Regret & Conflict Part 3

"Do you?" Lucas pressed. "Because from where I stand, it looks like you're preparing to repeat the same mistakes. Using force where persuasion should suffice, demanding loyalty without offering reasons to give it freely."

The same mistakes. The phrase cut deeper than I wanted to admit, because there were parallels I'd been trying to ignore. The way I'd isolated Catherine, the way I'd used her family's desperation as leverage, the way I'd imprisoned her rather than trust her with truth.

But she's not Lydia, I insisted silently. She doesn't have Lydia's capacity for cruelty, her willingness to destroy others for personal gain.

"Lydia chose her path," I said aloud. "Catherine... Catherine is here because she had no choice."

"Exactly." Lucas's voice carried satisfaction, as if I'd finally grasped a point he'd been trying to make. "She's here because circumstances forced her hand, not because she wants to be. And treating her like a prisoner won't change that fundamental truth."

Won't change it. But what would? How did one build affection where there had been coercion? How did one inspire love in someone who'd been given every reason to fear and resent their captor?

You don't, the uncomfortable voice in my head whispered. That's why prophetic love is supposed to be freely given—because love born of force isn't love at all.

The insight was devastating in its simplicity. If the curse could only be broken by genuine affection freely offered, then everything I'd done tonight had made that outcome less likely, not more.

I've destroyed any chance of earning what I need most.

"The full moon is tomorrow," I said, grasping for justification. "Whatever else happens, she needs to be protected during the change."

"Protected, yes," Lucas agreed. "But not imprisoned. There are other ways to ensure her safety without treating her like a criminal."

Other ways. The phrase hung between us like a challenge. Because Lucas was right—I could have told her the truth from the beginning, could have explained the dangers she faced and trusted her to make informed decisions about her own safety.

Instead, I'd chosen deception and force, had replicated the very patterns of behavior that had led to my downfall decades earlier.

Why? I asked myself. Why repeat mistakes I swore I'd never make again?

The answer was uncomfortable but honest: because I was afraid. Afraid that honesty would send her running, afraid that truth would destroy whatever fragile connection I thought we'd formed, afraid that given a choice, she would choose to leave.

And so you've given her no choice at all.

"What do you suggest?" I asked, the words feeling like surrender.

Lucas's expression softened slightly, hope flickering behind his eyes. "Move her to proper quarters. Treat her as a guest rather than a prisoner. Explain the situation—carefully, gradually, but honestly. Give her reasons to trust you instead of reasons to fear you."

Trust. Such a fragile thing, so easily broken and so difficult to rebuild. I'd shattered whatever trust Catherine might have been developing within hours of her arrival.

But perhaps it's not too late to salvage something.

"The guards—"

"Can be stationed outside her chambers rather than outside her cell," Lucas finished. "Protection doesn't require imprisonment."

He was right. About all of it. The cell, the deception, the way I'd allowed fear and desperation to override every consideration of decency or wisdom.

She deserves better.

The thought was simple, devastating, absolutely true. Catherine Montgomery—who'd honored her family's debt despite having no hand in creating it, who'd maintained her dignity in the face of betrayal, who'd answered the wolf's call with recognition rather than terror—deserved far better than what I'd given her.

Then give her better.

"The east wing chambers," I said finally, the words feeling like absolution and damnation combined. "Have them prepared properly this time. And remove the guards from inside the corridor—they can watch the entrances to the wing instead."

Lucas nodded, relief evident in the relaxation of his shoulders. "And the truth?"

The truth. That I was cursed, that the castle existed outside normal reality, that her presence here was part of a prophecy I barely understood myself. That I'd bought her like property and was holding her against her will in hope that she might someday care enough to break a spell that had defined my existence for nearly three decades.

Too much truth too quickly will send her running.

"Gradually," I said. "As she proves she can handle it."

As I prove I can handle giving it.

"And tomorrow night?"

The full moon. When control became impossible, when the wolf would reign supreme and human considerations would become meaningless. When Catherine would hear sounds that would leave no doubt about the true nature of her host.

"We'll lock the east wing entirely," I decided. "Guards at every entrance, wards on every door. She'll be safe, and the pack will be... contained elsewhere."

It wasn't a perfect solution—she would still hear the howling, would still know that something inhuman stalked the castle halls. But it would buy time, perhaps enough time to prepare her for revelations that needed careful handling.

If such revelations could ever be handled carefully.

"Good," Lucas said, moving toward the door. "I'll see to the arrangements immediately."

He paused at the threshold, looking back with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Kieran... she's not just a means to break your curse. Whatever else you discover about her, whatever the prophecy might promise, remember that she's a person first. With her own hopes, her own fears, her own right to choose her fate."

Her own right to choose. The words hit home with uncomfortable force, because choice was exactly what I'd been denying her from the moment she'd crossed my threshold.

"I know," I said quietly.

I know, and I'll try to do better.

I have to try to do better.

Because the alternative—continuing down the path I'd started tonight—would destroy whatever remained of my humanity long before it offered any hope of redemption.