Chapter 1 #2
My mother appears at the top of the grand staircase.
She’s wearing a deep green, silk dress that probably cost thousands.
It matches the emeralds at her throat, wrists, and ears, and it flows around her as she descends.
Her hair is swept up in an elaborate style, not a strand out of place. Her makeup is applied flawlessly.
She looks like she’s about to attend a gala, not greet her daughter. But it’s the expression on her face that makes my chest tighten. Cool. Assessing. Like I’m a problem she needs to solve rather than a loved one she hasn’t seen in six years.
“Violet.” She reaches the bottom of the stairs, and her eyes sweep over me. “You look exhausted.”
“The flight was long,” I say, keeping my voice level. Controlled.
“I see.” She moves past me, and I catch the scent of her perfume: expensive, floral, overwhelming. “When did you arrive?”
“I landed at the airport a few hours ago.”
She pauses, turning back to look at me. A look of guilt crosses her face—or maybe it’s annoyance. It’s gone too quickly to tell. “You should have called. I would have sent someone.”
My nails dig into my palms. “I did message you. The flight details. Everything.”
“Hmm.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve been so busy with the alliance preparations. You know how it is.” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Come. Sit.”
I follow her into the living room. The furniture is fancy: cream-colored sofas that look like they’ve never been sat on, abstract art on the walls, fresh flowers everywhere.
She settles onto one of the sofas with practiced grace.
I lower myself onto the edge of the opposite one, perched as if I may need to bolt at any moment.
“You look thin,” she observes, studying me with that clinical gaze. “Are you eating properly?”
“Yes.”
“And the medicine?” Her voice sharpens. “You’re taking it regularly?”
“Twice a day, just like always.” My hand moves to my purse instinctively.
She leans forward, her eyes boring into mine. “Show me.”
My throat tightens. “What?”
“The bottle. Show me.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I reach into my bag and pull out the medicine bottle. She takes it from me, reading the label, shaking it to hear the pills rattle. Counting, maybe. Making sure I haven’t missed doses.
“Good.” She hands it back. “You cannot be careless with this, Violet. Not here. Not in this house.”
“I know.” The words come out clipped.
“Do you?” She stands abruptly, moving to the window. Her back is to me now. “This isn’t like being away at school. Here, there are expectations. Standards. Alaric—” She cuts herself off, turning to face me again. “You need to be careful. Keep your head down. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
The words are familiar. She’s been saying them to me for as long as I can remember, ever since my life imploded. Even before she shipped me off to another country for “school.”
“Why did you ask me to come back?”
Her expression shutters. “This is your home.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t be difficult.” She moves toward the door, clearly done with this conversation. “You’ll stay in your old room. Third floor, east wing.” She pauses in the doorway. “There’s a welcome dinner tonight at seven. Family only. Don’t be late.”
I get to my feet. “Mom—”
But she’s already walking away, heels clicking against the marble again. She doesn’t look back.
I stand there for a moment, alone in this pristine room that feels nothing like home. The medicine bottle weighs down my purse.
Then, James appears in the doorway, my suitcase in his hand.
“I’ll show you to your room, miss,” he says gently.
I follow the butler through hallways I barely remember, past rooms I’ve never been allowed to enter. We climb two flights of stairs, and I keep up just fine, but my mind is racing. Six years I’ve been away, and nothing has changed. I’m still the unwanted burden. Still the weak link.
Finally, James stops in front of a door at the end of a long corridor.
“Here we are.” He opens it for me and sets my suitcase inside gently. “Dinner is at seven in the main dining room. Would you like me to collect you beforehand?”
“No. Thank you, James.”
He nods and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I lean against it. Not because I need the support, but because I need a barrier between me and the rest of this house.
The room is nice. Too nice. Fresh flowers on the dresser, new curtains, bedding that looks untouched. But there’s nothing of mine here. No childhood drawings, no books, no trace that I ever existed in this space at all.
They’ve erased me.
I move to the window and look out over the garden below. Roses and hedges trimmed into perfect shapes. Beyond that, the grounds stretch toward the forest.
My watch beeps: a calendar reminder sent from my mother. Welcome home dinner, tonight at 7:00 PM.
I stare at the notification. Welcome home. Right.
I turn away from the window, kick off my shoes, and head to the bathroom.
The marble is cool under my bare feet, and everything is spotless and gleaming.
The shower helps, washing away the grime and exhaustion of travel.
I keep it quick, then wrap myself in a towel that’s softer than anything I own.
Back in the bedroom, I move to my suitcase, kneeling beside it on the plush carpet. Most of my clothes are wrinkled from the journey, but they can wait. Right now, I’m searching for something specific.
My fingers find it tucked between two shirts: a photograph in a simple wooden frame. The glass is cracked in one corner from being moved around too many times, but the image is still clear.
A young girl with bright eyes and a genuine smile, her hair catching the sunlight. An older boy with his arm slung around her shoulders, grinning at the camera like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And a man behind them both, his arms wrapped around them, his face lit up with pure joy.
My throat tightens. I sink onto the bed, holding the picture with both hands. I grip it so tightly, the frame bites into my palms.
“Trevor,” I whisper as one finger traces over my brother’s face. He looks so alive in this picture. So full of light and laughter. “Dad.” My father’s smile is wide, sincere. I can’t remember the joke he’d just told, but I remember how I felt. Safe. Loved. Whole.
Clutching the old photo to my chest, I lie back on the bed. The mattress is too soft, the pillows too fluffy. Everything is too perfect and sterile and wrong.
“I wish you were here,” I whisper to the ceiling, to the image pressed against my heart, to the ghosts that never leave me.
My eyes grow heavy despite the light streaming through the window. The hours of travel, the medicine, the emotional weight of being back here—it all crashes over me at once. Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just until I can breathe again.
A knock at the door jolts me awake.
I blink at the ceiling, disoriented. The room is dimmer now, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the walls. How long was I asleep?
The knock comes again. “Miss Violet?”
James. The butler.
I sit up quickly, and the photograph slides off my chest. I catch it before it hits the floor.
“Yes?” My voice comes out rough, heavy with sleep.
“Dinner is in an hour, miss. I thought you might like to know.”
Relief washes through me. An hour. That’s plenty of time.
“Thank you, James,” I call out.
After hearing him retreat down the hallway, I gently set the photograph on the nightstand, running my thumb over the cracked glass one more time before standing.
An hour to get ready. An hour to prepare myself to face whatever announcement Alaric has planned. An hour until I might see Darius again.
There’s a flutter in my chest at the thought, a nervous anticipation I don’t quite understand. He was always kind to me, in that distant way of his. Never cruel like the others. Darius never looked at me with disgust.
I remember being fourteen and dropping an entire tray of dishes in the dining room during a formal dinner. The crash was deafening, and I stood there, frozen, surrounded by shattered porcelain and spilled food, while everyone stared. My mother’s face went white with fury.
But Darius simply stood up, walked over, and started helping me pick up the pieces. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a big show of it. Just knelt beside me and helped clean up the mess while his father redirected the guests’ attention.
It was such a small thing, but I never forgot it.
I shake off the memory and go to my suitcase, from which I pull out my navy dress.
It’s modest, unremarkable, exactly what my mother would approve of.
I smooth it over the bed, then twist my damp hair into a simple bun at the base of my neck.
No makeup. At least I look presentable enough not to embarrass anyone.
I slip on a pair of simple flats and glance at the clock.
Still forty minutes until dinner. I move back to the window and watch the grounds below.
Pack members go about their evening routines: adults heading home from work, children playing in the distance.
It all looks so normal. So peaceful. From up here, I could almost believe I belong.
Almost.
At five minutes to seven, I leave my room and make my way downstairs. The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should. My footsteps echo in the empty hallways, and I force myself to breathe steadily.
I can hear voices as I approach: first my mother’s crisp tone, then a deeper, male voice I recognize even after six years. Alpha Alaric.
I pause before going in, smoothing down my dress even though there’s nothing to smooth.
You can do this. Just get through dinner, I tell myself silently.
I push open the door.