FOUR

WREN’S POV

I’M IN agony, shaking to the bones as I stuff my clothes into a red luggage bag in preparation to leave with Alpha Rhys in the next few minutes.

This empty, bruise-like ache settles in my chest like a lump, making every movement difficult. My phone is placed atop the rumpled, generic hotel-white duvet of my room, and I track the time: 11:37 PM.

I will meet him in eight minutes. I had almost nothing to pack. Just a couple of hand-me-downs from Alpha Silas: his hoodies, oversized shirts, some plain gowns and flats.

When I’m done packing, my things barely fill half the bag.

I zip it up with a sniffle just as the door bursts open and a blemishless figure crosses the threshold.

I lift my swollen eyes, catching the reflection of pale skin in the mirror opposite me before I even turn to look at her.

Cheryl.

Her green eyes are anything but princessy today as she asks in a tight voice, “Have you been lying about being wolfless?”

The question catches me off guard. “Uh?”

“Have you been lying about your wolf status?” she repeats, intonating the words now like I'm retarded.

The urge to launch the bag at her from across the room overwhelms me, but I hold back. “You’ve always been slow, Cheryl,” I say with a trembling voice, “but never this stupid.”

She lifts her chin persistently, cheeks red, “Then explain what happened in the assembly hall? Did you make us lose on purpose?”

My mouth falls open, forming an “O”.

Even though I am in shock at what happened at the assembly hall, nothing could prepare me for my own sister accusing me of lying. We've trained—or rather, I've watched her train and shift years after she got her wolf, and never for once have I been able to imitate this.

Her accusation leaves me in total distress.

“I’ve never shifted in my life and you know this, why do you ask me such questions?”

If looks could burn, Cheryl’s would have left me in a pile of ashes. “And who knows if you’ve been pretending?”

“Pretending for?”

“Mother pretended, for years, that she wasn’t a half warlock…” she immediately pivots to the most avoided topic of the Russo family.

My eyes widens, and I nearly sway from the sudden maneuver in conversation. “You know never to bring mom up like that…” I warn, my index finger trembling as I jab it in her direction.

Cheryl throws her hands out. “And what? You think you can still command me?” You’re literally a failure.” She steps closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “And you look closest to Mom. How am I sure you didn’t inherit her warlock abilities?”

I shake my head aggressively, tears pooling in my eyes again.

“How am I sure you don’t have a wolf?”

“Because I don’t!”

“How am I sure you're not lying?”

“You're within proximity, do you smell a fucking wolf?”

“Well, you do smell stupidly human.”

“Okay, so—”

“But what if you masked the scent with magic….” she’s gesticulating wildly, hands all over the place. “Like mom….or something. Mom used her magic to hide that she was a warlock for years.”

“Are you hearing yourself, Cheryl?”

“Loud and fucking clear!”

“You sound paranoid!”

She does not jab back this time.

Instead, she tucks strands of her hair behind her ear, chest heaving as if the realisation of her stupidy just dawned on her. “Paranoia has always been your thing—”

I cut her off, “You know I’ve been a liability to this pack my entire life… do you really think I’d have a wolf and hide it?” I feel the sting of the unshed tears making my eyes burn. “Also… why do you speak of mom with such hate?”

Cheryl’s response is quipped. “Because she never loved me.”

I blink rapidly, “What have you been listening to?”

She gives a short, dismissive breath. “The horrible things that witch did to people?”

“She healed with her powers.”

“She murdered with them.”

My voice is low, strained with rising anger. “What has dad been telling you?”

Cheryl's brows knit tightly over the sea-green of her eyes, “That her warlock abilities made her monster. That you’re just like her.”

I shake my head, rage making my sight swim. “That’s not true.”

She sneers, “How would you know? You never listen to dad.”

“Mom loved you Cheryl…” I mutter, the word stinging with fresh hurt. “She loves us both, equally, you know dad’s lying to you.”

Cheryl’s face twists, the sadness making her look like she did when she was eight, convinced Mom was just delayed coming back from her trips to The Crescent Pack in New Orleans, her bottom lip trembling, beet red.

“Well, mom favored you most, always!” she screams, chest rising and falling with shuddering breaths. “And I’m glad she’s dead, anyways! I’m glad I never get to see your face as a reminder of hers again. I wish you die!”

That's the height of it all.

Shaking, I snatch the red bag and the phone off the bed. Gripping the handle so hard my knuckles turn white, I start moving toward the door.

As I near her, she shrinks back, squinting like I’m about to hit the fuck out of her—which, if not for the throbbing ache in my chest, I absolutely would.

It is saddening that I might never get to see my baby sister’s face for the rest of my life.

Despite the flood of emotions in my heart, the hatred never leaves Cheryl’s expression. I wonder where it’s all gone wrong, she’d always been an angel, she’d always been so loving…

As I cross the threshold, turning to give her my last words, the silence is replaced by a sound that reverberates off the walls of the hallways, causing both Cheryl and I to flinch simultaneously:

A banshee-like screech.

“Luna, help!”

I cringe inwardly at being called Luna after being denounced, but my instincts—old, stupid instincts—kick in as a figure scampers around the corner.

It's an Omega maid, Ophelia, in her usual faded, powder blue dress with white polka dots.

“Ma—Ma—” Ophelia tries to force the words out, collapsing a step from the doorframe, her hands clutching her chest.

My hands are sweating on the handle of my bag.

I lean in, petrified. “WHAT, Ophelia? Spit it out!”

“He-he r-r-r-ripped off h-his f-f-fingers…” Ophelia finally manages, the stutter violent enough to shake her whole body. “M-mad—mad—”

Impatient, Cheryl shoves past me. She crouches down, grabs the maid's chin, tipping her face to meet her glare.

"Ophelia, talk or I’ll rip out your tongue.”

The maid’s eyes widen, and heaving violently, she spits the words out, “H-h-he says if you—if you are n-not brought to the Alpha’s office im-m- mediately he w-will r-rip off his–his—”

“His what?” Cheryl screams.

“His dick!”