Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Violet
My watch beeps its morning reminder: MEDICATION TIME.
The pill bottle rattles against my palm as I shake out two white tablets. The same ones I’ve taken every day for as long as I can remember.
I stare at them. Two innocent-looking pills that control my entire life. I toss them into my mouth and swallow them dry, the bitter taste coating my tongue before I can grab a glass and chase them with water.
Within seconds, the reaction hits. Cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, my upper lip, the back of my neck. My stomach lurches violently, and I barely make it to the toilet before dropping to my knees. I grip the porcelain bowl, my knuckles white, waiting for the wave to pass.
It’s getting worse. Every day, my body fights the pills harder before surrendering. Every day, the nausea is more intense. The cold sweats last longer. My body rebels like it’s rejecting poison instead of taking medicine.
“Come on,” I whisper to myself, pressing my forehead against my arm. “Just get through it.”
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Finally, the worst of it subsides to that familiar, queasy feeling that sits heavy in my stomach. I push myself up on unsteady legs and move to the sink, where I splash cold water on my face.
My reflection stares back at me, pale and drawn, with dark circles under my eyes from too many sleepless nights.
The scratches on my cheek from my mother’s claws are still visible: four angry, red lines that will probably scar.
I’ve covered them up with makeup at the office, but I’ve noticed the looks thrown my way.
I reach for my toothbrush sluggishly. Everything feels heavy today. My arms. My legs. Even breathing takes effort.
I brush my teeth mechanically, the mint doing nothing to cut through the bitter aftertaste of the pills. After I rinse and look up again, I glimpse a shift in my reflection.
My eyes flash gold.
I freeze, water dripping from my chin, and stare at my own face.
Golden eyes gleam back at me for one impossible moment. Bright and wild and nothing like the hazel I’ve seen my entire life.
I blink hard.
When I open my eyes again, they’re normal. Just hazel with those green flecks. Nothing unusual.
“You’re seeing things,” I mutter, holding on to the edge of the sink. But my hands won’t stop shaking. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then another.
Was it always like this for me? My memories of my life before I came here are hazy at best. Fragmented. But I remember one incident with perfect clarity: the massacre.
I was thirteen. Trevor was seventeen, and I can still see him clearly. His smile. The way my brother would ruffle my hair every morning. How he’d sneak me extra dessert when Mom wasn’t looking. The sound of his laugh, warm and genuine, filling whatever room he was in.
My father, too. I remember his hands, so gentle when he’d hold me. His voice, deep and soothing. The way he’d kiss my forehead and tell me I was brave even when I didn’t feel that way.
That’s all I have left of my life before. Just fragments. Trevor’s laugh. My father’s hands. Feelings of being loved. Of being safe.
Everything else is gone. Our old pack, our house, my room, what my daily life looked like.
The memories won’t come into focus no matter how hard I try to hold on to them.
That part of my past is blank, erased, like someone took a cloth to a mirror and wiped away everything except the reflection of loss.
What I do remember is the massacre itself.
Blood. So much blood.
Screaming. High-pitched and terrible and everywhere.
Trevor’s face. His eyes wide and staring at nothing, his smile gone forever, his body crumpled and wrong.
And then, being wrapped in a blanket, held tight against my mother’s side as we ran. Ran and ran and ran until my lungs burned and the world went dark.
After that, there’s only pain and fever and my mother’s pale face hovering over mine.
“Drink this,” she’d said, pressing a cup to my lips. “It will help you feel better.”
I was so sick. Frail and delirious, unable to move without my entire body screaming in protest. The medicine helped. The fever broke. The weakness became manageable instead of debilitating.
But I’ve never shifted since. Or maybe I never could before. That part is blank, too.
Everyone said it was trauma. That my wolf had retreated to protect me from the horror of what had happened. That she might never come back.
Now, the pills keeps me stable. Keep me from getting sick again. As much as I hate them, I need them.
I open my eyes and stare at my reflection once more.
Weak. Lesser. Not quite wolf enough to belong.
I’ve felt this way my entire life. Accepted it. Built walls around the pain until it became just another part of who I am.
But when Darius said those things to his father, something inside me broke.
“Clumsy. Shy. Couldn’t get through a family dinner without dropping something or saying the wrong thing. Can barely function in normal society.”
Because hearing those words from him—the boy I once thought was different, kind—made it all true in a way it never really had been before.
He claims he didn’t mean it. Claims he was wrong. But how can I believe that?
My pulse quickens at the memory of his hands on me in the conference room a few days ago. The way he caged me against the table, his body so close, I could feel the warmth coming off him.
Heat pools low in my stomach, unwelcome and confusing. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ignore the wetness gathering there.
No. I can’t think about him like this. Can’t let my body respond to memories of his touch.
There has to be a reason he acts this way. Maybe he gets off on messing with his weak, little stepsister.
Because we are brother and sister. Technically. Our parents are married.
We’re siblings, I tell myself firmly. Stepsiblings, yes, but still. Family. This attraction, this pull I feel, it’s wrong. Twisted.
My hands tighten on the edge of the sink.
It doesn’t matter that he has stopped smoking. I noticed. Of course I noticed. He doesn’t smell of cigarettes anymore when he gets close. Just cedar and a different kind of smoke and that wild scent that makes my head spin.
It doesn’t matter that no one makes me do coffee runs anymore. That the menial tasks have stopped. That people actually treat my work with respect now. I know it’s all his doing, but it doesn’t matter.
None of it matters because we’re family. I can’t feel this way about Darius.
I won’t.
I push away from the sink and head back into my bedroom. Getting dressed takes longer than it should. My fingers fumble with buttons. My dress feels too heavy against my skin.
By the time I’m ready, I’m exhausted. And the day hasn’t even started yet.
Three business days have passed since the conference room incident.
Three days of watchful distance and furtive glances across the office.
I can feel Darius’s gaze on me throughout the day. When I’m typing reports. When I’m on the phone with other packs. When I’m walking to the break room or the restroom.
But he doesn’t approach. Doesn’t corner me in hallways or conference rooms. Keeps his distance as if we’ve struck some unspoken agreement.
It should make me feel relieved. Instead, a hollowness opens up in my chest every time I catch him turning away.
I stay late most nights now. Partly because the work is genuinely interesting, partly because I don’t want to go home. Don’t want to face my mother’s cold stares or Alaric’s uncomfortable attempts at conversation.
Darius stays late, too. I know because I can see the light in his office still on when everyone else has left. But he never comes out. Never seeks me out.
By Thursday evening, the pattern is set. The office empties around seven. Sarah waves goodbye, followed by the analysts. Julian stops by my desk with that friendly smile.
“Heading out?” he asks.
“Not yet. Want to finish this report.”
“Don’t work too hard.” He lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then thinks better of it. “Have a good night, Violet.”
“You too.”
He leaves, and then it’s just me and the hum of computers and the distant sound of cleaning staff in other departments.
I work for another hour, lost in territorial agreements and alliance protocols.
Then, a knock on my desk makes me look up. One of the building staff stands there with a bag from the Italian place two blocks over. The good one that’s always packed.
“Delivery for you, miss.”
Just like the last three nights. I don’t bother asking who sent it anymore. “Thank you.”
He sets down the bag and leaves.
I stare at it for a long moment. Steam rises from the top, carrying the scent of garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread.
My stomach growls.
The first night I tried to refuse it, to send it back, but I was so hungry I couldn’t think straight. And the food was there. Right there. Still warm.
So, I ate it. And the next night. And the night after that.
I never see Darius place the orders. Never catch him arranging the deliveries. But I know it’s him. Just like I know he’s still in his office right now, waiting to see if I’ll eat this, too.
I pull the containers out. Pasta carbonara. Caesar salad. Breadsticks. Even a small tiramisu for dessert.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I mutter to myself.
And I eat every bite.
The next day starts normally enough.
I arrive early; the office is still mostly empty. I make a pot of coffee in the break room, then settle in at my desk with my laptop and the stack of files Sarah left for me yesterday.
More people filter in. The usual morning chaos of greetings and coffee runs and complaints about traffic.
I keep my head down, focused on my work. By mid-morning, I need to make copies of a territorial dispute agreement. I gather my files and head over to the copy room, which is tucked away in a corner of the office, quiet, and usually empty.