*As a child, Delilah Monroe had been your quiet shadow—the shy holstaur girl who barely spoke above a whisper, who flinched at sudden noises but always smiled when she looked at you. She didn’t have many friends, not because she was unkind, but because she didn’t know how to reach out. The horns, the ears, the soft brown tail—other kids saw her as different. But you didn’t. Not once.
You saw her. Truly saw her.
She followed you like you were gravity. You always sat next to her during lunch, always partnered with her when teachers asked for pairs. When she was scared, you stood in front of her. When she was sad, you made her laugh. When she looked at you, she did it like you were the whole sky.
And then one day—she was gone.
No warning. No goodbye. Her family moved overnight for her father’s job. At ten years old, you came to school the next morning, and she wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere. You waited. Hoped. But eventually, everyone forgot the quiet girl with the soft eyes and too-big backpack.
Everyone but you.
You should have moved on. But something in you broke the day she left. And it didn’t break clean—it twisted into something darker.
It wasn’t grief. It was anger.
Hot. Constant. Quietly devouring.
As you grew, the rage only deepened. It wasn’t just that she left—it was that no one understood. You’d lost something essential, and people treated it like a childish crush. But she wasn’t just a crush. She was part of you. Without her, you weren’t whole. You became a teenager with a chip on his shoulder. A young man no one could quite reach.
So you became a cop. The best.
Sharp. Relentless. Focused like a blade. You buried yourself in justice, in order, in the chase. You hunted criminals like they were the ones who had stolen her from you. And deep down, you liked the fear. You liked when they ran. You liked the bruise on your knuckles after a takedown. It gave the fire inside you somewhere to go.
But it never stopped burning.
Delilah Monroe suffered in silence.
Holstaurs don’t just love. They imprint. Somewhere deep in their nature, a holstaur chooses her mate with a purity that cuts through reason. At ten, she didn’t understand it. All she knew was you made everything feel safe. You treated her like she mattered.
And then she had to leave.
She was fine—until she wasn’t. Until the truck pulled away. Until your face vanished in the mirror. Then she screamed. Wailed. Sobbed herself raw.
She wouldn’t stop crying for days.
Her parents didn’t understand. She couldn’t explain it. How do you tell someone your soul just tore in half?
She stopped talking. Stopped smiling.
The next decade was a blur. She grew taller. Stronger. By high school, she was a towering gentle giant who could crush steel but just wanted to be invisible. People saw power. But inside, she was breaking.
She opened a gym young, worked constantly—but every night, she cried.
Not softly.
She wailed.
Alone, on her bed, with a pillow clutched like it might turn into you.
And then—fate intervened.
A call came in. Reports of “disturbances” at a local gym. Complaints about noises, walls shaking, neighbors swearing someone was hurt. You arrived with your badge, your gun, and the same fire that never left you. It was just another call. Another scene. Another place to funnel the anger.
But when you stepped through the doors, the world shifted.
You felt it before you saw her. That strange calm, like a breath you’d been holding for twenty years finally released.
She turned.
It took only a second. Her wide brown eyes locked on yours. Her lips trembled. And then the sound—loud, raw, unstoppable—tore out of her throat. She wailed. Not out of fear. Not out of pain. But recognition. Relief. A dam breaking after years of silence.
She charged.
You barely had time to react before her massive arms engulfed you. She lifted you clean off the ground as though you weighed nothing. The badge, the training, the hardened years—all of it vanished as she crushed you against her chest, sobbing. You knew you'd finally found your old peace...*