Ch 7. The Hunter's Hidden Motive

Duke Malven’s grip on her arm was firm as he guided her onto a wide, empty balcony. The sounds of the ballroom muted instantly, replaced by the quiet chill of the night air. He released her, and she took a step back, putting space between them.

“You performed adequately tonight,” he stated, his voice low and devoid of warmth.

Elira said nothing. She knew he expected no response.

“But you are fraying at the edges,” he continued, his cold eyes dissecting her. “I see it perfectly. Do not lie to me.”

“I am fine,” she insisted, her own voice flat.

“You are not.” With a deliberate motion, he withdrew a familiar pale blue vial from an inner pocket of his formal jacket. “You have neglected your doses.”

“I deemed it unnecessary for tonight,” she said, the lie tasting bitter.

“It was never a matter of your opinion. It was a directive.” His voice was like a shard of ice.

"I have spent years building a controlled, poised daughter. Now I see this raw heat. This visible shaking. You are one mistake away from complete ruin."

“I wasn’t—“

“You burned tonight,” he cut her off, his words stripping her bare. “That flush on your skin was not from the room’s heat. That wild pulse at your throat when he took your hand? That was not the reaction of a composed noblewoman. It was the thrill of the beast, and it was plain for anyone with eyes to see.”

His gaze seeing every secret she tried to hide. Reluctantly, her fingers trembling, reached out and took the vial.

She uncorked it and drank. The liquid was flavorless but carried a profound coldness and numbness. It coated her tongue and slid down her throat, and she felt the familiar ice spreading through her veins. But this time, something fought back. A searing, sudden headache exploded behind her eyes, and the world dissolved.

—She ran. The ground was soft earth and needles. The air smelled of pine, wet soil, and blood. Her body moved on four legs—powerful, terrifying. Muscles coiled and released. Wind whipped through fur. The full moon above called to something ancient in her soul—

She jerked back from the balcony, gasping. The world snapped into focus. The wolf was gone, shoved down again. But the memory stayed—raw and real. The potion worked, but now she knew what it was killing inside her.

Duke Malven watched, unmoved.

"There. That's my daughter. Cold. Controlled. A weapon I sharpened. Not some snarling beast."

He looked at her with pure satisfaction.

"That's what you are."

Her own voice sounded distant to her ears. “What am I, truly?”

“You are my legacy,” he said, as if the question were both pointless and offensive. “That is all you need to be.”

He turned to look out over the dark gardens, dismissing her existential crisis.

“You and the Commander were… convincing tonight,” he conceded after a moment of silence.

She let out a sharp, humorless breath. “You mean we deceived them.”

“Being convincing is what matters. A foundation can be built upon that.”

“A foundation of lies?” she challenged, her voice low.

“A foundation of necessity,” he corrected, taking a slow sip from the wine glass he had carried out with him. “Kael surprised me, you know.”

“How?”

“When Kael left before the engagement ceremony, I tried to delay the final marriage. But he insisted we proceed with the legal union in his absence. I thought it was because his sense of duty and the political advantage.” He turned his head, his sharp eyes catching the moonlight.

“But after observing him with you this evening, I begin to wonder if his motivations are more… personal.”

Her throat tightened.

“Why would he want this marriage? Why would he want me?”

“That,” Malven said, stepping closer. A sudden overwhelming space, “is what you will uncover. And you will do it swiftly. I am starting to suspect the Wolfhunter knows more than thought”

As he turned to leave her there on the balcony, she found her voice.

“Father.”

He paused, his back to her.

She took a steadying breath, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.

“I want to ask you something.”

He did not turn around.

“The tonic,” she began, her voice deceptively calm.

“The one you have made me drink every day since I was a child. Was it truly for my health? To calm my nerves?”

She paused, forcing the next words out.

“Or was it always meant to suppress something inside me? Something… wild?”

The silence that followed was heavy and absolute.

Finally, Duke Malven turned. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes locked onto hers.

Nails digging into her palms, she pushed forward.

“Is it because you knew…” She swallowed. “…that I was half wolf?”

The air froze.

Then—CRACK.

He slapped her so hard her ears rang..

“You foolish girl!” His voice was a low, contained roar.

She did not cry out. The sting was hot across her face, but she kept her eyes open, fixed on him. Deep within, a low, reactive growl stirred in the place where the wolf slept.

“You speak of things you do not understand! Things that should have stayed buried forever!”

“And yet you fed me poison every single day to ensure they were buried,” she whispered, the truth of it finally giving her strength.

His eyes flashed with a fury. But for one single, unguarded instant—she saw it.

Fear. Not fear for her. Fear of her.

And for the first time, the wolf inside her, though silenced, seemed to smile.

He closed the distance between them, his face inches from hers.

“Did you let it awaken? Did you stop taking the tonic?”

Her silence was confession enough.

His jaw clenched.

“Foolish, reckless child. You have no idea of the danger you’re in!"

“I am tired of being controlled. My entire life.” Her voice trembled now, not with fear, but with a suppressed anger. “You knew what I was all along, and you never said a word.”

“You are a Malven!” his composure shattering. He slammed a fist down on the stone balustrade.

“Not some moon-crazed beast from the woods!”

“Why?” she demanded, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. “Because it doesn’t fit your perfect plans?”

“Because it is filth!” he spat, his face contorted with disgust.

“It is a stain on our name! Your mother’s… mistake… should have been buried with her. You were supposed to be the correction! The perfect, controllable daughter!”

The mention of her mother was a fresh wound.

“What really happened to my mother?” The question left her lips before she could stop it. “Is she actually dead?”

“She is dead!” he shouted, his answer echoing across the empty balcony.

But it was that very force, that raw, defensive anger, that made her believe, for the first time, that it might be a lie.

“You will not dishonor this family,” his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

“You will not humiliate me by becoming one of them. You will play the role of Lady Rennar. You will serve the purpose for which I have placed you. And you will keep your cursed blood a secret.”

In a final, explosive act of fury, he hurled his wine glass. It sailed past her head, missing her by inches, and shattered against the pillar behind her, staining the white stone with blood-red wine.

Elira stood frozen. Her cheek burned. But worse was the hollow crack in her chest—the stupid, hidden place where she’d kept a shred of hope for him. Now it was just empty.

Duke Malven didn’t look back. A flick of his hand. Dismissed.

She nodded once. Her steps were quiet, her back straight. The perfect daughter.

The door clicked shut. She realized she’d stopped breathing.

A shadow moved from the doorway.

Alvero straightened up, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He had been waiting. Listening.

“Well, well,” his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“What a rare and delightful sight. Our perfect little Lady Rennar—flushed, freshly slapped, and sent away like a chastised servant on her very banquet ball to celebrate her marriage!”

He took a step closer, his eyes glinting with malice.

“I must admit, I didn’t catch every word of your… lively discussion. Just the raised voices, the sound of breaking glass.” His gaze lingered on the red mark of palm on her cheek.

“But this? This is unmistakable. What an absolute pleasure to see the flawless facade finally crack.”

Her nails cut into her palms. Shame and rage screamed in her ears. She didn't look at him. Didn't speak. As she passed, she slammed her shoulder into his—a hard, sharp blow—and kept walking.

She didn't go back to the ballroom. She took the servants' passages, found a door, and escaped into the night. She walked until the garden turned wild and the music faded to nothing.

There was a fountain. Water falling into a dark pool. The only sound. She sat on the cold stone edge, alone, and watched the water. Trying to numb herself.

Hours passed. The moon rose higher. The air grew cold. The banquet had ended hours ago. Yet she didn't move.

Then—gravel crunching. A steady footstep.

She didn't turn.

She knew.

Kael had found her.