I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 124: A Still House Never Sleeps
The Argent house was quiet when Chris pulled into the driveway. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made grief echo louder.
He killed the engine, sat for a moment in the car, and stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror. The man who looked back at him was composed, but there was a weight in his eyes — the kind that never really lifts.
Inside, the house smelled like coffee and paper — his wife had been working late again at the dining table. When she saw him step through the door, she immediately set her mug down.
"Chris," she said softly. "You're home late. Did you find them?"
He took off his jacket, hung it on the rack with deliberate calm, and answered without looking up. "Yes."
Her breath caught at his tone. "And?"
Chris finally met her eyes. "They're dead."
The words landed heavy. No theatrics, no trembling. Just truth, stripped of everything else.
She covered her mouth with her hand and stepped closer. "Oh God… how?"
"Car crash," he said first. Then, after a pause, "Caused by an attack."
Her eyes widened. "You mean—"
"Werewolf." He nodded once. "Isaac Lahey."
For a long moment, she didn't speak. Just stared at him as if trying to gauge how deep the wound ran. "You're sure?"
"I saw the marks myself," Chris said quietly. "Claw wounds. Inside the car. He tore through both of them."
Her shoulders sank. "The boy Allison's been talking about?"
Chris's expression didn't waver. "The same."
She turned away, gripping the edge of the table. "Chris… this is going to destroy her."
"I know."
"Then what are you going to do?"
He exhaled slowly, the weight of decades of family code pressing against his chest. "What I've always done," he said. "Find the truth first."
His wife looked at him sharply. "And if the truth is what it looks like?"
Chris's jaw tightened. "Then I'll deal with that too."
The silence stretched between them, sharp as glass. The air felt too thin, too still.
After a while, she spoke again, her voice trembling. "We have already lost too many people, Chris. Don't lose yourself to this too."
He gave a small, tired smile — the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "I already did. Years ago."
He turned toward the staircase, but before heading up, he stopped. "Don't tell Allison anything yet," he said. "Not until I'm sure."
His wife nodded weakly. "Be careful."
Chris paused, then murmured, almost to himself, "Careful's what got our men killed."
He went upstairs, the house swallowing his footsteps.
Downstairs, his wife stood alone in the kitchen's dim light, staring at the untouched mug of coffee. The steam had faded, the warmth gone — much like the night itself.
Allison's Perspective.
Allison couldn't sleep. She'd come downstairs hoping a glass of water or a quiet moment might settle her thoughts — maybe even surprise her dad if he was still up. The house was dark, quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in. Her hair was still tousled from tossing in bed, and the faint smell of coffee drifted in from the kitchen, unexpected at this hour.
Then she froze.
Her parents were talking — low voices, sharp with something that didn't belong in the cold night air.
She stopped halfway down the stairs, hidden behind the wall that opened into the living room.
"…I saw the marks myself," her father's voice carried. "Claw wounds. Inside the car. He tore through both of them."
Her mother gasped. "The boy Allison's been talking about?"
Allison's heartbeat stumbled.
Her father's answer came slow, heavy. "The same. Isaac Lahey."
The world tilted.
Her fingers tightened on the railing. The name rang in her ears, louder than anything else — louder than the ticking clock, louder than her mother's horrified silence.
"No…" she mouthed to herself.
Her mother's voice trembled. "You're sure?"
Chris didn't hesitate. "I'm sure."
Allison pressed her back against the wall, breathing shallowly. Her chest ached — not from fear, but from something worse.
Betrayal.
Her father continued, voice steady but distant. "Don't tell her anything yet. Not until I'm sure."
That was enough. Allison slipped back up the stairs before her mother could answer. Her movements were silent, instinctive — a hunter's daughter.
Once in her room, she sat down on her bed, her hands trembling.
Isaac — the boy who smiled shyly in the hallways, who flinched whenever someone raised their voice, who had once told her he liked the way she laughed — killed two hunters?
No. It didn't fit. It didn't make sense.
She remembered the warmth in his voice when he said goodnight after their last phone call. The soft awkwardness. The gentleness.
But then she remembered the other truth — her family's truth. The code. The history.
Her head dropped into her hands.
If her father was right, then everything she felt for Isaac — the confusion, the spark, the fragile hope — was a lie.
If he was wrong… then Isaac was in danger.
Allison sat there in the sliver of moonlight, the decision already forming behind the storm of her thoughts.
She had to see him.
She had to know the truth herself.