☾

.𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢.
𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒋𝒂

La Push, WA.
March 2010

                                "𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑳𝑬 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑻!" Paul Lahote's voice boomed through the silent house, breaking the fragile calm of the morning. The sound of his heavy footsteps thundered down the hall before he all but slammed Maija's door open. The door rattled on its hinges, but Paul didn't flinch. He still wasn't used to the strength that came with phasing, and patience wasn't exactly his strong suit.

He marched into her room and yanked the covers off her, ignoring her groan of protest. "Maija Awena Lahote, I'm going to kill you."

A muffled "F off," came from under her pillow. Maija groggily flung another one in his direction, but Paul caught it midair with ease.

"Get up!" Paul barked, his tone brooking no argument. When she didn't move fast enough for his liking, he grabbed her ankle and gently tugged her onto the floor.

"Damnit, Paul!" Maija hissed, now sprawled on the rug, glaring daggers at her older brother. "What the hell?!"

"Where is it?" Paul demanded, crossing his arms and glaring down at her like she was still ten years old and had stolen the last Pop-Tart.

"Where is what?" she snapped, her tone dripping with mock innocence, even though she knew exactly what he was looking for. The memory of the now-empty bottle flashed in her mind, and she suppressed a smirk. Well, joke's on him. It's gone.

"You know damn well what." Paul pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply through his teeth. He was trying—really trying—to keep his cool, but Maija had a way of poking at every last nerve. "Where's my whiskey?"

Maija sat up, rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. "Technically, it's not yours. It's Dad's. I just stole it from you, who stole it from him. So really, it's Dad's whiskey," she said smugly, her lawyer-like tone making Paul's jaw clench.

"Where. Is. It?" Paul's voice dropped an octave as he marched over to her trash can, rummaging through it like he already knew what he'd find. A moment later, he held up the empty bottle like a piece of damning evidence.

"You drank it all?" His voice rose in disbelief. "You drank the whole damn bottle?!"

Maija winced at the volume, clutching her head. "Shut. Up," she groaned, her temples throbbing with every word.

Paul tossed the bottle back into the trash, running a hand through his short-cropped hair in frustration. "Maija, that was over half a bottle! You drank half a bottle of whiskey in one night?!" He threw his arms in the air dramatically. "That's it. My baby sister's an alcoholic. I've failed as a brother."

"I'm not an alcoholic," Maija snapped, pushing herself off the floor and tossing the blanket back onto the bed. "I just needed a distraction."

Paul paused, his sharp retort dying in his throat. His frustration softened as he looked at her, really looked at her. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze darted away from his. She was hurting. And as much as he wanted to stay mad, his big-brother instincts kicked in.

"Is this about Quil or... Mom?" he asked gently, sitting down on the edge of her bed.

Maija's hands balled into fists at her sides, her jaw tightening. "Paul, don't," she warned, her voice low and dangerous.

The mention of their mom was like pouring salt on an open wound. It had been a year since she'd left—since she'd packed up her life and moved in with some guy she met at work, leaving behind her husband and kids with little more than a few phone calls and a birthday card for Paul's eighteenth.

Not even a present, a card.

And then there was Quil. The memory of their fight still stung like a fresh cut, raw and unhealed.

Paul sighed, his frustration bubbling to the surface again. "Damnit, Maija, I'm worried about you!" he said, louder than he meant to. He looked down, ashamed at his outburst but unable to stop himself. "You're not... you anymore. Ever since Mom left, you've—"

"OUT," Maija snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut.

Paul stood his ground. "No. I'm not leaving. Mai, I want to help. Please."

"I said get OUT!"

"And I said no!" Paul shot back, his temper flaring.

"Fine," Maija hissed, storming to her closet. She yanked out a hoodie and shoved it over her head, her movements jerky and angry. "Then I'm going out."

"What? Where?" Paul demanded, following her as she headed for the door. "No, you're not going anywhere until we talk about this!"

"There's nothing to talk about!" Maija spat, twisting her hair into a messy bun. "Move, Paul."

"Not until you stop shutting me out!"

Maija whipped around, her eyes blazing. "ME? Shut YOU out?" She let out a bitter laugh, throwing her hands in the air. "You're the one who ditches your family for Sam Uley and his little cult of hooligans!"

Paul froze, her words hitting him like a slap. He wanted to tell her—God, how he wanted to tell her everything—but Sam's orders held him back like chains.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice softer now.

"Quil's," Maija lied, the name tasting bittersweet on her tongue.

"What? You two made up?" Paul asked, his tone shifting from frustration to curiosity. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his earlier anger momentarily forgotten. Maija and Quil had been best friends since they were kids. Paul didn't know the full story—how, for a while, they had been much more than friends. All he knew was that they'd had one of their blowouts, and things had been tense ever since. But this wasn't new for them. They'd had arguments before and always managed to patch things up.

Maija's lips pressed into a tight line. She couldn't look him in the eye. "Yeah. Sure," she mumbled, the lie burning her throat like acid. She quickly grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair and busied herself slipping it on, hoping he wouldn't notice the slight tremble in her hands.

Paul wasn't dumb. He knew her too well to believe the casual answer, and her body language was screaming that she was lying. His gaze narrowed, the skeptical older brother in him ready to press her. But before he could get another word out, he felt the all-too-familiar tug of Sam's call. It hit him like a heavy weight in his chest, pulling him toward the pack. The feeling wasn't one he could ignore, even if he wanted to.

"Fine," Paul muttered, exhaling sharply. He followed her out the door, heading toward his truck. "I was on my way to Sam's anyway, and Quil's place is on the way. Want a ride?" He threw her a sideways glance as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Don't worry. I'm done talking about it."

Maija hesitated at the passenger door, her hand lingering on the handle. She knew Paul wouldn't buy the lie for long, but maybe stopping by Quil's place wasn't such a bad idea. They were stuck in a horrible rut, and it had been a month since they'd last spoken. A month of avoiding him, of biting back the constant ache of missing him. She could still hear his voice, see his stupid smile, feel the way her heart clenched every time she remembered the fight.

The truth was, she missed him more than she wanted to admit.

"Sure," she finally said, her voice soft but steady. She climbed into the truck, leaning her head against the window. Her heart was racing, half-dreading and half-hoping that this was the start of making things right.