The Lycan King's Second Chance Mate: Rise of the Traitor's Daughter
Chapter 225: Memory of the Storm

Chapter 225: Memory of the Storm

Jacob~

The moment the words left my mouth—"I can take the memory away"—I saw her change.

Easter flinched like I’d struck her.

"No," she breathed, her voice hoarse and shaking, but there was steel behind it. "No, Jacob. Don’t you dare."

Her eyes—those wide, emerald eyes that always reminded me of spring after a long winter—were burning now, wild with pain and defiance. She sat up, wrapping her arms around herself as if to shield her soul from me.

"Easter—" I started.

She shook her head, curls bouncing around her flushed face. "No. Jacob, listen to me. Please—just listen."

I held my breath.

"I know I’m not... strong like Natalie. I know I cry too much, and I break down, and I can barely keep it together when Rose so much as sneezes." She laughed, bitterly, tears already running down her cheeks. "I know the memories of that horrible incident has left me even weaker. But those memories—those horrible, awful memories—they’re all I have left of you. Of Natalie, Tiger, Alex, all of you who saved me. If you take them... you’re not just erasing the bad."

Her voice cracked, and she gripped the edge of the blanket so tightly her knuckles went white. "You’d be taking away Natalie, Tiger... You’d be taking away Jacob. And I don’t want to lose you. I can’t."

I closed my eyes. Gods, that hurt. The raw honesty, the pain—I could feel it like claws scraping across my chest.

"I’ll fight it," she whispered. "I swear, I’ll fight the nightmares. I’ll learn to live with the fear. Just don’t take you away from me."

There was nothing I could say to that.

I pulled her fragile body into my arms and hugged her tightly before slowly releasing her. She looked up at me, trembling. My hands found her shoulders gently.

"I won’t," I whispered, brushing her hair behind her ear. "I won’t take them. I promise."

She let out a shaky breath and folded into me like a wave crashing into the shore. I wrapped my arms around her again, pulled her closer, and let her sob into my chest.

That night, I didn’t sleep again—I never really needed sleep. Instead, I held her.

She slept in my arms, breath hitching now and then, curling into the warmth I gave her like she was still afraid the shadows would reach in and pull her away.

I stared at the ceiling for hours, heart aching.

When her breathing softened, I slipped out of the bed, kissed her forehead, and walked down the hall to Rose’s room.

She was already tossing in her sleep, a tiny frown forming between her soft brows. The room was dim, lit by a small enchanted lamp shaped like a glowing sunflower that Tiger had made for her.

I sat beside her bed, fingers brushing over her forehead.

"I’m sorry, little one," I murmured. "But I can’t let you carry this."

Dreamwalking with a child was like stepping into chalk drawings. Soft, malleable, and bursting with color. Her nightmares faded under my touch like ink bleeding off wet paper. I replaced them with dreams of sparkling fields and fluffy rabbits, of fairy wings and cotton candy clouds.

She smiled in her sleep, and I stayed by her side until the first light of morning, not because I had to—but because I couldn’t bring myself to leave her.

Erasing memories is always easier with children. Their minds are like soft clay—bendable, forgiving. But with adults, especially ones like Easter, whose past was already splintered and bruised, it’s different. Memories like hers cling tightly, tangled with emotion and scar tissue. For her, there were only two paths: face the pain or let me wipe it all clean—every fragment, every shadow, everything that shaped her.

The sun eventually crept over the horizon, spreading a golden haze over the world. It made everything look calm and warm, like a promise you want to believe. But I knew better. The light was beautiful, yes—but it was lying.

When I returned to Easter’s room, she was already up—standing at the vanity brushing her curls with a little too much force.

She glanced at me in the mirror, eyes bright. "Morning!"

I could tell she hadn’t slept. Not really.

There was a twitch beneath her eye, the same twitch I’d memorized from the nights she cried in silence. Her voice was too cheerful, like she was trying to convince herself everything was fine.

I didn’t say anything.

But I closed my eyes, just for a second, and gently reached for her memory.

The nightmare had come again. Fierce, violent, louder than before. I saw her silently scream into her pillow, tears soaking the sheets. And then she got up, cleaned her face, and practiced smiling in the mirror for five minutes straight.

Gods.

She was trying.

She was breaking inside, but still trying.

And that shattered me.

Later that morning, I helped her into the passenger seat of the car. Rose was already buckled in the back, swinging her little legs and humming some nonsense song about moon-horses and glitter.

Easter looked over at me with that same rehearsed smile.

"I’ll only be a few hours," she said. "Just my ethics lecture and the library. I want to work on that essay before the deadline."

"I’ll pick you up at noon," I said softly. "We’ve got somewhere to go."

"Oh?" She tilted her head. "Like a surprise?"

"You’ll see," I said with a small smile.

She leaned back into the seat and kissed her fingertips, then pressed them gently to Rose’s forehead. "Jacob is going to take you to school. Be good for him, okay, pumpkin?"

Rose giggled and nodded solemnly like she’d just sworn an oath.

As soon as I dropped Easter off at the college, I kept my word to Easter and took Rose to her kindergarten. It was a charming little school nestled not far from Easter’s campus—bright walls, lots of green space, and the kind of calm that told you kids actually felt safe there. A good place for Rose to grow.

She barely looked back as she dashed off, her tiny pink backpack bouncing like it had a personality of its own. She spotted the other toddlers and lit up—pure sunshine in motion.

"I love you," I whispered, mostly to myself, watching her vanish into a swirl of laughter, little feet, and sidewalk chalk dreams.

Then I got in the car and drove home.

Just me.

Alone.

The house was silent when I walked in. The air was still, like it knew what I was about to do.

I stood in the living room for a long time, staring at the couch where Easter had once fallen asleep with Rose on her chest when she first came to my house. Where she had laughed at one of my jokes. Where she had leaned on me without even realizing it.

My heart felt like it was being torn in two directions.

I had made a decision this morning.

I had let her sleep while she suffered. I had seen the fear still haunting her, the way she tried to protect me from it, to spare me from her pain. But what about the baby inside her? What about the little life growing beneath that trembling heart?

What if the stress—the pain—the fear—harmed it?

What if she lost this child because I hadn’t done what I could have done?

I couldn’t risk that.

So I would do it.

I would wipe the memory.

But only the trauma. Only the darkness. And if I couldn’t preserve our bond—if she forgot me—I would make sure she never needed me again.

I would fill her life with light. With safety. With everything she could ever need. She would never lack for anything.

I would protect her always. Even if that meant becoming a stranger in her eyes.

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