Chapter 2 Split Personality

Rhea’s POV

“Rhea!” A loud knock made me jump. It was Theon, again. Same recycled pattern. This is what he always did. “Baby, open the door, listen to me—” I rolled my eyes and ignored him.

“I’m sorry, okay? Please, baby.” His voice shifted, syrup-sweet, begging for forgiveness like he had not just been cruel five minutes before.

If there was one word to describe Theon it would be bipolar. Or multiple personality. It had never been steady with him. One moment he beat me nearly to death, the next he smoothed his face into tenderness and tried to buy his way back into me.

At first I forgave him. Time after time I welcomed him with open arms. But later I realized it was never love. It was control. He wanted power over me.

“Open this door right now, you bitch,” he barked. The knocking continued, harder, more insistent. I looked to my right and froze when my eyes landed on the framed photograph on the bedside: us when we were young, dumb, and sure we were in love.

I had been orphaned. Growing up in the streets of the Shadowclaw pack was brutal. I learned hunger, hiding, stealing to survive, and I was rebellious. Everything changed the day I met Theon.

“You think locking me out makes you strong?” His voice came through the door, sharp and mocking. “You’re nothing without me, Rhea. No one wants you. You’d be rotting in the gutters if it weren’t for me!”

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. He wasn’t wrong about the streets, but he was wrong about me. I had survived them once.

He had seen me then, not as the ragged child I was, but as the flame inside me. He loved my rebellion, my wit, my fire. I never knew that was what he wanted. After he got me, he broke me. He shattered me into so many pieces I had no idea how to put myself back together.

When I refused to budge, he left. I sat in front of my vanity staring at the empty shells that were my eyes. I had grown paler; my green had dulled to something listless. My hair was dry and frizzy, my body softer than it had once been. I swallowed down the lump in my throat. I had always been curvy and healthy. After I gave birth to our daughter, Freye, everything changed.

Yes, Theon and I had a daughter. Freye was five now. She was the core reason I stayed in this marriage. Where would I go? I had never had a home. How could I shelter her from the storms? How could I feed her if I could not even feed myself? How could I risk her life? I knew the streets; I knew how cruel the world could be without a roof and a guard. The thought of leaving and losing everything frightened me more than his fists.

I forced myself to move. I threw on clothes, made myself look presentable, and went downstairs to find something to do. Liema would be there. She was the closest thing I had to a friend. She had been with us the longest and knew the household inside out. She and her husband Phillip lived in the boys’ quarters. She was forty, steady, and stubborn in the best way.

“Liema,” I called as I reached the kitchen. She looked up and gave me a small, tight nod that did not hide her irritation.

“Do you need anything, my lady?” she asked.

“Yes.” A small smile tugged at my mouth. “Tell me a story. I am bored.”

She tried to play it cool and failed. I caught the curl at the corner of her lips. Most of the maids were done for the day, but Liema never left our side. She indulged me.

“About what?” she asked.

“About a girl and a boy who fell in love with his best friend,” I prodded.

“Urgh,” she teased, feigning distaste. “Do you ever get tired of that story?” She laughed as if to soften it, but her eyes were warm.

“You know I never would,” I said.

She obliged. “They did not know at first. They were each other’s safe place. Everyone else could see it, but not them. Denial wrapped round them like a cloak. Then one night—” Her eyes shone as she described the moment she fell for Phillip. They were the happiest couple I knew. Hearing her tell the story made something tender and brittle inside me ache. It was the kind of ache nostalgic people mistake for hope.

I had been a hopeless romantic, always romanticizing the idea of love. I mistook Theon’s obsession for affection. I ignored the other things, the red flags, the ways a relationship should actually work. When he said the words “I love you,” I latched on and let every warning fall away.

“L… Lady Rhea… I… my—” Phenolope, Freye’s nanny, burst into the kitchen, face flushed and hands trembling. Panic tripped my heart into my ribs.

“What is it, Pen? What?” My voice was as sharp as a blade. I did not wait for the rest. Panic had already clotted my lungs.

“It’s Freye, she—” Penelope’s voice broke. I did not let her finish. I ran, the world turning into a tunnel, into a single focus: my daughter.

I burst into Freye’s room. My world shattered. My child convulsed on her bed, body wracked, struggling for air. Her small chest heaved in frightening spasms. The room smelled faintly of sweat and fever.

“Freye!” I screamed, and my voice no longer belonged to me. I scooped her up as best I could. Her limbs were limp one second, rigid the next. I slapped her back, inhaled her lips, trying to force a breath into her. Her eyes rolled white at the edges. Red splotches mottled her skin.

“Stay with me, baby, stay with me.” My hands were slick with sweat. I pressed her to my chest and felt her small body tremble. Unlike any regular wolf, Freye was born sickly.