Chapter 15 - Rosalia
The lounge was quiet once Rick had gone, though quiet in the Willard was a relative thing.
The muted hum of conversation drifted in from the lobby, the faint clink of glassware, the occasional swell of laughter too sharp to be pleasant.
But here, in this little corner room softened by rugs and velvet cushions, Rosalia could almost imagine she was far from the storm brewing outside.
Almost.
Eva wriggled against the couch, kicking off her shoes and curling her legs beneath her.
She was still small enough to treat fine furniture like a playground, though Rosalia noted she at least tried not to scuff the cushions.
She may have been raised in a household where manners mattered, but she still bore the restless energy of a wolf.
Rosalia folded her hands in her lap, posture perfectly poised, though she could not shake the tension coiled tight beneath her ribs.
She had seen her father the instant they’d entered the lobby.
She had felt his eyes on her like hooks tugging at her skin.
And though Rick had guided her and Eva to safety without comment, she could not forget it.
John Heath was here. Close. Breathing the same air.
And he always, always wanted something.
Eva broke the silence first, “Do you like it here?” she asked, green eyes wide as she glanced around the lounge. “It’s fancy, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Rosalia agreed softly. “Very grand.”
“I’ve never actually been to one of Papa’s big meetings before. Normally, they’re in Europe. I used to go to boarding school nearby, but Papa decided I should come back to Silvermist for the time being. So this is exciting! Do you like hotels?”
Rosalia allowed herself a small smile. “I don’t dislike them. I haven’t been to many either, truth be told. My father also liked to keep me at home.”
Eva’s expression grew thoughtful. “Do you miss your home? The one you had before?”
The question caught Rosalia unprepared. For a heartbeat, she could only blink, lips parting, before she remembered to breathe.
“Yes,” she admitted, “sometimes.”
“What was it like?”
Rosalia smoothed her skirt, considering.
How to describe Green Mountain Pack lands without painting them in her father’s colors?
The forests had been beautiful, that was true.
The mountains rolling and endless, the air sharp and clean.
Her childhood had not been entirely shadow, not before she grew old enough to understand her father’s ambitions.
There had been days of climbing trees with Katie, of running through the gardens, of giggling and hiding in the library.
But all of that was buried beneath his presence, the constant weight of his expectations. The long shadow cast over her life.
“It was in the mountains,” she said finally, choosing her words with care, “tall pines, clear rivers. Winters were long, but the snow was beautiful. I used to sit by my window and watch the flakes fall.”
Eva leaned closer, rapt. “Did you have friends?”
Rosalia hesitated, then nodded, “One. Her name is Katie. We grew up together. She was…” Rosalia’s throat tightened, and she looked away, feigning interest in the gilt-framed landscape on the wall. “She was my only real friend.”
“What’s she like?” Eva pressed, utterly guileless.
Rosalia allowed herself to remember. Katie’s laughter, bright as bells.
The way she always tripped over her own feet, but never minded.
Her love of stories, of imagining adventures beyond their pack’s borders.
Katie had been gentle where Rosalia was cautious, open where Rosalia was guarded.
Together, they had created a private world in which her father’s shadow did not exist.
“She is kind,” Rosalia said softly. “She has a smile that makes you feel safe. And she always believes the best of people. Even when they don’t deserve it.”
Eva tilted her head. “Do you still see her?”
Rosalia swallowed. “No. Not since I left. But…she writes to me.”
“You mean letters? Like with paper and ink?”
“Yes.”
“That’s so old-fashioned!” Eva giggled, covering her mouth.
Rosalia allowed herself a small laugh.
Old-fashioned indeed. They’d had to be creative with her father’s continued refusal to allow her a phone growing up. Rosalia had fallen in love with the process of putting pen to paper. She was halfway through a letter to her friend, and she intended to finish it later in the privacy of her room.
She wasn’t naive enough to think Rick would have arranged them to have a room together. They may have grown closer, but he still guarded his privacy ferociously. Their bedrooms were still in opposite wings of the house, with no indication at all that there would be a move in the future.
Katie reckoned he was just moving slow so as not to alarm her. Ever since the first night they had spent together, she had turned to her only friend for advice on a topic she was, admittedly, still so new to. Katie didn’t have much experience of her own, but her insights were invaluable.
When she wasn’t making crude jokes, that was.
She was so reassuring. Every worry that Rosalia had, every insecurity, Katie would take and lovingly reshape into something positive and hopeful.
The separate bedrooms were for him to be respectful of her space.
The infrequent sex was him allowing her to get used to something new and intense.
The small details he gave her about his work, him opening up about his plans and plots and clever tricks against their enemies, that was him finally letting her in.
Rosalia didn’t want to let herself hope blindly. She liked to think herself too sensible for such things.
But still…there was more. She could sense it. There was so much more that he could give her. She had had a taste, and now it lingered just out of her reach, and she found herself hungry.
Time drifted in the lounge, the distant murmur of negotiations seeping faintly through the walls.
Eva’s questions tumbled one after another.
Did Rosalia like dogs or cats? What was her favorite color?
Did she know how to bake cakes? Each answer drew another story, another memory.
Slowly, without realizing it, Rosalia found herself speaking of the Green Mountain Pack in ways she had not allowed in years.
She spoke of the woods in autumn, when the leaves turned gold and the air smelled of apples.
She described sneaking into the kitchen with Katie to steal honey cakes, and how they had hidden beneath the table, giggling until the cook found them.
She told of summer nights chasing fireflies, of braiding flowers into one another’s hair.
Eva listened with wide-eyed wonder, asking questions, laughing in the right places, sighing when Rosalia paused.
And with each word, the knot inside Rosalia’s chest loosened a fraction.
It was dangerous, she knew, to let herself remember with fondness. The Green Mountain Pack had never been home, not truly. Not with her father looming over every joy. But Katie had been real, her friendship untainted, and Rosalia could not, would not, let that slip away entirely.
Eva yawned then, curling against Rosalia’s side. Within minutes, her breathing evened, her small body warm and heavy. Rosalia stroked her hair absently, eyes fixed on the door Rick had disappeared through.
She wondered what was happening beyond it. She wondered how much longer she could live suspended between past and present.
And she wondered, not for the first time, if she had the strength to carve a future of her own.
Eva was still warm against her side, breathing softly, when Rosalia first heard it.
At first, she thought it was simply the swell of voices beyond the lounge walls, another flare of argument contained by the thickness of oak doors.
But then came the sharper notes, shouts that carried through marble corridors, chairs scraped violently across tile, the low rumble of male voices raised in challenge.
The air shifted. The scents that had already been thick in the hotel now sharpened, spiking through the corridors like knives: dominance, fury, the musk of alphas bristling toward bloodshed.
Rosalia stiffened. Her wolf stirred uneasily beneath her skin, hackles prickling. The other people in the lounge, humans mostly, but a few wolves too, stirred and looked to the door with anxious expressions.
Eva blinked awake, rubbing her eyes, “What’s happening?”
“Shh,” Rosalia murmured, brushing curls from the girl’s forehead. “Stay close.”
The noise swelled. And then, like a dam bursting, the double doors of the meeting chamber slammed open. Wolves, bears, lions, humans, every kind of shifter poured out, their voices a thunderous tangle, their suits rumpled, eyes flashing gold and silver with suppressed shifts.
The scent of anger hit like a physical blow. It clawed down Rosalia’s throat, acrid and choking. She curled an arm protectively around Eva, instinctively turning the girl behind her as the tide of bodies swept into the lobby.
And then she saw her father.
John Heath cut through the crowd with that same serpentine precision he always carried, his glass still miraculously clutched in one hand as though nothing, not rage, not chaos, could spill his precious whiskey. His eyes were cold as ice chips when they found her.
Rosalia froze, every muscle tight.
“Of course, he brought you,” he spat, striding toward her, voice like venom dripping into the air.
Rosalia recoiled instinctively, pressing Eva back against the wall, her body a shield between child and male. The poison in his tone struck as deeply as any blow, conjuring old ghosts, the sting of his hand, the bruises of his grip, the endless litany of her inadequacies.
“What,” he sneered, “no more self-satisfied little quips? How disappointing.”