Chapter 14 The Uncle
I'd meant to wait.
I want that on record, even now — even knowing how everything unfolded afterward.
When I left Ilse's office the night before, transcript in hand, I'd told her the truth: I wanted witnesses.
I wanted the council present. I wanted Desmond's response to the evidence to happen in front of the people who'd been in that chamber three years ago, the people whose careful, concerned glances the scribe had so meticulously recorded, the people who'd watched something happen to me and let it go unquestioned because the alternative — asking the obvious question — had felt, at the time, like more trouble than it was worth.
I'd meant to wait for that. Build the case properly. Bring it to the council with weight behind it, so that whatever Desmond said in response, there would be no room for him to manage the conversation the way he'd managed every conversation about that night for three years.
But I hadn't slept. And somewhere around dawn, lying awake with the transcript on the table beside my bed — please, just LOOK at me, please — patience had stopped feeling like strategy and started feeling like cowardice.
Every hour I waited was another hour Desmond got to walk through this packhouse believing his secret was still safe.
Another hour he got to look at me with that careful, sympathetic expression and know exactly what was behind it, while I — until two days ago — had known nothing at all.
I went to find him before breakfast. Not for a confrontation, I told myself. Just to observe him. To see if there was anything in his demeanor — now that I knew what to look for — that might tell me how much he suspected, how close he thought I was to the truth.
I found him in his study, going through correspondence with his usual unhurried efficiency, and the moment he looked up and saw my face, I knew two things at once: first, that whatever composure I'd planned to maintain wasn't going to survive this conversation.
And second — from the brief, almost imperceptible stillness that crossed his features before his expression smoothed back into its usual careful warmth — that he already knew. Or at least suspected.
"Roman." Desmond set down the letter he'd been reading, and gestured to the chair across from his desk with the easy hospitality of a man entirely unconcerned. "You look like you haven't slept. Is everything all right?"
"No." I didn't sit. "I read the full record from three years ago. Last night. The sealed transcript — the actual proceedings, not the summary."
Something flickered across Desmond's face — there and gone, but I was watching for it now, and I caught it. "I wasn't aware there was a sealed transcript."
"You were aware. You're the one who had it sealed.
" I kept my voice level, though everything in me wanted to do anything but stay level.
"Ilse told me. Three years ago, you went to her, specifically, and instructed her to seal the full proceedings — not the summary, the full record — and you gave her a reason that, I'll admit, sounded perfectly reasonable at the time.
Protecting me. Protecting the pack's stability during a difficult transition.
I'm sure it sounded reasonable to her, the same way it's sounded reasonable to everyone, for three years, every time anyone got close enough to ask a question you didn't want asked. "
"Roman—" Desmond's voice had taken on the careful, measured quality I'd noticed before, the tone of a man redirecting a conversation back onto safer ground. "I think you're working yourself up over something that's been misrepresented to you. Sealing sensitive records is standard practice—"
"Don't." The word came out harder than I intended, and Desmond's expression shifted — not quite alarm, but something close to it, the first crack I'd seen in his composure since I'd walked in.
"Don't do that. Don't give me the careful, reasonable explanation.
I've read it, Desmond. I've read every word of what happened that night.
I know what the scribe wrote down — subject's posture became rigid, eyes lost focus, voice notably flat.
I know what Marlowe said — something's wrong with him, can't anyone else see that something's wrong.
And I know what you did, immediately, the moment anyone might have stopped to actually look at what was happening to me.
You didn't let them. You moved straight from the question to the ruling to the consequences, faster than anyone in that room had time to think, and then you sent me away before I could come back to myself in front of witnesses. "
The room had gone very still.
"And the next morning," I continued, before Desmond could find whatever careful response he was reaching for, "you went around this entire packhouse, quietly, checking who'd seen me the night before — confused, disoriented, asking what day it was — and you gave every single one of them the same explanation.
Grief does strange things. Best not to talk about it, for his sake.
The same explanation you gave Ilse, two days ago, in the records office, when I asked you about the gap in my memory.
Some things, once they're gone, are better left that way. "
"Roman." Desmond's voice had dropped, and something underneath the careful smoothness had shifted — not quite panic, but something adjacent to it, the sound of a man recalculating in real time.
"I understand you've found something that's upset you.
And I understand, given everything, that you're looking for someone to direct that at.
But I want you to think very carefully about what you're suggesting.
You're talking about something that would require — what, exactly?
Some kind of magical interference with an Alpha's mind?
Do you have any idea how rare that kind of ability is?
How dangerous? You're talking about something that, if it were true, would represent one of the most significant violations of pack law in this territory's entire history. "
"I know exactly what I'm suggesting." I held his gaze, steady despite everything churning underneath my composure.
"And I'm not suggesting it lightly, Desmond.
I've spent two days reading records, talking to Ilse, piecing together a timeline — and every piece of it points to the same conclusion.
Something was done to me, three years ago, in that chamber, in front of the entire council.
And the only person in that room who immediately, smoothly, knew exactly what to say and do to make sure nobody asked questions — the only person who's spent three years making sure the explanation stayed simple, every single time anyone got close to the truth — was you. "
"This is—" Desmond stood, and for the first time, something in his movement was less than perfectly composed — a sharpness, an urgency that hadn't been there before.
"Roman, I think you need to step back from this.
I think the stress of the last few days — this woman showing up, the Reclamation, all of it — I think it's affecting your judgment in ways you're not seeing clearly.
You're building a story out of circumstantial details and calling it evidence.
A sealed record. A few conversations. None of that proves anything—"
"It doesn't need to prove anything to me.
" My voice was quiet now, quieter than it had been throughout the entire conversation, and something about the quiet seemed to land harder than the volume had.
"I already know what happened to me, Desmond.
I felt it, the moment I walked into that healing wing and recognized a woman my mind had no memory of at all.
I've felt the shape of the gap, every day since — not an absence, but a removal , something cut out clean.
I don't need proof for myself. I need proof for the council.
And I have it. A sealed transcript, verified by Ilse, untampered with for three years.
Witnesses who can corroborate the timeline.
And—" I paused, and let the next words land with deliberate weight.
"—an uncle who, when confronted with all of this, didn't say that's impossible or I don't know what you're talking about .
He said think very carefully about what you're suggesting.
Which isn't a denial, Desmond. It's a warning. "
The silence that followed was different from any silence that had passed between us before — heavier, charged with something that felt, for the first time, like the truth finally being acknowledged in the room, even without either of us saying it outright.
"What do you want, Roman?" Desmond's voice had changed — the careful warmth gone entirely now, replaced by something flatter, harder, the voice of a man abandoning one strategy and reaching for another.
"What is it you actually want, here? Because I don't think it's the truth.
I think you already believe you know the truth.
What you want is for me to confirm it — to hand you the satisfaction of being right, so you can feel justified in whatever you're planning to do next. "
"I want to know if it can be undone." The words came out steadier than I expected, given everything.
"Whatever was done to me — the gap, the memory, all of it.
I want to know if it's permanent, or if there's a way to get it back.
And then I want the council to know exactly what happened, and exactly who did it, so that the next three years aren't built on the same lie the last three were. "