Chapter 07

Adeline’s POV

Vincent stiffened like stone, his grip on the girl tightening until his knuckles whitened. He headed for the door but I moved quickly.

“Wait!” I called, stepping in front of him, my voice sharp enough to cut through the tension hanging heavy in the room.

He paused, the girl limp in his arms, her head resting weakly against his chest.

“Look at her,” I said urgently, moving closer. “She’s covered in bruises. Old and new. Her wrists are rubbed raw, her back…” My throat tightened. “She’s scarred, Vincent. Goddess, she’s scarred everywhere. If you move her too roughly, you could break her.”

He shifted his hold, frowning slightly, but said nothing.

I couldn’t stop. I stepped closer and brushed my fingers lightly over her arm, and my stomach turned. Beneath the thin, tattered fabric of her sleeve, her skin was littered with faded yellow-green bruises overlapping fresh, dark purple ones. My fingertips hovered near her wrist—raw, blistered grooves ringed it like shackles.

“She’s been tied up,” I whispered, my throat raw.

I turned her arm gently, and my stomach clenched. Thin white lines mapped across her skin like a story no child should carry—pale scars, layer upon layer, each one healed over the last. Not from one moment of cruelty, but from years. Years of rope biting into soft flesh. Years of someone deciding her pain didn’t matter.

“Look at this,” I murmured, tugging her collar down just enough to see her shoulder blade. Angled stripes marred her back, deep old welts etched into her flesh, layered like a map of cruelty. “These are lash scars. Whoever had her didn’t just hurt her—they kept hurting her.”

I brushed a strand of hair from her face. She flinched faintly even in sleep, curling inward. My heart cracked.

My wolf prowled under my skin, restless and furious. She keened at the sight of the girl’s frail frame, clawing against me, desperate to shield what was ours. The soundless cry in my chest felt older than grief itself—like a plea ripped from bone and blood, something only a mother could feel.

No wonder she was so sickly. I could see it now. The hollows of her cheeks. The dull pallor of her skin. She wasn’t just ill—she was starved, beaten, neglected until her little body had nothing left to fight with.

“She’s frail because of this,” I said bitterly. “Because whoever had her did this to her over and over again. She’s not weak by nature—she was broken.”

The thought of it made bile rise in my throat. What kind of monster could take a child and carve suffering into her skin until she forgot what it felt like to be held without pain?

Vincent’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak. His silence infuriated me.

“Do you even see her?” I demanded. “She’s skin and bone. I can feel her ribs through her dress. If you jostle her wrong, if you don’t support her…”

His grip around her shifted slightly, protective almost despite himself. His gaze flicked down at the girl, unreadable.

“She’s been suffering for years, Vincent,” I said softly now, my anger faltering into something rawer. “Years.”

For one heartbeat, his stance changed—shoulders easing just barely—but then he moved past me, striding toward the door again.

“Vincent!” My voice rose sharply. As if he couldn't see all I was showing him on Myra’s body, he just looked at me with anger in his eyes and squeezed out a word from between his teeth: "Get lost"!.

The door creaked wide, and in one final glance, I saw her frail fingers twitch faintly against his chest, her lips parting. But no words came out.

I stood motionless, staring at the space he’d just vacated. My chest tightened painfully, my breath sharp and unsteady.

That word—impossible, fragile—echoed in my skull like a tolling bell.

“Mom”.

My knees gave out beneath me, and I sank against the doorframe, fingers clawing at the floorboards like they could hold me together when everything else was coming apart.

Mom.

The floor was cold, unyielding, but I barely felt it. My arms folded around empty air, aching for a weight I hadn’t held in six years. When Caleb and Elijah were born, I had sworn no harm would touch them while I still drew breath. And yet my daughter had been left to bleed in silence. The guilt split me open in ways no blade ever could.

I pressed my forehead to my knees, trembling violently. Images of her bruised body, those raw wrists, her sunken cheeks—all of it merged with a memory I’d buried deep:

I’d searched for her. Gods, I’d searched until my body gave out. Through ruins, smoke, rain-soaked forests while I called her into the dark until my voice shredded to nothing. With newborn twins clutched to my chest, I stumbled barefoot through mud and ash, bleeding from childbirth, delirious with grief.

I dug through collapsed beams with my hands raw and torn. I checked every overturned cot, every burnt cradle. I clawed through brambles and snow-choked paths, praying to smell her scent—just once.

Nothing.

Only silence.

That silence followed me for years. It smothered hope until I stopped speaking about her altogether, because I couldn’t bear another answerless night.

Now she is here. Scarred, starved, sickly and whispering Mom.

A broken laugh choked me, halfway to a sob. “It can’t be,” I whispered against my knees, trembling. “It’s impossible.” But my heart knew better.

“Mum?”

Caleb’s small, wavering voice snapped me back.

I lifted my head. He and Elijah were emerging from the alcove where I’d hidden them, their eyes wide and worried. Caleb ran to me first, flinging himself into my lap. His arms wrapped tight around my waist, shaking.

“Did the bad guys come?” he asked, voice muffled against me.

I cradled him close, pressing my chin to his curls. “No, baby,” I murmured, stroking his hair, my voice softer than I felt.

He tipped his head up, blinking. “Did they try to hurt our sister?”

The word stabbed deep. Sister.

I froze. Elijah stayed close, silent but sharp-eyed, watching me with that quiet protectiveness I saw more each day.

Caleb didn’t know the weight of what he’d said. To him, Myra was already family—a fragile girl they’d promised to protect. Children didn’t question bonds; they just loved.

That simple trust undid me more than any scar I had seen. My sons gave their loyalty freely, their hearts still unscarred by betrayal. They would protect her with the same fierce devotion they gave each other, because to them blood didn’t need proof—it only needed love..

I kissed Caleb’s head, swallowing past the ache in my throat. “No,” I whispered, forcing steadiness. “Not this time.”

Elijah crouched beside me, his hand light on my shoulder. “Is she okay?” he asked, his voice quiet, serious.

“She will be,” I said finally, staring toward the door where Vincent had vanished with her. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Outside, dusk bled purple and black across the horizon, shadows stretching long and sharp through the cottage. I drew my boys tighter to me, holding them as though I could fuse them to my chest.

If she was mine, if that girl was truly my lost daughter, then Vincent hadn’t just stolen my past. He’d stolen my future.

The fire in me wasn’t grief anymore—it was rage sharpened into purpose. If she was mine, then I had failed her once. I would not fail her again. Let kingdoms rise against me, let Vincent bare his fangs, let the world call me traitor—I would tear it all apart brick by brick, bone by bone, until she was safe in my arms where she belonged.

This wasn’t just hatred anymore, this was war.

And I was ready.