chapter 2

Toronto has no shortage of impressive houses, but Aconitum Hall is in a class of its own. Built long before the skyscrapers and urban planning, the city has crept up to the mansion’s tower walls and tiered gardens, preserving it as a fairytale castle out of time. And since the very first stone was set into the foundation, it’s been the traditional home of our pack leader.

It’s Buckingham Palace but packed full of werewolves.

But it doesn’t look much like the Queen’s house. Aconitum Hall was built in early gothic revival style, which I know only from taking the tour more than once on school trips. It could easily be mistaken for a cathedral at first glance. There are spires on some of the conical tower roofs and a ton of gargoyles. Two of them leer down at us through the sunroof of the car as we pull beneath the porte cochere.

“First, we’re received by the king. When everyone has arrived, dinner will be served,” Mother repeats for me, as if I somehow forgot on the drive. “After that, dancing and socializing. Make sure you speak to at least one member of each family.”

So they know our wayward daughter has fallen in line again. She doesn’t need to explain that part.

The car pulls to a stop and a valet opens the back door. Mother and Father, who spent the ride in the seats across from me, get out first, before I, slightly carsick from the backwards facing ride, maneuver myself out. A regal red carpet is our path up the steps and into the blazing golden light of the massive foyer.

“Your wraps, ma’am, miss?” a valet asks as we enter. Mother and I hand over our furs and Father shrugs out of his smart wool coat, tucking the coat-check slip into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Though werewolves are more tolerant of the cold than humans, it’s still January in Toronto, and the breeze from the open doors behind us raise gooseflesh on the nape of my neck.

Mother’s stylist, Jonathan, has worked my ash blonde hair into a loose, romantic up do that looks tousled and free despite remaining entirely stationary no matter how much I might shake my head. A delicate halo of spun silver wire studded with winking white diamonds weaves through my soft curls, matching the crystal rhinestones clustered at the hem of my gray tulle overskirt. The gems rise and disperse liking fading constellations, and the silver silk layer beneath glows like the face of the moon.

It’s not my dress, it’s not how I would have worn my hair, and this is very much not a party I want to be at.

“Come along,” Mother whispers with a tight smile, nudging me forward to join the line of partygoers waiting to be announced in the throne room.

My strappy silver heels are already digging into my feet. I can predict where the blisters will be tomorrow morning. That is, if I don’t slip on the marble floor and split my head open.

“Aren’t we going to wait for Tara and Clare?” I ask. In the past, we’ve all been together when my father has declared our allegiance to the pack.

The question discomfits my father; he looks as if he’ll feel my forehead to make sure I’m not ill. “Tara and Clare are married, Bailey. They have their own families. They’ll declare themselves with their mates.”

“Oh, right.” I know that they got married—missing their post-mating ceremony receptions had been one of the few sacrifices I deeply regretted making when I left—but I still can’t quite get my head around my sisters being actual grown-ups.

Mother sees her opening and swoops in for the kill. “And next year, if the fates are willing, you’ll do the same.”

If the fates are willing. Whether or not I’m willing isn’t her concern.

I don’t address her remark. “I can’t wait to see Tara and Clare. And finally meet their mates.”

All I know about them is what I could learn from a few brief phone calls. My family wasn’t supposed to be in contact with me while I was away in the mortal world, but my sisters and I have always been rule breakers. Tara’s husband, Josh, went to school with us and now owns a social media company valued in the hundreds of millions. Clare’s mate, Julian, is a partner at my father’s firm, which Ashton hoped to be, back when he chose me for his future mate. I wonder if Father gave him a job as a consolation prize when I left.

I hear the drone of the majordomo announcing the names of the families as they enter the throne room, but we’re not close enough that I can make them out. Everyone in the foyer is joyous and friendly. Mother and Father chat with the couple behind them and I cast my gaze down the line.

Five years, and so much has changed that I don’t recognize any of the people around us.

When it’s our turn, we pass between huge, black marble pillars and pause beneath the enormous glass and steel chandelier sculpted into an effigy of the moon in all her phases.

“Thomas Dixon the third, his mate, Vivianne Harcourt-Dixon, and his daughter, Bailey Dixon,” the man’s voice booms. He’s a different majordomo than the man who previously held the position my entire life; yet another reminder that the world I walked away from has moved on in my absence.

As is the man standing on the dais.

I remember King Victor being a broad-shouldered sloucher with a well-groomed beard and a slight paunch, like an extra from How to Train Your Dragon dressed in an expensive suit.

The man we approach is not King Victor. This man, whoever he is, stands tall and straight. This man wears a tuxedo like the concept of tuxedos was invented because of him. I can’t look away from the sharpness of his clean-shaven jawline or the intense gray of his eyes, which lock on mine. His black hair is short and parted at the side, and a hint of silver touches its strands.