Regret & Conflict Part 2

"She doesn't understand what she's gotten herself into," I said, hearing the defensive edge in my own voice. "If she knew what I really was, what this place really is—"

"She'd run." Lucas's interruption was sharp, unforgiving. "Of course she'd run. Any sane person would run from a man who imprisons women in dungeons and calls it protection."

Any sane person. The phrase stung more than it should have, carrying implications I didn't want to examine. Because if sanity meant fleeing from what I represented, what did that make Catherine's presence here? What did it say about the bargain her father had struck, the circumstances that had made such an arrangement seem preferable to alternatives?

"Her father understood the necessity," I said, though the words felt like ash in my mouth.

"Her father was terrified," Lucas corrected. "Desperate enough to trade his daughter for gold and too frightened to refuse whatever terms you set. That's not understanding—that's coercion."

Coercion. Another word that stripped away pretense and named what I'd done in terms that couldn't be softened with careful language. I'd threatened a broken man until he agreed to give me what I wanted, then dressed the transaction in the clothes of mutual benefit.

"The result is the same," I said quietly. "She's here. The prophecy—"

"The prophecy may be nothing more than the cruel joke of a witch who wanted to ensure your suffering continued long after her death." Lucas moved closer, his expression carrying forty years of accumulated frustration. "Have you considered that possibility? That you're torturing an innocent woman in service of false hope?"

False hope. The phrase hit me like ice water, because it was the one possibility I'd refused to acknowledge. That Morgana's final words had been designed not to offer redemption but to ensure that I would eventually destroy whatever remained of my humanity in pursuit of an impossible dream.

"The rose brought her," I said, though the certainty that had sustained me for weeks was beginning to feel fragile. "Just as the prophecy promised."

"The rose brought her father," Lucas corrected. "A desperate man looking for anything valuable enough to steal. You could have left a golden chalice in that garden and achieved the same result."

The observation was uncomfortable in its logic. Because Lucas was right—Charles Montgomery hadn't been drawn by destiny or supernatural calling. He'd been a drunk, desperate man who'd seen an opportunity and taken it without considering consequences.

But Catherine... The thought trailed off, because what evidence did I really have that she was special? That she was anything more than an unlucky woman caught in the wake of her father's desperation?

She answered, my memory whispered. When the wolf called, she answered.

But even that might have been imagination, wishful thinking born of isolation and need. The human mind was remarkably good at finding patterns where none existed, especially when the alternative was accepting that hope itself might be delusion.

"You're questioning everything," Lucas observed, reading my expression with uncomfortable accuracy. "Good. You should have been questioning this from the beginning."

"Questioning changes nothing," I said, though my voice lacked conviction. "She's here now. The arrangements have been made."

"Arrangements can be unmade." Lucas stepped closer, his tone gentling slightly. "It's not too late to find another solution. Send her home with enough gold to secure her family's future. Release her from whatever obligation you think she owes."

Release her. The words sent panic shooting through my chest, sharp and immediate. Because the thought of Catherine leaving, of returning to a world that would never bring her back to me, was worse than any physical pain the curse had inflicted.

No, the wolf snarled. She's mine. She stays.

"The debt—"

"Was never hers to begin with," Lucas interrupted. "Whatever her father owes, whatever bargain was struck, she's not responsible for any of it. She's an innocent caught in circumstances beyond her control."

Innocent. The word lodged in my throat like a stone. Because Lucas was right—Catherine hadn't chosen any of this. Hadn't agreed to be traded like currency, hadn't consented to imprisonment in service of prophecies she couldn't understand.

She was paying the price for choices that weren't hers, suffering consequences she'd done nothing to deserve.

Like you did, a treacherous voice whispered. Like you've been doing for twenty-seven years.

The parallel was uncomfortable, unwelcome. But it was also true. I'd been an innocent once too—young, trusting, believing that love and good intentions were sufficient armor against the world's cruelties. That innocence had been stripped away by betrayal and magic and decades of isolation.

Was I really planning to do the same thing to Catherine? To destroy whatever remained of her trust and hope in service of my own desperate need?

"She's not Lydia," Lucas said quietly, and the name hit me like a physical blow.

Lydia. My first love, my greatest mistake, the woman whose betrayal had led to the curse that defined my existence. Beautiful, clever, utterly without conscience when it came to using others for her own ends.

"I know that," I said, though the words came out rougher than intended.