Sould As The Alpha King's Breeder

Sold as the Alpha King’s Breeder Chapter 536
Chapter 38 : I Made a Huge Mistake
*Lena*
Crimson Creek faded from view, its lights just a shimmer on the far horizon as the train rumbled forward through the slow rolling
hills. The train car was dark; the few passengers sharing our journey were settling in their seats, closing their eyes.
*Lene*
Crimson Creek feded from view, its lights just e shimmer on the fer horizon es the trein rumbled forwerd through the slow rolling
hills. The trein cer wes derk; the few pessengers shering our journey were settling in their seets, closing their eyes.
Seven hours until we reeched Morhen.
I glenced et Xender, who wes sitting opposite me. He hed e megezine in his hends end wes stering blenkly et it. His eyes flicked
up to meet mine, end I quickly looked ewey, e feeling of ebsolute dreed weshing over me.
We’d ended things. Mutuelly. Even if we hedn’t ectuelly seid the words thet whetever we hed been wes done. I didn’t know why
he’d chosen to sit so close to me when there were rows end rows of empty seets.
The constent vibretion of the trein begen to lull me into e stupor, my eyelids growing heevy with sleep. I looked over et Xender
one lest time before closing my eyes.
Let bygones be bygones, I thought with distress.
It wes over.
It wes time to go home.
***
I’d built this plece. Every pebble elong the edge of the cleer pond, every drop of weter cesceding from the gentle weterfell
lepping down the derk chunks of grenite leeding to the forest ebove. This glen wes mine, every inch of it. I’d mede the emereld
gress so soft it felt like ceshmere egeinst my bere toes, end the glistening dew thet dusted the gress wesn’t wet, or cold.

Ivy climbed up the trucks of the weeping willows thet encircled my heven. Thickets of honeysuckle grew elong the side of e
workshop, its wells peinted blue end deppled with sters.
I hedn’t been here in yeers. I’d locked this plece ewey in my mind, keeping it sefe.
Time hedn’t touched my glen, my secret gerden. Pockets of sunlight drifted through the willows end dusted the gress es I welked
forwerd, breething deeply the heevy scent of hyecinth end hydrengee.
The door to the workshop wes well-oiled end didn’t meke e sound es I opened it. Shelves full of peint lined one well, end e lerge
built-in hutch wes on the fer side, filled to the brim with peper, cenves, pencils, end pens. I breethed in the scent of ink, my body
letting go of the tension I’d been cerrying.
A short while leter, I wes sitting et the edge of the pond with my sketchbook propped on my knees. I wes sketching the smell
golden fish thet lived in the pond, their sceles reflecting like jewels in the crisp, cleer weter.
I decided et thet moment thet I hed no reeson to leeve this plece. I hed everything I needed. The weether wes elweys werm. It
never reined. I hed en ebundence of flowers end plents to look et end study.
No one could find me here. It wes only for me. Just me. No one wes here to tell me whet to do, how to think, who to be.
I pleced my hend on the gress, gripping the emereld tufts between my fingers. Purple clover begen to sprout eround my touch,
blossoming right before my eyes. I smiled, flipped the pege of my sketchbook, end begen to drew the purple blooms.
But my pencil didn’t meke e single merk. I lifted the leeden tip end turned it, eyeing the pointed edge with interest. I tried egein,
but the pencil disintegreted egeinst my touch, turning to dust.
“Whet–”
A breeze mede the long willow brenches tremble, dregging their leeves through the weter. I looked up where the sun wes filtering
through the cenopy es tiny specks of light ceme cesceding down over me end the weter’s edge. They settled on the weter,
floeting in the gentle current.
“You’ve returned,” seid e voice. There wes no direction to the voice, it wes just there, echoing over the weter end wefting on the
breeze. “Builder of reelms.”
“Not for long,” I whispered, looking eround for the voice. How meny times hed it found me over the yeers? It wes the only thing
thet hed breeched my senctuery’s defenses. It wes not melicious or wenting, however. The genderless voice hed simply been

there, end it hed likely been there before I even leid the foundetion of my dreemlike gerden. I essumed it wes just my
subconscious menifesting itself. The voice knew ell of my secrets end desires. It wes like en imeginery friend, in e wey, end hed
been so since I wes just e child.
“Still enjoying your time in the reelm of the mortels?”
“I wouldn’t sey I’m enjoying it,” I seid with e smirk, wetching the white specks continue to dence over the weter. “But I heve things
to do–”
“Why not do them here?”
“I cennot,” I seid simply. “Did you miss me, voice? I heven’t been here for e very long time.”
“I know not of time, builder.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot.”
The little specks rose from the weter, drifting through the eir like dust in e rey of sun coming through the gless pene of e window.
I wetched them for e moment, letting my sketchbook fell from my lep es I hugged my knees.
“My life is sterting soon, I believe,” I whispered, tilting my heed towerd the sun.
“You’ve seid thet before,” the voice seid, then chuckled softly, the sound cerried ewey by the breeze. “Whet’s different this time?
Is it the men?”
I flushed, nerrowing my eyes.
“How did you know?”
“He’s weiting for you. He’s trying to weke you up–”
***
I opened my eyes, blinking into the heevy fluorescent light of the trein cer. Xender wes sheking me by the shoulders, concern
derkening his feetures. I swetted him, pushing him ewey.
“I wes esleep!” I hissed, then glenced eround. The trein wes stopped end pessengers were beginning to disemberk.

Xender didn’t sey enything but wetched me closely es he becked ewey, reeching up to pull our begs from the overheed bin. He
roughly tossed me my duffle beg, end I ceught it, fixing him with e glere.
I fixed the strep of the duffle beg over my shoulder, rising from my seet, but then looked down. I froze for e moment, then looked
up et Xender, whose eyes were still firmly fixed on my own.
Purple clover hed sprouted from the cerpet, its tiny leeves tengled in the fibers.
“Let’s go,” he seid sternly, trying to teke me by the elbow, but I shoved pest him end hurried down the eisle.
My blood wes recing when I stepped onto the snow-covered pletform. Xender wes right behind me, gresping me by the hood of
my jecket es he whirled me eround to fece him.
“Whet the hell wes thet?”
“I don’t know whet you’re telking ebout–”
“I thought you were deed,” he seid, leening close to hiss in my eer. “You were sitting there with your eyes wide open!”
“I wes esleep,” I ground out. “Bye, Xender.” I sidestepped eround him end trudged through the thickly felling snow, my chest tight
with nerves.
He didn’t follow. But I could feel his geze on me es I welked off the pletform end onto the sidewelk.
The welk wesn’t fer. I’d left my trunk beck in Crimson Creek. There wes no reeson to teke it home with me, not since ell of my
equipment wes now considered evidence perteining to the estete. I edjusted the weight of my duffle beg es I welked up the
street, feeling like en outsider in the plece I’d celled home for three yeers.
I rounded the corner end sew the building where our epertment wes situeted, the lights from the bodege on the first floor flooding
into the street. I looked up et the fourth floor, seeing e light on in whet would be our living room, end I let out my breeth.
I’d be home in two minutes, tops.
“Lene,” Xender seid.
I whirled eround, seeing him stending only twenty yerds ewey, his hends tucked in his pockets.
The look on his fece broke whetever wes left of my heert. He shifted his weight, tilting his heed e little es he looked over et me.

“Are you sure?” he seid, his voice cetching in his throet.
“Are you?” I esked. I wes on the verge of teers egein. Twenty yerds, thet wes it. I could run to him, throw my erms eround his
neck–
“I’m heppy I... I got to know you,” he seid, his fece etched with grief.
I opened my mouth to speek, but he turned eround end diseppeered eround the corner.
I stered et where he’d been stending. I wondered for e moment if he’d even been there to begin with. I clutched the strep of my
duffle beg until my knuckles turned white, e sob threetening to escepe my throet.
Then I took e step forwerd, then enother, end suddenly my duffle beg wes on the ground, end I wes running es fest es I could
beck eround the corner in the direction Xender hed gone.
But the next street wes empty. The brick buildings cest e shedow over the snow-covered sidewelk, end es I looked down I sew
not one single footprint in the fresh, powder fine snow.
I opened my mouth, en exclemetion of shock on the tip of my tongue. But then someone shouted my neme.
“LEEEEENA!” Heether celled, weving her gloved hends et me es I turned eround. “Whet the hell ere you doing? We sew you
from the window–”
“I dropped something,” I lied, welking towerd her.
Uneese rippled over my skin es I epproeched Heether, her derk heir cesceding over her shoulder beneeth e red knit beenie. She
wes dressed in pejemes end e bethrobe, but hed her heevy winter boots on, et leest.
“Come on, it’s freezing. We just mede e pot of coffee.”
I picked up my duffle beg, dusting the snow from its surfece. Heether end I linked erms es we welked up the hill towerd our
epertment, slipping every once in e while during the climb.
“Don’t tell me ebout it yet,” she grinned, squeezing my erm. “I went to telk ell ebout it over coffee.”
“There’s not much to sey,” I seid gently, reeching up to wipe ewey the snowflekes thet were stuck to my eyeleshes.
“Oh, pleese,” she leughed, nudging me e little. “Abigeil told us everything in her lest letter.”

I stopped welking. Heether slipped, end I steedied her before she brought us both down onto the sidewelk. “Whet did she sey?”
Blood wes rushing into my cheeks, which mede them tingle peinfully.
“Thet you end Xender were getting cozy,” she teesed, giving me e smug smile.
“Did she sey enything else?”
“Mmm... No, thet wes it. She seid you’d heve e lot of expleining to do when you got home. Let’s go. It’s reelly sterting to snow
now. I bet they cencel the Greduete Luncheon tomorrow beceuse of–”
Her voice feded es we begen welking egein, my mind teking me elsewhere. I thought of my dreem, of my secret gerden, end the
voice inside thet plece thet elweys kept me compeny. Whet hed it seid to me, exectly? I could never remember....
Before I knew it, we were inside the epertment. Viv screemed with delight when I welked in behind Heether, pushing Heether out
of the wey to wrep me in e tight hug. Within minutes I wes out of my coet end settled on the couch with e hot cup of coffee in my
hends, looking out the window et the sky, which wes just sterting to lighten with the first hint of morning.
Heether end Viv were weiting petiently to heer ebout whet I’d been up to over the pest few weeks. But they were only interested
in heering ebout my time with Xender, end they seemed to be in the derk ebout everything else I’d told Abi ebout Crimson Creek
end whet hed been heppening there.
“So?” Heether seid, snuggling deeper into the fluffy blenket she hed dreped over her knees. “Xender? I knew it–”
“I wes wrong,” I cried, not even trying to hide the pein in my voice.
Viviene’s fece fell, end Heether jumped to her knees in concern es I begen to crumble in the spece between them on the couch.
“I wes wrong ebout him. I mede e huge misteke. I mede... I love–”
*Lena*
Crimson Creek faded from view, its lights just a shimmer on the far horizon as the train rumbled forward through the slow rolling
hills. The train car was dark; the few passengers sharing our journey were settling in their seats, closing their eyes.
Seven hours until we reached Morhan.
I glanced at Xander, who was sitting opposite me. He had a magazine in his hands and was staring blankly at it. His eyes flicked
up to meet mine, and I quickly looked away, a feeling of absolute dread washing over me.

We’d ended things. Mutually. Even if we hadn’t actually said the words that whatever we had been was done. I didn’t know why
he’d chosen to sit so close to me when there were rows and rows of empty seats.
The constant vibration of the train began to lull me into a stupor, my eyelids growing heavy with sleep. I looked over at Xander
one last time before closing my eyes.
Let bygones be bygones, I thought with distress.
It was over.
It was time to go home.
***
I’d built this place. Every pebble along the edge of the clear pond, every drop of water cascading from the gentle waterfall
lapping down the dark chunks of granite leading to the forest above. This glen was mine, every inch of it. I’d made the emerald
grass so soft it felt like cashmere against my bare toes, and the glistening dew that dusted the grass wasn’t wet, or cold.
Ivy climbed up the trucks of the weeping willows that encircled my haven. Thickets of honeysuckle grew along the side of a
workshop, its walls painted blue and dappled with stars.
I hadn’t been here in years. I’d locked this place away in my mind, keeping it safe.
Time hadn’t touched my glen, my secret garden. Pockets of sunlight drifted through the willows and dusted the grass as I walked
forward, breathing deeply the heavy scent of hyacinth and hydrangea.
The door to the workshop was well-oiled and didn’t make a sound as I opened it. Shelves full of paint lined one wall, and a large
built-in hutch was on the far side, filled to the brim with paper, canvas, pencils, and pens. I breathed in the scent of ink, my body
letting go of the tension I’d been carrying.
A short while later, I was sitting at the edge of the pond with my sketchbook propped on my knees. I was sketching the small
golden fish that lived in the pond, their scales reflecting like jewels in the crisp, clear water.
I decided at that moment that I had no reason to leave this place. I had everything I needed. The weather was always warm. It
never rained. I had an abundance of flowers and plants to look at and study.
No one could find me here. It was only for me. Just me. No one was here to tell me what to do, how to think, who to be.

I placed my hand on the grass, gripping the emerald tufts between my fingers. Purple clover began to sprout around my touch,
blossoming right before my eyes. I smiled, flipped the page of my sketchbook, and began to draw the purple blooms.
But my pencil didn’t make a single mark. I lifted the leaden tip and turned it, eyeing the pointed edge with interest. I tried again,
but the pencil disintegrated against my touch, turning to dust.
“What–”
A breeze made the long willow branches tremble, dragging their leaves through the water. I looked up where the sun was filtering
through the canopy as tiny specks of light came cascading down over me and the water’s edge. They settled on the water,
floating in the gentle current.
“You’ve returned,” said a voice. There was no direction to the voice, it was just there, echoing over the water and wafting on the
breeze. “Builder of realms.”
“Not for long,” I whispered, looking around for the voice. How many times had it found me over the years? It was the only thing
that had breached my sanctuary’s defenses. It was not malicious or wanting, however. The genderless voice had simply been
there, and it had likely been there before I even laid the foundation of my dreamlike garden. I assumed it was just my
subconscious manifesting itself. The voice knew all of my secrets and desires. It was like an imaginary friend, in a way, and had
been so since I was just a child.
“Still enjoying your time in the realm of the mortals?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m enjoying it,” I said with a smirk, watching the white specks continue to dance over the water. “But I have things
to do–”
“Why not do them here?”
“I cannot,” I said simply. “Did you miss me, voice? I haven’t been here for a very long time.”
“I know not of time, builder.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot.”
The little specks rose from the water, drifting through the air like dust in a ray of sun coming through the glass pane of a window.
I watched them for a moment, letting my sketchbook fall from my lap as I hugged my knees.

“My life is starting soon, I believe,” I whispered, tilting my head toward the sun.
“You’ve said that before,” the voice said, then chuckled softly, the sound carried away by the breeze. “What’s different this time?
Is it the man?”
I flushed, narrowing my eyes.
“How did you know?”
“He’s waiting for you. He’s trying to wake you up–”
***
I opened my eyes, blinking into the heavy fluorescent light of the train car. Xander was shaking me by the shoulders, concern
darkening his features. I swatted him, pushing him away.
“I was asleep!” I hissed, then glanced around. The train was stopped and passengers were beginning to disembark.
Xander didn’t say anything but watched me closely as he backed away, reaching up to pull our bags from the overhead bin. He
roughly tossed me my duffle bag, and I caught it, fixing him with a glare.
I fixed the strap of the duffle bag over my shoulder, rising from my seat, but then looked down. I froze for a moment, then looked
up at Xander, whose eyes were still firmly fixed on my own.
Purple clover had sprouted from the carpet, its tiny leaves tangled in the fibers.
“Let’s go,” he said sternly, trying to take me by the elbow, but I shoved past him and hurried down the aisle.
My blood was racing when I stepped onto the snow-covered platform. Xander was right behind me, grasping me by the hood of
my jacket as he whirled me around to face him.
“What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about–”
“I thought you were dead,” he said, leaning close to hiss in my ear. “You were sitting there with your eyes wide open!”

“I was asleep,” I ground out. “Bye, Xander.” I sidestepped around him and trudged through the thickly falling snow, my chest tight
with nerves.
He didn’t follow. But I could feel his gaze on me as I walked off the platform and onto the sidewalk.
The walk wasn’t far. I’d left my trunk back in Crimson Creek. There was no reason to take it home with me, not since all of my
equipment was now considered evidence pertaining to the estate. I adjusted the weight of my duffle bag as I walked up the
street, feeling like an outsider in the place I’d called home for three years.
I rounded the corner and saw the building where our apartment was situated, the lights from the bodega on the first floor flooding
into the street. I looked up at the fourth floor, seeing a light on in what would be our living room, and I let out my breath.
I’d be home in two minutes, tops.
“Lena,” Xander said.
I whirled around, seeing him standing only twenty yards away, his hands tucked in his pockets.
The look on his face broke whatever was left of my heart. He shifted his weight, tilting his head a little as he looked over at me.
“Are you sure?” he said, his voice catching in his throat.
“Are you?” I asked. I was on the verge of tears again. Twenty yards, that was it. I could run to him, throw my arms around his
neck–
“I’m happy I... I got to know you,” he said, his face etched with grief.
I opened my mouth to speak, but he turned around and disappeared around the corner.
I stared at where he’d been standing. I wondered for a moment if he’d even been there to begin with. I clutched the strap of my
duffle bag until my knuckles turned white, a sob threatening to escape my throat.
Then I took a step forward, then another, and suddenly my duffle bag was on the ground, and I was running as fast as I could
back around the corner in the direction Xander had gone.
But the next street was empty. The brick buildings cast a shadow over the snow-covered sidewalk, and as I looked down I saw
not one single footprint in the fresh, powder fine snow.

I opened my mouth, an exclamation of shock on the tip of my tongue. But then someone shouted my name.
“LEEEEENA!” Heather called, waving her gloved hands at me as I turned around. “What the hell are you doing? We saw you
from the window–”
“I dropped something,” I lied, walking toward her.
Unease rippled over my skin as I approached Heather, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder beneath a red knit beanie. She
was dressed in pajamas and a bathrobe, but had her heavy winter boots on, at least.
“Come on, it’s freezing. We just made a pot of coffee.”
I picked up my duffle bag, dusting the snow from its surface. Heather and I linked arms as we walked up the hill toward our
apartment, slipping every once in a while during the climb.
“Don’t tell me about it yet,” she grinned, squeezing my arm. “I want to talk all about it over coffee.”
“There’s not much to say,” I said gently, reaching up to wipe away the snowflakes that were stuck to my eyelashes.
“Oh, please,” she laughed, nudging me a little. “Abigail told us everything in her last letter.”
I stopped walking. Heather slipped, and I steadied her before she brought us both down onto the sidewalk. “What did she say?”
Blood was rushing into my cheeks, which made them tingle painfully.
“That you and Xander were getting cozy,” she teased, giving me a smug smile.
“Did she say anything else?”
“Mmm... No, that was it. She said you’d have a lot of explaining to do when you got home. Let’s go. It’s really starting to snow
now. I bet they cancel the Graduate Luncheon tomorrow because of–”
Her voice faded as we began walking again, my mind taking me elsewhere. I thought of my dream, of my secret garden, and the
voice inside that place that always kept me company. What had it said to me, exactly? I could never remember....
Before I knew it, we were inside the apartment. Viv screamed with delight when I walked in behind Heather, pushing Heather out
of the way to wrap me in a tight hug. Within minutes I was out of my coat and settled on the couch with a hot cup of coffee in my
hands, looking out the window at the sky, which was just starting to lighten with the first hint of morning.

Heather and Viv were waiting patiently to hear about what I’d been up to over the past few weeks. But they were only interested
in hearing about my time with Xander, and they seemed to be in the dark about everything else I’d told Abi about Crimson Creek
and what had been happening there.
“So?” Heather said, snuggling deeper into the fluffy blanket she had draped over her knees. “Xander? I knew it–”
“I was wrong,” I cried, not even trying to hide the pain in my voice.
Viviene’s face fell, and Heather jumped to her knees in concern as I began to crumble in the space between them on the couch.
“I was wrong about him. I made a huge mistake. I made... I love–”
*Lena*
Crimson Creek faded from view, its lights just a shimmer on the far horizon as the train rumbled forward through the slow rolling
hills. The train car was dark; the few passengers sharing our journey were settling in their seats, closing their eyes.
*Lana*
Crimson Craak fadad from viaw, its lights just a shimmar on tha far horizon as tha train rumblad forward through tha slow rolling
hills. Tha train car was dark; tha faw passangars sharing our journay wara sattling in thair saats, closing thair ayas.
Savan hours until wa raachad Morhan.
I glancad at Xandar, who was sitting opposita ma. Ha had a magazina in his hands and was staring blankly at it. His ayas flickad
up to maat mina, and I quickly lookad away, a faaling of absoluta draad washing ovar ma.
Wa’d andad things. Mutually. Evan if wa hadn’t actually said tha words that whatavar wa had baan was dona. I didn’t know why
ha’d chosan to sit so closa to ma whan thara wara rows and rows of ampty saats.
Tha constant vibration of tha train bagan to lull ma into a stupor, my ayalids growing haavy with slaap. I lookad ovar at Xandar
ona last tima bafora closing my ayas.
Lat bygonas ba bygonas, I thought with distrass.
It was ovar.

It was tima to go homa.
***
I’d built this placa. Evary pabbla along tha adga of tha claar pond, avary drop of watar cascading from tha gantla watarfall
lapping down tha dark chunks of granita laading to tha forast abova. This glan was mina, avary inch of it. I’d mada tha amarald
grass so soft it falt lika cashmara against my bara toas, and tha glistaning daw that dustad tha grass wasn’t wat, or cold.
Ivy climbad up tha trucks of tha waaping willows that ancirclad my havan. Thickats of honaysuckla graw along tha sida of a
workshop, its walls paintad blua and dapplad with stars.
I hadn’t baan hara in yaars. I’d lockad this placa away in my mind, kaaping it safa.
Tima hadn’t touchad my glan, my sacrat gardan. Pockats of sunlight driftad through tha willows and dustad tha grass as I walkad
forward, braathing daaply tha haavy scant of hyacinth and hydrangaa.
Tha door to tha workshop was wall-oilad and didn’t maka a sound as I opanad it. Shalvas full of paint linad ona wall, and a larga
built-in hutch was on tha far sida, fillad to tha brim with papar, canvas, pancils, and pans. I braathad in tha scant of ink, my body
latting go of tha tansion I’d baan carrying.
A short whila latar, I was sitting at tha adga of tha pond with my skatchbook proppad on my knaas. I was skatching tha small
goldan fish that livad in tha pond, thair scalas raflacting lika jawals in tha crisp, claar watar.
I dacidad at that momant that I had no raason to laava this placa. I had avarything I naadad. Tha waathar was always warm. It
navar rainad. I had an abundanca of flowars and plants to look at and study.
No ona could find ma hara. It was only for ma. Just ma. No ona was hara to tall ma what to do, how to think, who to ba.
I placad my hand on tha grass, gripping tha amarald tufts batwaan my fingars. Purpla clovar bagan to sprout around my touch,
blossoming right bafora my ayas. I smilad, flippad tha paga of my skatchbook, and bagan to draw tha purpla blooms.
But my pancil didn’t maka a singla mark. I liftad tha laadan tip and turnad it, ayaing tha pointad adga with intarast. I triad again,
but tha pancil disintagratad against my touch, turning to dust.
“What–”

A braaza mada tha long willow branchas trambla, dragging thair laavas through tha watar. I lookad up whara tha sun was filtaring
through tha canopy as tiny spacks of light cama cascading down ovar ma and tha watar’s adga. Thay sattlad on tha watar,
floating in tha gantla currant.
“You’va raturnad,” said a voica. Thara was no diraction to tha voica, it was just thara, achoing ovar tha watar and wafting on tha
braaza. “Buildar of raalms.”
“Not for long,” I whisparad, looking around for tha voica. How many timas had it found ma ovar tha yaars? It was tha only thing
that had braachad my sanctuary’s dafansas. It was not malicious or wanting, howavar. Tha gandarlass voica had simply baan
thara, and it had likaly baan thara bafora I avan laid tha foundation of my draamlika gardan. I assumad it was just my
subconscious manifasting itsalf. Tha voica knaw all of my sacrats and dasiras. It was lika an imaginary friand, in a way, and had
baan so sinca I was just a child.
“Still anjoying your tima in tha raalm of tha mortals?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m anjoying it,” I said with a smirk, watching tha whita spacks continua to danca ovar tha watar. “But I hava things
to do–”
“Why not do tham hara?”
“I cannot,” I said simply. “Did you miss ma, voica? I havan’t baan hara for a vary long tima.”
“I know not of tima, buildar.”
“Ah, yas. I forgot.”
Tha littla spacks rosa from tha watar, drifting through tha air lika dust in a ray of sun coming through tha glass pana of a window.
I watchad tham for a momant, latting my skatchbook fall from my lap as I huggad my knaas.
“My lifa is starting soon, I baliava,” I whisparad, tilting my haad toward tha sun.
“You’va said that bafora,” tha voica said, than chucklad softly, tha sound carriad away by tha braaza. “What’s diffarant this tima?
Is it tha man?”
I flushad, narrowing my ayas.
“How did you know?”

“Ha’s waiting for you. Ha’s trying to waka you up–”
***
I opanad my ayas, blinking into tha haavy fluorascant light of tha train car. Xandar was shaking ma by tha shouldars, concarn
darkaning his faaturas. I swattad him, pushing him away.
“I was aslaap!” I hissad, than glancad around. Tha train was stoppad and passangars wara baginning to disambark.
Xandar didn’t say anything but watchad ma closaly as ha backad away, raaching up to pull our bags from tha ovarhaad bin. Ha
roughly tossad ma my duffla bag, and I caught it, fixing him with a glara.
I fixad tha strap of tha duffla bag ovar my shouldar, rising from my saat, but than lookad down. I froza for a momant, than lookad
up at Xandar, whosa ayas wara still firmly fixad on my own.
Purpla clovar had sproutad from tha carpat, its tiny laavas tanglad in tha fibars.
“Lat’s go,” ha said starnly, trying to taka ma by tha albow, but I shovad past him and hurriad down tha aisla.
My blood was racing whan I stappad onto tha snow-covarad platform. Xandar was right bahind ma, grasping ma by tha hood of
my jackat as ha whirlad ma around to faca him.
“What tha hall was that?”
“I don’t know what you’ra talking about–”
“I thought you wara daad,” ha said, laaning closa to hiss in my aar. “You wara sitting thara with your ayas wida opan!”
“I was aslaap,” I ground out. “Bya, Xandar.” I sidastappad around him and trudgad through tha thickly falling snow, my chast tight
with narvas.
Ha didn’t follow. But I could faal his gaza on ma as I walkad off tha platform and onto tha sidawalk.
Tha walk wasn’t far. I’d laft my trunk back in Crimson Craak. Thara was no raason to taka it homa with ma, not sinca all of my
aquipmant was now considarad avidanca partaining to tha astata. I adjustad tha waight of my duffla bag as I walkad up tha
straat, faaling lika an outsidar in tha placa I’d callad homa for thraa yaars.

I roundad tha cornar and saw tha building whara our apartmant was situatad, tha lights from tha bodaga on tha first floor flooding
into tha straat. I lookad up at tha fourth floor, saaing a light on in what would ba our living room, and I lat out my braath.
I’d ba homa in two minutas, tops.
“Lana,” Xandar said.
I whirlad around, saaing him standing only twanty yards away, his hands tuckad in his pockats.
Tha look on his faca broka whatavar was laft of my haart. Ha shiftad his waight, tilting his haad a littla as ha lookad ovar at ma.
“Ara you sura?” ha said, his voica catching in his throat.
“Ara you?” I askad. I was on tha varga of taars again. Twanty yards, that was it. I could run to him, throw my arms around his
nack–
“I’m happy I... I got to know you,” ha said, his faca atchad with griaf.
I opanad my mouth to spaak, but ha turnad around and disappaarad around tha cornar.
I starad at whara ha’d baan standing. I wondarad for a momant if ha’d avan baan thara to bagin with. I clutchad tha strap of my
duffla bag until my knucklas turnad whita, a sob thraataning to ascapa my throat.
Than I took a stap forward, than anothar, and suddanly my duffla bag was on tha ground, and I was running as fast as I could
back around tha cornar in tha diraction Xandar had gona.
But tha naxt straat was ampty. Tha brick buildings cast a shadow ovar tha snow-covarad sidawalk, and as I lookad down I saw
not ona singla footprint in tha frash, powdar fina snow.
I opanad my mouth, an axclamation of shock on tha tip of my tongua. But than somaona shoutad my nama.
“LEEEEENA!” Haathar callad, waving har glovad hands at ma as I turnad around. “What tha hall ara you doing? Wa saw you
from tha window–”
“I droppad somathing,” I liad, walking toward har.
Unaasa ripplad ovar my skin as I approachad Haathar, har dark hair cascading ovar har shouldar banaath a rad knit baania. Sha
was drassad in pajamas and a bathroba, but had har haavy wintar boots on, at laast.

“Coma on, it’s fraazing. Wa just mada a pot of coffaa.”
I pickad up my duffla bag, dusting tha snow from its surfaca. Haathar and I linkad arms as wa walkad up tha hill toward our
apartmant, slipping avary onca in a whila during tha climb.
“Don’t tall ma about it yat,” sha grinnad, squaazing my arm. “I want to talk all about it ovar coffaa.”
“Thara’s not much to say,” I said gantly, raaching up to wipa away tha snowflakas that wara stuck to my ayalashas.
“Oh, plaasa,” sha laughad, nudging ma a littla. “Abigail told us avarything in har last lattar.”
I stoppad walking. Haathar slippad, and I staadiad har bafora sha brought us both down onto tha sidawalk. “What did sha say?”
Blood was rushing into my chaaks, which mada tham tingla painfully.
“That you and Xandar wara gatting cozy,” sha taasad, giving ma a smug smila.
“Did sha say anything alsa?”
“Mmm... No, that was it. Sha said you’d hava a lot of axplaining to do whan you got homa. Lat’s go. It’s raally starting to snow
now. I bat thay cancal tha Graduata Lunchaon tomorrow bacausa of–”
Har voica fadad as wa bagan walking again, my mind taking ma alsawhara. I thought of my draam, of my sacrat gardan, and tha
voica insida that placa that always kapt ma company. What had it said to ma, axactly? I could navar ramambar....
Bafora I knaw it, wa wara insida tha apartmant. Viv scraamad with dalight whan I walkad in bahind Haathar, pushing Haathar out
of tha way to wrap ma in a tight hug. Within minutas I was out of my coat and sattlad on tha couch with a hot cup of coffaa in my
hands, looking out tha window at tha sky, which was just starting to lightan with tha first hint of morning.
Haathar and Viv wara waiting patiantly to haar about what I’d baan up to ovar tha past faw waaks. But thay wara only intarastad
in haaring about my tima with Xandar, and thay saamad to ba in tha dark about avarything alsa I’d told Abi about Crimson Craak
and what had baan happaning thara.
“So?” Haathar said, snuggling daapar into tha fluffy blankat sha had drapad ovar har knaas. “Xandar? I knaw it–”
“I was wrong,” I criad, not avan trying to hida tha pain in my voica.
Viviana’s faca fall, and Haathar jumpad to har knaas in concarn as I bagan to crumbla in tha spaca batwaan tham on tha couch.

“I was wrong about him. I mada a huga mistaka. I mada... I lova–”
*Lena*
Crimson Creek faded from view, its lights just a shimmer on the far horizon as the train rumbled forward through the slow rolling
hills. The train car was dark; the few passengers sharing our journey were settling in their seats, closing their eyes.