Chapter 4

[Sylvia's POV]

"Carl and Freya are here to see you," George announced from the doorway.

My blood turned to ice.

I wasn't ready. I was still twenty now. My wolf was still dormant, fast asleep deep within my soul.

I had no supernatural strength to defend myself, and my mind was a chaotic mess of trauma and phantom pains.

If I looked at Carl right now, I didn't know if I would scream or try to claw his eyes out with my human nails.

"No," I snapped, my voice harsher than intended. "Don't let them in. Tell them I'm asleep. Tell them anything."

George blinked in surprise. He glanced at Patrick, who simply gave a firm nod.

"As you wish, Lady Sylvia," George murmured, pulling the heavy oak door shut.

Patrick leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "You seem terrified of your perfect future mate after a little bump on the head."

I offered a noncommittal hum, pulling the duvet over my lap.

My heart hammered wildly against my ribs.

I needed to think. I needed a plan to tear them apart piece by piece, not just a blind, reckless confrontation.

Five minutes later, three sharp knocks rapped against the wood.

Fury instantly eclipsed my panic. Can't they take a hint? Are they that desperate to check if I'm dead? 

Annoyed, I yanked the thick blanket completely over my head, creating a dark little cave. The door creaked open.

"George, throw those two bastards out of the pack lands!" I shouted from under the covers. "Patrick, lock the damn door! I don't want to see anyone!"

"Uh..." Patrick cleared his throat nervously. "I don't think I can stop our Alpha from walking into his own house, Via."

Alpha? I froze. I ripped the blanket down.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a simple brown suit. His brown hair was slightly graying at the temples, and his sharp brown eyes were wide with surprise.

My father. Eric Woodville.

A heavy, suffocating wave of guilt crashed into my chest.

In my past life, Carl had isolated me from this man. Carl had constantly whispered in my ear, convincing me that Eric was deeply ashamed of his weak, wolfless daughter. After Patrick was murdered, Carl manipulated my grief, telling me my father blamed me for the accident.

I had believed those toxic lies.

I had stopped calling him. I had moved my things to Carl's territory, leaving my father to mourn his son alone in this massive, empty house.

I didn't even bother putting on my slippers.

I scrambled off the mattress, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and threw myself into his arms.

"Dad," I choked out, burying my face into his chest. "I'm so sorry."

He smelled like worn leather, the crisp forest wind, and his familiar tobacco. It was the scent of safety.

I clung to his jacket, my fingers gripping the fabric as if he might disappear. Hot tears soaked into his lapel.

Eric stood completely rigid for a second, clearly shocked by my sudden breakdown. Then, his large, warm hand came up to cup the back of my head, pressing me closer.

He glared over my shoulder. "Before I decide how to discipline you, Patrick, you better tell me the truth. What the hell did you say to your sister to make her cry like this?"

"Dad, I swear I didn't do anything!" Patrick protested, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he jumped up.

"No, Dad, it wasn't him," I sniffled, reluctantly pulling back. I wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. "I just... I had a really bad dream. I missed you."

I was about to make up a lie about the crash, when a large, distinctly rough hand extended into my peripheral vision, holding a crisp white tissue.

"Thanks, George," I mumbled on instinct. I took the tissue and blew my nose, keeping my head down.

"Lady Sylvia," George's voice called out from the hallway, sounding slightly confused. "I am standing by the door."

I froze.

If George was over there... who just handed me the tissue?

I realized then that the scent lingering in the air wasn't George's usual mild cedar.

It was a sharp, electrifying scent. Dark, rich chocolate mixed with the heavy, commanding ozone of a brewing thunderstorm.

The exact same scent that had wrapped around me right before I died.

I slowly turned my head to the left.

I looked at a pair of heavy black combat boots. Then up long, muscular legs clad in dark tactical pants. Up a broad, impossibly wide chest covered by a fitted black Henley shirt.

And finally, I locked eyes with a pair of deep, midnight-blue eyes.

My breath caught in my throat. He was massive. He radiated a quiet, dangerous authority that made the air in the room feel incredibly thin.

Who was he?

Ten Hours Ago

"Cassie successfully turned back time to one year ago."

My wolf, Paul, spoke the words directly into my mind, jolting me awake. I sat up, my heavy silk sheets pooling around my waist. I grabbed the sleek smartphone off my nightstand.

July 24, 2024.

A slow, dark smile crept onto my lips. It worked.

I threw off the covers and walked toward my massive wardrobe. I needed to get to the Silver Moon Pack immediately.

"Wait," Paul grumbled, pacing restlessly in the back of my mind. "Without that crazy witch to guide us, how are we supposed to get through the labyrinth forest? It's heavily enchanted."

I paused, a black shirt in my hand. He had a point.

A year from now, Witch Cassie had stormed into my palace on her own, demanding I take the Phoenix Blood to save my mate. But right now, she had no reason to seek me out. No one outside the royal bloodline even knew the Head Witch existed.

As the Lycan King, leaving the Central Palace unannounced was a security nightmare. But nothing was going to keep me away from that territory.

I dressed quickly. I would just have to figure out the maze myself.