CHAPTER 2 - TRISTAN

I take my time going home. It’s hard to leave her behind when everything inside of me is screaming at me to stay. Especially when she needs me. My fox growls as I force myself to leave her family’s house behind, whining to go back. I ignore him. 

I’ve been in love with Octavia Hart since we were kids, though I never realized what these feelings meant until we were older. By then, it was too late. I know how she sees me. How she thinks of me. To her, I’m her best friend. Her partner-in-crime that she can always depend on. 

I wish I was more. 

Letting go, my fox leaps forward as I change. My paws sink into the earth, leaves and grass flying as I run through the woods toward my own home. It’s just a few miles down the road, an old house passed down from generation to generation. When my parents pass, it was supposed to go to my older brother. 

But he’s no longer here.

As soon as I spot the lights of our mansion flicker through the trees, my fox slows. Even he dreads going home. I can’t blame him. I know what waits for us. 

Disappointment. 

Resentment. 

It’s always been like that because that’s what happens when a Shifter is born into the wrong family. Mine have always been Wolf Shifters. Always. And yet, I came out a Fox. The black sheep of the family, minus the actual sheep part. 

Shifting back, I tug my black shirt down around my stomach. Unlike Wyres, Shifters get to keep whatever’s on their bodies. I’m not sure if it’s because of how we evolved, or whatever, but I’m still thankful. It makes everything so much easier, especially in these times. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be for Shifters to live amongst humans if they were constantly having to keep clothes around in odd places. 

Warmth floods from every window of the two-story house, though I know only coldness awaits inside.  Columns hold up the roof, shading the front from the harsh, southern sun. There are no decorations on the front porch. No welcome mat. No wreaths or signs on the black door. Nothing but white-painted railings between the thick bases of the pillars. There are eight windows on each side of the house, each with its own pair of black shutters on either side. 

My shoes thud against the wooden steps leading up to our front door. I can feel my parents in the living room, hear their hushed whispers. Since my brothers left, the house has been quiet. Too quiet. Before, it was always loud and chaotic. But not anymore. Now, everything is pristine and perfect—just as Mother wants it.

She was never able to have that with three boys in the house. Now, there’s only one.

“Tristan?” My mother’s voice calls from down the hall. 

I freeze, my hand still wrapped around the door handle, cursing myself. “Yeah?” 

“Come here.” 

The demand rolls right through me and my fox bristles. We should be used to it by now, how they talk to us. But we aren’t. 

My father’s sitting in his usual chair by the fireplace, scrolling through his phone. The screen casts sharp shadows along his jaw. His black hair is gelled back, hiding the fact that he’s balding just a little too early. Father’s in one of his best suits, a black tie hanging from between his lapels. My mother’s dress shimmers like emeralds, clinging to her body like snakeskin. Heels click along the hardwood floors, echoing around the large salon. She paces in front of the fire, arms crossed. 

That’s never a good sign.

“Where were you tonight?” she demands, spinning around to face me.

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Around.” 

“You didn’t come to the dinner tonight.” Her tone is accusatory, though I know she didn’t really want me there.

“Oh was that tonight?” I ask innocently. “Did you guys just arrive home?” 

“We left early,” she snaps. “Because our son, who is supposed to show up on occasion, decided not to. Do you know how embarrassing that is?” 

“I really don’t think anyone noticed.” Or cared.

Her silver eyes narrow slightly at my tone. “You’re our heir. They noticed.” 

“I’m only heir because I’m the last one left standing.” 

“Tristan.” My father’s head jerks up, a warning in his dark eyes. 

I ignore him, leaning against the brick facade. “I heard an interesting rumor tonight while I was out.” 

My mother perks up, eyes lit with interest. “Oh?” 

“Apparently there are peace talks with the Wyres.” I let it hang between us like the bait it is. 

My father snorts, going back to his phone. “Impossible. There haven’t been any attempts to make peace with those monsters in over a decade.” 

I shrug. “Maybe now it’ll happen again?” 

My mother’s lip purse. “If there was, Lyra would tell me about it.” 

“Maybe she doesn’t know?” Which would almost be as impossible as the peace talk rumor. Lyra Hart, Octavia’s mom, was as close to the action as she could get. She didn’t act like a normal Queen—always pulling the strings from her husband’s shadow. “What would they even offer the Wyres for a peace treaty anyway?” 

Mother’s head tilts and I go still. “Since when are you so interested in politics?” Father looks up again, studying me closely. 

“I’m not,” I reply casually. “I just heard it and wanted to know if you had to. Since you’d be more interested in that little information than I would.” 

Father grunts, clicking the button on the side of his phone. The screen goes dark. “I guess we should be grateful you were at least interested enough to come to us about this.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m used to the little jabs and passive-aggressive comments, but something about tonight has me more wound up than usual. 

“You know what it means,” Father replies coldly. There’s no warmth in his eyes. “If only your brothers were still alive. They wouldn’t come to us with rumors,” distaste coats the word, “they’d find out the truth and already be planning their next steps.” 

“Yeah, well, I guess they didn’t plan their steps carefully enough when they were killed by Wyres, now did they?” 

The comment is a step too far. 

Without a word, my father leaves the room. Mother and I are silent as we listen to his heavy footsteps on the stairs. It isn’t until he’s locked away in his study that she finally speaks. Moving closer, Mother’s voice drops to barely a whisper, her hand gripping my arm. 

“I know what you’re doing,” she warns.

“I’m not doing anything. I just said I heard something and thought you would know more about it.” 

“You might be a Fox, Tristan, but you’re not as sly as you think you are.” Her nails dig into my skin. I try not to flinch. 

My jaw clenches as I jerk away from her. She watches me, an emotion I can’t identify swirling in her eyes. 

“You should prepare to have your heart broken, Tristan,” she says at last. “If there really are talks of peace with the Wyres, you know exactly what King Hart would offer.” 

Ignoring the way my heart drops, I turn away from her. She says nothing as I head back out the front door, tearing down the steps, mind racing. I know she’s right. If there really are peace talks. If there’s a way for Shifters and Wyres to finally end this centuries-old war, I know exactly what our King would offer. 

Octavia.

It’s a tale as old as time. A cliché that should have ended after the ink’s dried on the history books. Octavia is the Princess. Our Princess. And the Bloody Prince is around our age. It makes sense as much as I don’t want it to. 

I’m not paying attention as my fox runs through the forest, but it’s no surprise to me to find myself back at the Harts’. Octavia’s light is on, flooding the drive with warmth and sunshine. My heart skips a beat as she passes by the window, dark hair curling over her shoulder. She’s changed into a long t-shirt I instantly recognize as one of mine and sweatpants. 

Shifting back, I can’t hold back a grin, despite the pain still sinking in my stomach. Grabbing a pebble from the drive, I toss it up toward her window. She’s there instantly, throwing open the sash. 

“Tristan,” she hisses, “what did I say about throwing rocks at my damn window? If you break the glass…”

“We need to talk,” I whisper, knowing she can hear me even that high up. 

She hesitates, but only for a moment. “Meet you at the grove?” 

I don’t answer. Instead, I slip around the side of the house, sticking to the shadows just in case I bump into one of the guards King Hart usually has posted around. They’re pretty simple to avoid, which makes me question the security of the house. Not that the Harts are in any danger. They might be royalty, but no Shifter would dare go after them. Their family has been ruling us for a long, long time. And the front lines of the war are far, far away.

True to her word, I see Octavia sneaking through the trees that surround the pond a few minutes later. She looks worried, though she’s trying to hide it. I take her hand, stopping her from picking at her cuticles. 

“What did you find out?” She already knows what I need to talk to her about. And that annoys me. 

She knows me—us—so well that, most of the time, we don’t even need to speak to communicate. And yet, she can’t even see what I feel for her. 

There’s a glimmer of hope in her eyes, despite the fear, and my stomach twists. I can’t tell her. Not yet. 

“Nothing, actually. My parents didn’t hear anything.” I let my shoulders drop. “I’m sorry.” 

Octavia sighs, taking a seat on the grass. Her fingers grip the blades, pulling them up from the ground. I take a seat beside her, our shoulders brushing. “It’s not your fault,” she says quietly. “I just—” She lets out a frustrated growl.

“I know.” 

We sit there in silence, watching the glassy surface of the pond. My mother’s words echo in my head over and over, the weight of Octavia’s body next to mine like an anchor pulling me beneath the waves. 

You should prepare to have your heart broken, Tristan