Emma felt the shift the mont he spoke. The quiet authority in his tone tightened sothing in her chest. Whatever had just happened to her wasn’t sothing he intended to take lightly.
Mrs. Thompson arrived unhurried, but nothing about her felt slow. She entered the lounge with composed certainty, Her gaze found Emma imdiately—sharp and perceptive, as if she could see beyond the surface.
Silver threaded her dark hair, and her posture held the quiet strength of so wolf used to being obeyed.
"Sit comfortably, Luna," she said, her voice gentle but firm.
Emma was already seated, yet she adjusted instinctively, her spine straightening under that calm command.
Brandon remained standing behind her, one hand resting on the back of the chair in a gesture that was both protective and restrained. He stood steady behind her—a silent promise she wasn’t alone.
"The intruder is dead," he said, his voice low and controlled.
Mrs. Thompson didn’t react imdiately. Her attention remained fixed on Emma, as though the news, though significant, was secondary to sothing far more important unfolding before her.
"He took his own life?" she asked after a mont, her voice quieter now, as though testing the weight of the words.
Brandon did not answer imdiately; he simply inclined his head once, the confirmation asured and certain.
Emma’s fingers tightened slowly in her lap as her gaze dropped, her lashes lowering to hide the shift in her eyes.
"I know why he did it," she murmured before she could stop herself.
Brandon’s attention snapped to her, his brows tightening as a darker edge crept into his gaze.
"Why?" he asked, his voice low but intent.
Emma lifted her head again, Her uncertainty was gone. Sothing deeper had taken its place.
"The wolf behind the mask gave the order just as he was about to be exposed," she said quietly, "to cover his tracks."
A faint pause followed, heavy with implication.
"And the wolf obeyed."
Her fingers curled tighter.
"He knew..." her voice grew faint. "I could turn him against his masked alpha."
That drew Mrs. Thompson closer. She moved toward Emma with deliberate steps and took a seat opposite her, her expression sharpening with interest.
"Tell what you saw," she said.
Emma swallowed, gathering the fragnts of what still lingered in her mind. "It wasn’t clear," she admitted, her voice steadying as she spoke.
"I saw a figure... an alpha, I think. But his face was hidden behind a mask. Every ti I tried to see beyond it, sothing pushed back. "It felt like sothing was pushing back—like the vision didn’t want to go further."
Mrs. Thompson listened without interruption, her fingers folding neatly in her lap as if she had expected no less.
"Yes," she said softly. "That happens with your first vision."
Emma lifted her head, confusion flickering across her face. "That happens?"
Mrs. Thompson leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering in a way that drew Emma’s full attention.
"You’re not struggling because you’re weak," she said.
"You’re struggling because you’re forcing what shouldn’t be forced."
Emma frowned, her brows knitting together. "Then what does it respond to?"
"It responds to control," Mrs. Thompson replied. "And patience."
Her gaze deepened, holding Emma in place as she continued.
"The space you enter isn’t fully yours. It’s shared—shaped by more than your will."
"You treat it like sothing to conquer... when it’s sothing to understand."
Brandon’s hand tightened slightly against the chair, his attention sharpening.
"Explain," he said.
Mrs. Thompson inclined her head, though her focus remained on Emma.
"She chases what she sees," she said.
"She reaches for it, demands it, tries to uncover what’s hidden." In doing so, she disturbs the balance of the vision itself."
Emma’s lips parted as realization began to take shape.
"And so it retreats?" she asked.
"Exactly," Mrs. Thompson answered.
Emma leaned forward, her frustration was obvious now, though tempered by growing focus.
"Then what should I do instead?" she asked.
Mrs. Thompson allowed a faint, knowing curve to touch her lips.
"Stop chasing it. Let it co to you."
The words settled heavily between them, carrying a aning that reached beyond their simplicity.
"When the vision cos again," Mrs. Thompson continued, "you must not reach for the mask or struggle against what resists you. You must allow it to remain as it is."
Emma shook her head slightly, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "That feels like giving up."
"It isn’t giving up," Mrs. Thompson said.
"It’s a strategy."
She regarded Emma with quiet intensity.
"You don’t break into a guarded mind by force."
"You enter it with intention, precision, and understanding. Every vision has patterns—openings that only show themselves to those patient enough to see them."
Emma’s fingers curled slowly, no longer trembling but steady with thought.
"And how do I find those openings?" she asked.
Mrs. Thompson’s voice softened, though it did not lose its weight.
"You begin by observing," she said.
"Let the vision unfold. Watch the small details..."
"You notice the smallest details, the shifts in movent, the monts where sothing changes, however subtly."
She paused before adding, "And then you adapt."
Emma’s gaze sharpened. "Adapt how?"
"By changing the way you enter," Mrs. Thompson replied. "Right now, you approach it with uncertainty, as though you are searching for answers. That is why the vision resists you."
Her eyes held Emma’s steadily.
"You need to enter with certainty—like you belong there."
A quiet tension settled in the lounge as Emma absorbed her words.
"And the mask?" she asked at last.
Mrs. Thompson leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful.
"The mask isn’t just an obstacle," she said.
"It’s a safeguard—sothing placed there on purpose."
Emma’s voice lowered. "His purpose?"
Mrs. Thompson t her gaze without hesitation.
"Or yours."
The implication lingered, heavy and unspoken.
Her breath hitched faintly as the thought settled deeper than she expected.
Mrs. Thompson continued, her tone asured and calm.
"Power like yours doesn’t reveal itself all at once." she said. "It unfolds in stages, and with each stage cos a test. What you experienced wasn’t failure."
Her gaze softened slightly.
"It was a asure."
Silence followed, stretching through the lounge as Emma sat with the weight of those words. The confusion that had clouded her earlier began to shift, giving way to sothing steadier, sothing more deliberate.
At last, her fingers curled once more, this ti with quiet resolve rather than uncertainty.
"I’ll try again," she said.
Brandon’s hand moved from the back of the chair to her shoulder, firm and reassuring, his presence grounding her without words.
Mrs. Thompson studied her for a mont longer before inclining her head.
"Yes," she said. "And when you do, rember this."
Her voice lowered, carrying a final note of quiet authority.
"Dont try to see what is hidden."
She held Emma’s gaze, unwavering.
"Make it reveal itself."
Brandon’s hand remained on her shoulder, firm and reassuring, his thumb brushing once in a quiet, grounding motion. Emma drew in a slow breath, holding onto that touch as though it anchored her to sothing steady.
"And if it doesn’t?" she asked, her voice softer now, but edged with determination. "If it keeps resisting ?"
Mrs. Thompson did not answer imdiately. She regarded Emma with a calm, asuring look, as though weighing not just the question, but the strength behind it.
"Then you are asking the wrong way," she said at last.
Emma frowned slightly. "Asking?"
"Yes," Mrs. Thompson replied. "You are still approaching it as though you are seeking permission to see. "Power doesn’t ask, Luna."
"It asserts."
Brandon’s fingers stilled against her shoulder, his gaze shifting between them.
"You’re saying she should force it?" he asked, a note of caution threading through his voice.
Mrs. Thompson shook her head once.
"I am saying she should stop doubting what is already hers," she corrected. "There is a difference. Have you ever asked why the wolf masked himself?"
"Why?" she asked.
"He’s afraid of your awakening," she said quietly.
Emma’s lips parted, but no words ca at first. The thought settled slowly, uneasily, like sothing she wasn’t sure she was ready to accept.
"And if I lose control?" she asked quietly.
Brandon’s grip tightened instantly, his voice firm.
"You won’t."
She glanced back at him, uncertainty flickering.
"You don’t know that."
His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice did not waver.
"I do," he said quietly. "Because I’ll be there to keep you anchored."
The certainty in his tone left no room for argunt.
Emma held his gaze for a mont, sothing in her expression softening before she turned back.
Mrs. Thompson observed the exchange without interruption, then spoke again, her voice calr now, but no less precise.
"Control isn’t sothing you hold by force," she said. "It’s sothing you return to."
Her gaze shifted to Brandon’s hand resting on Emma’s shoulder.
"To what is yours."
Emma followed it, her breath catching softly as understanding settled in.
"The bond..." she whispered.
And this ti, she didn’t just feel it—she reached for it.
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