Chapter 9: Sirens in the Quiet
Josie
I couldn’t sleep.
I’d tried. Gods, I’d really tried. Tossing, turning, curling into the covers, then throwing them off when they felt too heavy. The ceiling stared back at me with the same silence I’d been trying to outrun. I even whispered my own name like it might tether me to the present, but everything about tonight refused to sit right in my chest.
A restless ache pulsed under my skin, and before I could talk myself out of it, I threw back the covers and reached for my robe—the blue one I liked. It was soft, long enough to cover my legs, and it smelled faintly of the citrus soap I used earlier that day. I tied it tight around my waist like it might hold me together, and quietly pushed open the door to the hall.
The corridors were hushed, dim. Light spilled gently from the sconces, painting the walls in warm golds and soft shadows. The floor was cold under my bare feet, but I didn’t stop. I told myself I just needed air. That I was wandering. Not looking.
Not for any of them.
Even after all this time in the pack house, I still didn’t know where my mates’ rooms were. Not really. I’d never gone looking. Never dared. And for a while, that had felt like a good thing. Boundaries. Space.
But tonight? The not-knowing clawed at my skin. Made me feel hollow. Or maybe that was guilt. Or confusion. Or all of it tangled together.
I turned a corner—quiet as I could—and that’s when I heard it.
Singing.
Low. Smooth. Soft, like the kind of lullaby no one was supposed to hear. Each note curled around the edges of the walls like mist.