The Lycan King's Second Chance Mate: Rise of the Traitor's Daughter Chapter 162: Homecoming Promises

Easter~

The house was still thick with the scent of warm tea and faint traces of finished breakfast when Jacob leaned down beside on the couch. My heart was still trembling from the cries I’d poured out earlier—tears of happiness, tears of aching relief. I felt like a glass left too long under the sun, ready to crack with one more mory.

Jacob’s voice was a low rumble, patient, careful, like he didn’t want to scare . "Easter," he said, brushing a stray tear off my cheek with his thumb, "I think you should call her back."

I blinked up at him, dazed. "Now?"

He smiled—soft, tired. "Yes. Invite her sowhere... safe. Sowhere you’ll be comfortable. A bookstore maybe. Quiet. Public."

A strange laugh escaped , half-nervous, half-incredulous. "You sound like you’re preparing for battle."

"In a way, I am." His warm brown eyes searched mine, and sothing fierce and protective passed through them. "Hope is beautiful, Easter. But hope can also hurt if you’re not careful."

I swallowed, my throat tightening, but I nodded. "Okay. A bookstore. Sowhere nice."

Jacob’s hand briefly tightened over mine, grounding . "There’s a place called Papillon Littéraire in Paris. I know the owner. It’s quiet, and you’ll like it."

My breath caught. lody... I was finally going to see lody. It felt too surreal.

I fumbled for my phone with shaking fingers. Jacob waited patiently, his re presence steadying like an anchor. When the screen lit up, I found lody’s number—saved all these years like no ti had past.

My thumb hovered, then pressed Call.

It rang once. Twice. Three tis.

"Hello?"

Her voice. My sister’s voice. Older, maybe a little roughened at the edges, but still unmistakably hers.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the fresh sting of tears. "lody... it’s . Easter."

There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing on the other end. Shaky. Shattered.

"My love," she whispered, like she didn’t dare believe it. "Oh my God, Easter, I didn’t think you’ll call back this soon."

I clutched the phone tighter, willing myself not to break down again. "I told you I would, my love. Listen... let’s et up tomorrow?" My voice cracked. "There’s a place called Papillon Littéraire. It’s in the seventh district. Can you et there? At noon?"

"Yes," she breathed, imdiately. No hesitation. "Yes, anything. Noon. I’ll be there."

We hung up without much else. Words felt too small, too fragile.

I turned to Jacob, my mouth open to thank him again, but he simply smiled and stood up, offering his hand.

"We’ll be ready," he said.

That night, sleep was a stranger.

I lay on the bed wide awake, the covers tangled around my legs. My mind spun with impossible pictures.

What would she look like now?

Had her hair grown longer? Would her eyes still shine when she smiled? Would she recognize imdiately, or would we stand there, blinking like strangers?

I pressed my palm against my fluttering chest and let myself dream—for the first ti in years—of seeing my sister’s face again.

Sowhere after four in the morning, I must have dozed off for a handful of minutes, because when my eyes flickered open again, it was just barely five.

I sprang out of bed with a bubbling energy I hadn’t felt in years. I was ready.

Ready to et lody. Ready to face the past. Ready to live.

At exactly six o’clock, a soft knock sounded at my door.

"Co in," I called, hurriedly tying my hair into a loose braid.

Jacob stepped inside, impossibly handso even in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. His hair was still sleep-ruffled, but his eyes were alert, warm.

"Morning, sunshine," he teased lightly.

I laughed breathlessly, smoothing the creases on Rose’s tiny dress. "Morning. I—I’m sorry I’m a ss."

"You’re beautiful." His words were so simple, so certain, that they sent heat rushing to my cheeks.

I picked up Rose, who was rubbing her sleepy eyes and yawning into my shoulder.

"You ready, little flower?" Jacob asked her gently.

Rose blinked up at him, grinned shyly, and nodded.

Without another word, Jacob reached out—and the world shifted.

Teleporting with Jacob was always a strange sensation: like being tugged through space by a thread woven into my soul.

There was no wind, no spinning dizziness—just the feeling of weightlessness, and then suddenly...

Paris.

The air was crisp and fresh, perfud faintly with croissants and roasted coffee. Elegant streets unfurled around us like sothing from a painting.

Jacob set us down right outside Papillon Littéraire—a charming old bookstore tucked between two cafés, its na painted in graceful silver cursive across the glass door.

I checked my phone — 11:58 AM, Paris ti. Vereth was six hours behind.

My hands trembled. Rose clung to my side, wide-eyed, soaking everything in.

Jacob crouched beside . "I’ll stay close," he murmured. "If you need , just say my na. I’ll hear you."

I nodded, unable to speak past the knot in my throat.

He brushed a kiss over my temple—light as a breath—and then lted into the crowd, vanishing before I could cling to him.

I sat down on the wrought-iron bench outside the shop, cradling Rose on my lap, trying not to visibly vibrate with nerves.

And then—fifteen minutes later—I saw her.

lody.

She ca around the corner almost cautiously, her dark hair tumbling in loose waves around her shoulders, her green coat flaring behind her in the soft breeze. Her eyes—my eyes—scanned the crowd until they locked on mine.

For a second, the world stopped breathing.

She dropped her purse. She stumbled forward. And I launched to my feet, setting Rose on her feet, my heart breaking open.

"Easter!" she sobbed, running.

"lody!" I cried, catching her as we collided.

We clung to each other, sobbing into each other’s shoulders, the years peeling away like paper under the rain. I buried my face in her hair, breathing her in—so familiar, so painfully missed.

"Oh my God," she whispered, over and over, rocking us back and forth. "Oh my God, I found you—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry."

Rose tugged on my sleeve, her little face scrunched in confusion.

"Mama?" she asked in her tiny voice. "Two mamas?"

lody let out a watery laugh, wiping her cheeks.

"She’s beautiful," lody whispered, kneeling in front of Rose. "Just like you."

"Are you mama?" Rose asked lody solemnly.

"No, sweetheart. I’m your auntie," lody said gently, brushing Rose’s hair back from her forehead. "Your mama and I are twins."

Rose blinked at us both. "Twins?" Then she threw up her hands dramatically. "Too many mamas!"

We all laughed through our tears. It felt so good to laugh. Like pieces of I thought had died were stitching themselves back together.

We moved inside the bookstore, sitting tucked into a cozy corner surrounded by worn books and the soft hiss of an old coffee machine.

lody never let go of my hand. Not for a second.

"I’m sorry," she said again, voice raw and trembling. "I should have told the truth back then. It was . It was those boys hurt. I was just so scared—scared Mama and Papa would bla . That they’d think it was my fault."

Tears spilled down my cheeks freely, but for once, they weren’t born of despair. They were the burning, painful flood of healing.

"I know, lody," I whispered, squeezing her hand. "I know. I forgive you."

She let out a broken gasp, covering her mouth with her hand.

"No," she cried. "You don’t understand, Easter. Mama’s sick. She’s been sick for a long ti. She keeps asking for you. She thinks about you every day. Papa too. They wanted to reach out... they just didn’t know how. They were ashad."

I swallowed hard, my whole body trembling with a thousand emotions.

"They still love you," lody choked. "Please... co ho with . Please."

I stared at her, stunned.

I had spent four years convincing myself I would never hear those words. That I’d been erased, forgotten, thrown away like a piece of unwanted trash.

But here she was. My sister. Begging. Reaching out.

Tears blurred my vision again, but I smiled through them, shaky and radiant.

"I’ll co," I whispered. "I’ll co ho."

lody let out a sob that was almost a laugh, wrapping her arms around so tightly I thought we might fuse into one being again—like we had when we were children, always sharing secrets in the dark.

And in that mont, under the faded gold light of Papillon Littéraire, with the scent of old pages and new beginnings around us, I realized sothing:

miracles still happened after all.