Mated to Her Alpha Instructor Chapter 18

Eileen

I left the dormitory then, my bag slung over my shoulder, and made my way toward the main gates where the public carriages waited. The campus was quieter than usual, most students already gone or preparing to leave. The air smelled of pine and approaching autumn, crisp and clean.

Three hours later, I stepped off the public carriage at the edge of Wylde territory just after noon, my canvas bag heavy against my shoulder. The familiar scent of pine and damp earth should have been comforting, but instead it made my stomach tighten with something that felt uncomfortably close to dread.

The house looked the same as always—a modest timber structure with three small windows facing the road, the paint peeling slightly around the doorframe. I could see smoke curling from the chimney, which meant someone was home, and as I pushed open the door, I found Gareth sprawled across the sofa, flipping through a magazine with the kind of casual indifference that only a sixteen-year-old who'd never had to work for anything could manage.

He glanced up when I entered, his expression flickering with recognition before settling back into boredom. "Oh. You're back." He turned a page without sitting up. "You're late. Lunch was hours ago—didn't save you anything."

The words came out so casually, like it was perfectly normal for me to arrive hungry and find nothing waiting. My fingers tightened around my bag strap, but I kept my voice steady. "The carriage was delayed. You know I always get back around this time during breaks."

"You didn't come home last month, did you? Would've been a waste anyway." Gareth made a dismissive sound and went back to his magazine. "There's bread in the cupboard."

I watched him, remembering the little brother who used to save half his dessert for me, who'd wait by the window to tell me everything that happened while I was gone. That boy had vanished the day they discovered I didn't have a wolf. Just like our parents, he'd decided I wasn't worth his time anymore. The anger had faded long ago—now there was just this hollow acceptance. I'd learned that speaking up only made the silence louder.

My appetite gone, I headed down the narrow hallway to my room—the smallest in the house, tucked where the roof sloped so low I had to duck, where the tiny window let in barely enough light to read by.

Inside, the air was stale and cold. I set my bag on the bed and looked around at the bare walls, the threadbare blanket, the rickety desk that had been mine since childhood. Everything was exactly as I'd left it, and yet it felt even more suffocating now, as if the room had shrunk in my absence.

I sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, pressing my palms against my knees, and tried to tell myself that this was only for less than three days. I could endure it.

But even as I thought it, exhaustion rolled over me in a wave so sudden and overwhelming that I barely had time to kick off my shoes before I collapsed sideways onto the bed. My eyes closed almost immediately, and I sank into a deep, dreamless sleep that felt less like rest and more like my body simply giving up.

---

When I woke, the light coming through the window had turned golden and slanted, the kind of light that only came in the late afternoon. I sat up slowly, disoriented, my head thick and heavy as if I'd been drugged. The clock on the wall read nearly five o'clock, and panic spiked through me as I realized I'd slept through the entire afternoon—slept through the time I should have been preparing dinner.

I stumbled out of bed, my limbs sluggish and uncooperative, and hurried down the hallway toward the kitchen. But I was already too late. I could hear my parents' voices in the front room, sharp and irritated, and when I reached the doorway, I found my mother standing with her arms crossed, her expression cold and tight.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "You come home and the first thing you do is sleep the day away? We've been waiting for dinner, Eileen."

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, the apology automatic, ingrained. "I didn't mean to—I was just so tired, and I—"

"Tired?" My father's voice came from the sitting room, where he'd settled into his chair with a glass of whiskey. "You're tired? What do you have to be tired from? It's not as if you're out training or fighting like your brother."

My mother's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Gareth has his combat trials tomorrow, and you let him go hungry because you were too lazy to do your one job in this house."

I opened my mouth to explain, to say something about the journey or the week I'd had, but the words died in my throat. What was the point? They wouldn't listen. They never did. So instead, I just nodded and turned toward the kitchen, my chest tight and aching, and started pulling out ingredients for dinner.

Behind me, I heard my mother rummaging through her bag, and a moment later she called out to Gareth in a voice that was suddenly warm and indulgent. "I brought you those honey-glazed meat strips you like, sweetheart. The ones from the market."

Gareth's voice drifted back, pleased and lazy. "Thanks, Mom."

No one asked if I'd eaten. No one asked if I was all right.

I stood at the counter, staring down at the vegetables I was supposed to be chopping, and felt the familiar numbness settle over me like a shroud. This was normal. This was how it had always been. I was the one who cooked and cleaned and stayed quiet, and Gareth was the one who got presents and praise and all the attention that came with being able to shift, with being the future of the family.

I picked up the knife and started cutting, my movements mechanical, and tried very hard not to think about anything at all.