Twice, Luna They Left Behind Chapter 04

Twice, Luna They Left Behind Chapter 04

Mom shoved me aside and dropped to the floor beside Leo.

“Leo! Leo, what’s happening!”

Dad threw the pen down, his face shifting to alarm.

“The stress response is back! Quick, get his meds!”

The living room erupted into chaos.

Leo squeezed his eyes shut, seized Mom’s arm, and rasped, “Mom, I’m scared. I smell smoke in here. I can’t stay here—”

There was no smoke.

Just the plastic smell from the packaging he’d just torn open.

But Mom and Dad had already abandoned every ounce of their usual composure.

“Alpha, that downtown doctor was completely useless!” Mom looked up, frantic. “I found someone else—a trauma specialist, one state over. He’s got an opening tomorrow. We’re taking Leo. Now.” Dad didn’t hesitate for a second. “I’ll get the car. You get him in.”

They didn’t even stop to grab their bags. They just propped Leo up and moved toward the door.

“Dad.”

I stood beside the coffee table, looking at the blank consent form.

“Tomorrow at five p.m. is the final deadline.”

Dad’s feet didn’t slow. He kept one hand on Leo, helping him with his shoes, and didn’t look back.

“Your brother’s in critical condition. Your thing can wait.”

“It’s a camp. They don’t do late admits.”

“Then go next year!”

Mom cut me off, her voice like a blade.

“Lydia, do you have a heart at all?”

“Your brother is breaking down, and you’re still crunching numbers on your scholarship?”

“I don’t even know who you are right now.”

“You’re supposed to be the older one. Act like it. For once in your life.”

The front door slammed shut.

The car engine roared to life outside the window, then faded fast.

The living room fell back into dead silence.

The broken mecha wing lay on the floor.

The pen had rolled off the coffee table onto the carpet.

I walked over slowly, picked the pen up, and took the consent form in my hand.

It was spotless. No trace of Mom or Dad anywhere on it.

I carried the form back to the guest room and opened the backpack I’d brought back from the hospital.

No clothes inside. No makeup.

Just my ID, my bank card, and a printed transfer acceptance letter.

I never actually needed that camp.

Two days ago at school, I’d gone through the principal’s emergency fast-track channel.

My three years of competition results, combined with the special-circumstances documentation from the fire, landed me a direct admission to Royal Warrior Prep School in Washington, D.C.

That consent form was nothing more than one final test. For them, and for myself.

The results were flawless.

They abandoned me. Exactly like they always have. Without a flicker of hesitation.

In that moment, my wolf finally lifted her head from the silence of the fire.

She didn’t howl. She just stared coldly at the door.

I zipped my backpack shut with my left hand, walked into the living room, and set the unsigned consent form squarely on the coffee table.

Next to it, I placed my house key.

I pulled out my phone and typed one last message into the family group chat.

[I’ve moved out.]

Then I left the group, blocked everyone, and powered the phone off.

Three a.m.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and pushed the front door open.

The night air was cold against my face and shockingly clear.

I didn’t glance back at that house.

Didn’t acknowledge any familiar scent from Blackthorn Pack.

Didn’t look back at my eighteen years inside those walls.

No one would be making excuses to the camp committee on my behalf tomorrow.

All I had was a one-way train ticket.

I left the unsigned liability form on the coffee table.

And I walked out the door.

This time, I’m not looking back.