Chapter 17 - Rosalia
Sleep was a stranger.
Rosalia lay in the wide hotel bed, sheets cool against her skin, and stared at the ceiling as though the plaster itself would yield answers.
The silence of the suite was broken only by Eva’s steady breathing from the adjoining room.
That soft sound should have calmed her, but instead it made her chest ache.
Her mind would not still. Every word from Rick the night before replayed in an endless loop.
You expect me to gamble my pack, my daughter, on your certainty?
His voice had been sharper than any blade, colder than her father’s backhand. He had looked at her as though she were poison.
She rolled onto her side, pressing her hands against her eyes, as though the darkness could drown out memory. But the truth burned anyway: he hadn’t believed her. He had looked at her letter, seen her friend’s name, and all of his warmth had bled away.
He’d assumed she’d betrayed him. That she was even capable of such a thing.
And even worse. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she had been a fool.
Katie had been her lifeline through all those years of silence, of bruises hidden beneath long sleeves, of her father’s venom echoing in her skull.
The letters were her only breath of honesty in a world built of lies.
Rosalia had clung to that thread because without it, she feared she would shatter into nothing.
But now…
She sat up abruptly, the sheets tangling around her legs. Enough.
If she did nothing, Rick’s mistrust would calcify into stone. If she cowered here, they would never get answers.
She could not, would not, be the girl who hid behind walls any longer.
Rosalia rose and dressed quickly, pulling on dark wool trousers, a cream blouse, and her plainest coat. No velvet, no embroidery, no jewels. Tonight, she was not her father’s doll, nor Rick’s almost-something. She was simply herself.
Katie wouldn’t betray her. She couldn’t.
But Rosalia needed to hear it from her lips, needed the confirmation from her directly. And if her father had been intercepting her letters, then she’d get answers from him, too.
An old, aching fear tugged at her gut, and she pushed it away. There was no room for fear. Not anymore.
Or at least, if there was fear, then she wouldn’t let it rule her. She had fought too hard to overcome it, earned her growing happiness with blood and sheer spite.
And she was happy. She cherished the life she was building for herself, brick by brick. She would not let it be taken from her. Not if she could do anything about it. And if that meant returning to the belly of the beast, then so be it.
As silently as her human body would allow, she crept out of her room, leaving her things behind. She didn’t need them.
Closing the door with a soft click, she sucked in a breath, glancing up and down the dark hallway.
Rick hadn’t stayed long enough to hear her out.
He had stormed out of her room, his heavy footsteps disappearing down the stairs.
She didn’t know where he was, and she didn’t want to run into him on her way out.
She didn’t think she would be able to bear it. The next time she faced him, it would be with proof of her innocence.
What if I’m not innocent?
She gritted her teeth, steeling her nerves as she stalked down the corridor. She was innocent. In all the ways that mattered, she wasn’t a Green Mountain wolf. She was an Iron Walker.
She wasn’t Rosalia Heath. She was Rosalia Reinhardt.
She wasn’t John’s daughter. She was Rick’s wife.
And she would face the world with all the strength of everything she was, everything she had grown to be.
The lobby of the cozy, lodge-style hotel was quiet as she crept in, eyes peeled for her husband’s form. Scenting the air, she caught a strand of his musk, but it was hours old.
He wasn’t here.
With a sigh of relief, she walked up to the front desk, slamming a confident mask onto her face.
She needn’t have bothered. The human attendant smiled blankly at her and asked her what she needed.
“A cab,” she said, wrapping a scarf around her neck, “To the Manor House in Green Mountain Vale.”
The attendant clacked a few keys, the blue glow of the computer enhancing the tired bags under his eyes. “In Pennsylvania?”
His tone was bored, as if requests for cross-state travel at four o’clock in the morning were a routine occurrence.
“Yes,” she said, producing the card Rick had given her, the one for her bank account with the money she supposedly earned for technically being Eva’s nanny. “Charge it to this, please.”
The attendant took her details, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read her name. “...Reinhardt? You have an open line of credit already.”
Rosalia gave a breezy laugh. “That’s my husband’s. I’m traveling alone.”
He blinked, sighing deeply, before beginning a recital in dull monotone, “I’m obligated to ask you if you have been the victim of domestic assault. There are several helplines available if you need—”
“What? No, no!” Rosalia said, shaking her hands, “It’s nothing like that. I’ve just…had a call…that my father has taken ill. I need to go and visit him now, and my husband isn’t in. I don’t want to alarm him. In fact, can I leave a message for him?”
The attendant picked up a pen, opening it with a lethargic click. “Yes?”
“Tell him…” Rosalia hesitated, mulling over her words. “Tell him…”
The attendant raised an eyebrow, blinking slowly at her.
She faltered. “You know what, I’ll just call him. Best he hears it from me.”
“That might be best,” the attendant intoned, before dutifully picking up the phone to call her a cab.
Rosalia turned, her stomach swooping.
It was best she just go and sort things out herself. Rick would only jump to conclusions if she left him a message. He was too angry to see things clearly. She could fix this. She had to fix this.
She’d be back in Silvermist tomorrow, and everything would be fine.
***
Her old house reared against the horizon like a carcass of stone and timber, its roof jagged against the night sky.
Multiple lights were on, and cars lined the driveway.
The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon, but her father and his retinue had only had a few hours’ head start on her.
It was unsurprising that they hadn’t yet gone to sleep. Too much plotting to do.
The sight of the building sent a chill crawling over her skin.
Two guards flanked the heavy oak doors. Wolves, broad-shouldered and bristling, their jackets emblazoned with the Green Mountain crest. They scented her before she reached the steps, and their expressions hardened.
“Business?” one demanded, his tone a low growl.
Rosalia lifted her chin, “I’m here to see John Heath. Tell him his daughter demands an audience.”
The taller wolf sneered, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Then fetch him,” Rosalia snapped, surprising herself with the steel in her voice.
The two exchanged glances, their wolves restless beneath their skins. But after a moment, one disappeared inside.
Rosalia waited, the dawn air heavy around her. She kept her shoulders squared, though her pulse pounded. He won’t see me as weak, she told herself. Not today.
The door creaked open again, and the guard gestured her in.
The air inside hit like a fist, thick with cigar smoke, whiskey, and sweat. Wolves lounged in leather chairs of the reception room, cards and bottles scattered across tables, laughter low and rough. But when Rosalia stepped over the threshold, the sound faltered.
Heads turned. Eyes gleamed. Predators scented prey.
Her spine stiffened. She would not let them see her flinch.
And then she saw him.
Her father sat near the hearth, whiskey glass in hand, his voice booming with laughter. But the moment his gaze found her, the laughter died. Surprise flickered, then something far worse. Delight.
“Well, well.” He rose slowly, setting his glass aside with deliberate precision. “The prodigal daughter returns.”
Rosalia forced her legs forward. Each step felt heavier, but she held his gaze. “I didn’t return,” she said evenly. “I came for answers. I came to…”
Her words died on her lips as she saw them. Hulking and enormous, scowls etched deep on their faces, teeth bared to her.
Her blood froze.
Black Claws.
Here.
With her father.
“What…” she whispered, all her previous bravado gone. Fear threatened to choke her, to overwhelm her.
But then, all at once and all too suddenly, rage overtook her, and she snarled, the sound raw and primal.
“What the fuck are they doing here?”
A chuckle rumbled from the man beside the hearth. Broad shoulders, scarred jaw, eyes a predator’s gold. Raph, Alpha of the Black Claws.
“She’s bold,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “Pretty, too. I see why Reinhardt keeps her close.”
Rosalia ignored him, fixing her stare on her father. “What have you done?”
John’s smile sharpened. “What I always do. Plan ahead. Strike before I’m struck. The alliance with the Iron Walkers proved…unprofitable. I found a better option.”
Her stomach twisted. “You’re working with the Black Claws.”
Her father rolled his eyes. “Always so hysterical. Just like your mother. This is no concern of yours, Rosalia.”
“No concern of…no concern of mine?” she spat, “You’re supposed to be allies with the Iron Walkers! That’s the whole reason you married me off!”
John tutted. “And what a waste that was. I had it on good authority that Reinhardt was growing restless. I had hoped to nurture something rebellious in him, have him take over. He has a claim to the throne, after all. It should have been his, by all rights.”
Rosalia stumbled backwards, “Is that…is that why you always asked about him? About what he thought of Felix? You…you were using me to see if he would turn on his pack?”
He sighed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course I was, stupid girl.”
The floor may as well have collapsed beneath her.
All this time. All this time.
Rick had been right. Her father had used her as a spy. Against the Iron Walkers.
And she…