Echoes of Guilt

Third Person's P.O.V:

The harsh, sterile fluorescent lights of the pack hospital corridor buzzed overhead, casting long, sickly shadows across the polished linoleum floor. Dante, Silas, and Gideon paced outside the thin wooden door of Room 204. The formidable Alpha Triplets, men who struck terror into the hearts of rogue packs and rival alphas alike, now looked like caged, tormented beasts. Their broad shoulders held a rigid, suffocating tension, pulling their muscles taut beneath their dark clothes. The sharp, clinical scent of bleach and rubbing alcohol hung heavy in the air, but it failed to mask the phantom odor that still clung mercilessly to their heightened senses—the sickening, sweet smell of Freya’s scorched honey skin.

Just on the other side of that flimsy wooden barrier lay the girl they had sworn to protect, now reduced to a broken, blistered shell. And they were the architects of her destruction. The brothers knew it. The realization sat like lead in their guts. Their inner wolves paced frantically inside their minds, whining and clawing at the mental cages they had constructed over six agonizing years.

The terrifying loop of the kitchen incident played over and over behind Dante’s eyelids every time he blinked. He saw Vesper cornering Freya against the marble counters. He saw the heavy metal kettle. He saw the rolling steam rising from the spout, a warning sign his sharp Alpha instincts had registered too late. Why had they frozen? Why had their heavy combat boots felt anchored to the dining hall floor?

The boiling water hitting her fragile frame sounded like a sickening, wet hiss, followed instantly by a blood-curdling scream that tore through the very fabric of their souls. Dante had reached out, his hand grasping empty air. "Vesper no..." His desperate, raw shout had been swallowed whole by Freya’s shrieks of sheer agony. It was the sound of a spirit shattering into jagged pieces. They had watched her drop. They had watched her writhe on the hard tiles, her beautiful, flawless honey skin turning an angry, blistered crimson. Their forced apathy, their carefully constructed masks of cruelty, had directly emboldened Vesper's sadistic behavior. They had given the pack the green light to treat Freya like dirt beneath their shoes.

The morning had already been a ticking time bomb. Hours before the boiling water, Silas had been teetering on the edge of a bloodbath. They had been sitting at the massive oak dining table, pretending to ignore Freya’s quiet presence as she served them their breakfast. Cleo, Silas’s designated girlfriend, had leaned in, her nasal voice dripping with venom as she openly mocked Freya’s bruised state. Cleo’s high-pitched, grating laughter had scraped against Silas’s eardrums like sandpaper.

Silas’s dark, merciless wolf had surged forward, crashing against his ribcage with lethal intent. The whites of his eyes had flooded with pitch-black shadows, the universal sign of an Alpha losing his grip on his beast. He had slammed his massive fist onto the solid wood. The impact echoed like a gunshot through the dining hall, fracturing the thick oak straight down the middle, sending sharp splinters flying across the plates.

"Shut the fuck up," Silas had snarled, his voice dropping into a guttural, demonic timbre that made the silverware rattle. "Just talk when you need to, understand?"

Cleo had whimpered, shrinking back in her chair, her painted face draining of all color. The entire room had fallen dead silent, pack members staring in wide-eyed fear at the most volatile brother. Dante had intervened then, using the unyielding authority of the eldest triplet through their mind-link to force Silas back into submission. But the fury had remained, simmering just beneath the surface, blinding them to the real threat brewing in the kitchen.

How did it come to this? How did three boys who once worshipped the ground Freya walked on become her primary tormentors? The answer tasted like ash in Gideon’s mouth. He leaned his head back against the cool plaster wall of the hospital corridor, closing his eyes as the bitter memories dragged him under.

Six years ago. The sky had wept torrents of freezing rain the day they buried Luna Helena. The pack graveyard had been a sea of black umbrellas and mourning cries. Their mother, the warm, beating heart of the pack, stolen from them in a brutal, bloody betrayal. They had stood by the fresh, muddy grave, three hollowed-out teenagers stripped of their warmth, staring down at the heavy mahogany casket.

That was the exact moment Gamma Malachi had moved in, a shadow whispering poison into their vulnerable, bleeding minds. The Gamma had stood behind them, his heavy hands resting on their shaking shoulders, reeking of wet fur and cigars.

"Remember, whatever we do to her is what she deserves," Malachi had murmured, his voice a relentless, hypnotic drone over the sound of the rain. "Like father, like daughter. Just like her father, she wears a mask of innocence, fooling everyone. She should pay for his betrayal. Only in that way will you all get to avenge your mother's murder."

Grief was a blinding, all-consuming force. Malachi had handed them a target, a physical place to channel their bottomless rage. Bound tightly by that manipulated vow, the triplets had forcefully buried their deep childhood affection. They took the pure, fierce protective instincts they held for Freya and locked them inside an iron vault. They masked their own internal bleeding by becoming instruments of merciless vengeance, punishing the daughter for the sins of the father. They starved themselves of her light to feed their deadened souls.

A muffled sob dragged Gideon back to the sterile hallway. Silas stopped his frantic pacing. Dante snapped his head toward the wooden door. Their heightened Alpha hearing caught every ragged intake of breath, every trembling syllable spoken in Room 204.

"I miss them, Callum. I love them." Freya’s shattered voice bled through the wood, stabbing them in the chest like rusted blades.

Dante’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. His chest heaved with the effort to keep his wolf at bay.

"Dante, Silas, Gideon... they promised they would never let anyone lay a finger on me," she continued, her tone weak, brittle, and drenched in a sorrow so deep it threatened to drown them all. "Is this how everyone fulfills their promise?"

Silas grabbed the metal door handle, his knuckles turning stark white, but Dante’s heavy hand clamped down on his wrist, stopping him. They needed to hear this. They needed to face the ugly monstrosity of their actions.

Her voice faded into a breathy sigh, a sound so final and devastated that the stoic, emotionless facades the brothers had worn for six years crumbled into dust. The iron vault burst open. The wolves inside them wailed in unfiltered devastation, recognizing the severe damage they had inflicted upon their mate.

Then, the heavy silence broke.

"Freya wake up. Freya!" Callum’s panicked shout ripped through the room.

The brothers abandoned all restraint. Silas shoved the door open. The wood splintered around the lock, bursting inward with a deafening crash. The three massive Alphas poured into the small hospital room, the air pressure instantly dropping under the sheer weight of their dominating auras.

Freya lay limp and unresponsive on the narrow mattress, her eyes closed, her pale face contrasting starkly with the angry, raw burns wrapping around her neck and arms. Callum hovered over her, his hands hovering uselessly above her injured skin. When he looked up, his eyes locked onto the triplets. The sheer, unfiltered disgust burning in the Beta's gaze made their powerful wolves whimper in shame.

"Is she breathing?" Gideon demanded, his voice tight, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The fear of losing her was a cold grip around his throat.

Callum stood up, squaring his shoulders against the three most dangerous men in the pack. "She better not."

"How dare you say that?" Dante roared, his Alpha command lacing his tone, demanding immediate submission.

"It's better to die than bear all these tortures!" Callum shouted back, his chest heaving, refusing to bow his head. He pointed a trembling finger at Freya’s bandaged limbs, his long-suppressed fury finally boiling over. "Look at her! I've kept my mouth shut for years because it's my duty to obey the Alpha's decisions. But this? This is a vicious, sick act that no one deserves."

Gideon stepped forward, his face hardening as he fell back on the only defense he had left. The brainwashing. The excuse. "Her father was a traitor. She pays for his crimes."

"But she isn't her father!" Callum snarled, stepping directly into Gideon’s space, reckless and driven by pure, protective fury. "If she was a traitor, she could have killed you all years ago. She cooks every single meal you eat. She could have poisoned your food just like her father poisoned the former Alpha. But she didn't."

The logic hit Gideon like a physical blow. He let out a bitter, hollow chuckle to mask the sudden, terrifying realization that Callum was right. "You can't be sure of that."

Callum shook his head, his face twisting in raw contempt for his best friends. He stepped right up to the three Alphas, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. "If you all have this much problem with her, then kill her right now."

The words hung in the air, heavy and lethal. Dante, Silas, and Gideon froze.

"You know what?" Callum challenged, his voice dropping to a dangerous, steady calm. "I'll do that. Because I can't see her in this much pain anymore. I will end her misery myself."

"Don't you dare," Dante growled instantly. The sound ripped from his throat, a dark, possessive rumble that shook the medical instruments on the stainless-steel trays. His eyes flashed a deadly gold. The very suggestion of Callum harming Freya—of anyone taking her life—shattered his facade. They had sworn to torture her, yes, but deep down, in the hidden, bleeding corners of their hearts, they knew they couldn't survive a single day without her on this earth.

"Why, Alpha?" Callum mocked, ignoring the lethal warning. "You want to kill her with your own hands? Is that it?"

"Callum!" Dante barked, the Alpha tone lashing out, designed to force the Beta to his knees. Disbelief colored Dante’s features. His best friend, his loyal Beta, was openly suggesting the execution of the girl they secretly couldn't bear to lose.

Before the volatile standoff could erupt into a physical brawl, a soft, trembling sound broke the heavy tension.

"Silas..."

The whispered name sliced through the thick, aggressive Alpha auras like a silver blade. Everyone froze. Silas whipped his head toward the bed.

Freya whimpered weakly. Her eyes remained screwed shut tightly, her brow slick with cold sweat. Her delicate body began to thrash lightly against the stark white sheets. She wasn't waking up. She was trapped deep inside a brutal, vivid hallucination, dragged backward in time by the agonizing physical trauma of her fresh burns.

Without a single second of hesitation, Silas broke.

He ignored Dante’s commanding presence. He ignored Callum’s furious stance. He ignored the deeply ingrained grudges and the manipulated thirst for revenge. Silas rushed forward, his large frame dropping to his knees beside the hospital bed. He reached out, his large, calloused hands shaking as they hovered over her injured skin, terrified of hurting her further.

"Freya," Silas choked out, his voice cracking. "I'm here. Look at me."

She didn't hear him. Her breathing escalated into harsh, rapid pants. Her face drained of all color, turning an alarming, sickly pale.

"Call the doctor!" Gideon yelled over his shoulder, his analytical composure shattering into a million pieces.

"You said you will protect me..." Freya sobbed, her head tossing from side to side. "...then why are you not stopping him?"

Silas’s chest caved in. He carefully bypassed her burned arms and slid his hands under her shoulders, gathering her fragile, fiercely trembling body into his strong arms. It was the very first time he had held her in six long years. She felt so small, so devastatingly delicate. Her scent—a intoxicating mix of wild honey and rain—flooded his senses, bringing a rush of childhood memories that tore his soul to shreds.

But Freya wasn't feeling the comfort of his embrace. In her mind, she was back in the cold, damp dungeons of the packhouse. She was fourteen years old. Gamma Malachi stood over her, his leather belt wrapped around his fist, the heavy metal buckle gleaming in the dim light.

"Ouch... it's hurting!" Freya screamed, her voice muffled against Silas’s chest. She touched her own back, her fingers curling into tight, frantic fists as if trying to shield herself from phantom blows. "Silas, please stop him!"

Tears sprang to Silas’s eyes, hot and fast. They spilled over his lashes, tracking down his cheeks and dropping onto her hospital gown. "I'm here, baby, I'm here. No one is hurting you," he pleaded, rocking her gently. But she couldn't feel him. She was locked in the hell they had allowed to happen.

"Dante, you said you'll always take care of me," Freya cried out, her back arching forcefully as another phantom strike of the belt landed on her flesh.

At the foot of the bed, Dante stumbled backward as if he had been shot in the chest. His breath hitched. He stared at her writhing form, his vision blurring with unshed tears. He remembered that night. They all did. Malachi had beaten her until her skin split open, leaving her to bleed alone on the cold stone floor for two straight days. They had known. And they had done nothing. They had let the revenge run its course, convincing themselves it was justice.

"Gideon..." Freya sobbed, her voice growing hoarse. "...you said you'll never let anyone lay a finger on me."

Gideon opened his mouth to speak, to offer some empty comfort, but his throat seized. The suffocating tide of remorse crushed his vocal cords. He watched his brother hold the girl they had systematically destroyed. The physical evidence of her trauma, the sheer terror in her senseless state, stripped away every lie Malachi had fed them. She wasn't a traitor. She was a victim. And they were her monsters.

"Ahhh!" Freya shrieked, the sound tearing through the sterile room. She buried her face deeper into Silas’s cotton shirt. Her hot tears rapidly soaked through the dark fabric, pressing against the heavy, rapid beating of his heart. "You all said you love me!"

The final, desperate scream shattered Silas’s heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his chin on the top of her head, crying openly. His shirt was drenched. His soul felt ripped from his body.

The door swung open, and the pack doctor rushed in, a syringe already prepared in her hand. She took one look at the thrashing girl and the weeping Alpha holding her, and her expression tightened.

"You need to move, Alpha," the doctor instructed urgently, stepping up to the bed.

Silas let out a deep, warning growl. His arms tightened around Freya, his wolf refusing to surrender her to anyone else. He bared his fangs at the doctor, the primal need to protect overriding his rational mind.

"Silas, move," Gideon ordered hurriedly, stepping forward to grip his brother’s shoulder. "Let her see the doctor."

It took every ounce of Silas’s willpower to loosen his grip. He gently laid Freya back onto the mattress, keeping one hand securely wrapped around her unburned wrist. She was still panting, her face a mask of pure horror, her eyes darting frantically under her closed lids.

"She is experiencing severe trauma flashbacks," the doctor explained, her voice clipped and professional as she swabbed Freya’s uninjured shoulder. "Her body believes the abuse is happening right now."

Dante and Gideon exchanged a look of pure agony. The confirmation that Freya was reliving the brutal beatings was the final nail in the coffin of their pride. The doctor slid the needle into Freya’s muscle, depressing the heavy sedative into her bloodstream.

For a few agonizing minutes, Freya continued to whimper and twitch. Silas knelt beside the bed, his thumb stroking the back of her hand, whispering continuous, desperate apologies that she couldn't hear. Slowly, the medication took hold. Her erratic, panicked breathing began to soften. The rigid tension in her muscles melted away, leaving her limp against the sheets. Her chest rose and fell in a quiet, steady rhythm. The tear stains remained stark and shiny on her pale cheeks.

"She should gain consciousness in a few hours, or perhaps by tomorrow," the doctor murmured, checking the bandages one last time. "But the psychological damage... the events she endured must have been brutal. She will need time." With a brief, respectful bow to the Alphas, the doctor exited the room, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in her wake.

Callum stood in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes burning holes into the triplets. He didn't need to say another word. The damage was laid bare for everyone to see.

Dante took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked at Freya’s sleeping face, then at Silas, who was still glued to her side. The crushing weight of guilt was too heavy to bear. It was easier to rely on the familiar, numbing cold of their hatred. It was easier to cling to Malachi's lies than to face the truth of what they had become.

Dante forcefully hardened his facial expression. He locked the iron vault back down, sealing his wolf away. Gideon mirrored the action, his jaw setting into a rigid, stone-cold line. They desperately tried to cling to their crumbling, manipulated vow of vengeance to protect themselves from the reality of their sins.

"Come, Silas," Dante commanded strictly. He squared his broad shoulders, turning his back on the hospital bed, preparing to leave the room before his mask slipped any further. He needed air. He needed distance.

Silas didn't move. He kept his eyes locked on Freya’s face, his hand still holding hers.

"I'll stay with her," Silas declared firmly, his voice thick with leftover tears, but steady with resolve. He tightened his gentle hold on her sleeping form, blatantly refusing to release her.

Gideon narrowed his eyes. He didn't want Callum to hear the fracture in their unity. He pushed his voice strictly through their private mind-link, the telepathic connection buzzing with Alpha authority. *We can't be weak. You know that. We made a vow.*

Silas flinched, but he didn't respond through the link. Instead, he spoke aloud, letting his words ring clearly in the quiet room for Callum and his brothers to hear.

"I don't care," Silas spat. He averted his gaze from Dante and Gideon, his shoulders hunching protectively over Freya. He was willing to embrace that perceived weakness, to bear the shame and the judgment of his brothers, if it meant providing her a fraction of the comfort they had denied her for six years.

Dante and Gideon stared at their brother in stunned disbelief. The impenetrable wall they had built together, the unified front of the formidable Triplets, had cracked wide open. Silas had broken rank. He had chosen the traitor’s daughter over their sacred vow.

Realizing they were unable to force him to leave without causing a physical brawl over her injured body, Dante and Gideon turned on their heels. They stormed out of the hospital room, their heavy boots thudding aggressively against the floorboards. As they marched back down the sterile corridor, an uncontrollable, chaotic storm of anger and sorrow howled wildly within them, tearing them apart from the inside out.