropping away.
"Please, stay seated," I say, keeping my tone carefully neutral.
She hesitates before lowering herself back down, though her spine remains ramrod straight and her fingers continue their anxious dance in her lap, as if she’s forgotten how to be still when her hands aren’t occupied.
I deliberately choose the chair opposite her rather than the position of authority at the table’s head. Body language matters, especially when words haven’t started flowing yet. I place my hands openly on the table’s surface, palms down, letting her see there are no hidden agendas in my gestures.
"I appreciate you making ti for this," I tell her.
Her nod cos quick and jerky, followed by a visible swallow that makes her throat work.
"I wasn’t certain you’d say yes," she admits.
"I nearly didn’t," I respond with complete honesty, watching her shoulders draw up toward her ears before gradually relaxing, as if my directness reassures her more than false comfort would.
She draws in one careful breath, then another deeper one, and when she finally speaks, her voice carries the particular steadiness of words that have been practiced until they’ve worn familiar grooves in her mind.
"I’m not sure what I’m about to tell you still holds any significance," she begins, the statent settling heavily in the air between us. "I can’t know if it will change anything that matters now. But soone needs to hear what happened."
My wolf edges closer to consciousness, not with aggression or protectiveness, but with the simple awareness that cos before important revelations. I offer a single nod of encouragent.
"I was seventeen when it began," she continues, her attention fixed firmly on the table’s surface rather than my face. "Old enough to understand most things, but young enough that questioning authority didn’t occur to . They explained it as standard procedure. They called it necessary oversight. They insisted it was all for my protection."
A familiar tightness begins building in my chest, slow and inexorable, because the shape of this story is already becoming clear even without the specific details.
"They controlled my movents," she goes on. "Dictated which people I could spend ti with. Determined what training opportunities I was permitted to pursue. They told constant supervision was required because my presence posed a risk to pack stability."
Sothing sharp and cold takes up residence between my ribs as I process her words.
"Was any of this officially recorded?" I ask carefully.
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