جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 10

Father sat behind his mahogany desk like a king whose kingdom had been reduced to a single room. Except kings, I imagined, probably didn't have that particular shade of gray in their complexion, or the way his hands trembled as he reached for the crystal tumbler that definitely didn't contain tea.The smell hit me before anything else—that sharp, medicinal scent of gin that had become his preferred cologne over the past few months. It clung to everything in the room now: the leather-bound books he no longer read, the burgundy curtains that hadn't been opened in weeks, the very air we were supposed to breathe."Catherine. Eleanor." He didn't look up when we entered, just gestured vaguely toward the two chairs positioned across from his desk like we were clients seeking legal advice. The irony wasn't lost on me—we'd become strangers in our own home, formal and careful with each other in a way that felt like playing dress-up in someone else's clothes.Mr. Hartwell, the solicitor, sat in

The kitchen had become our refuge, though I doubted any of us would have admitted it out loud. Three days since Hartwell's visit, and we'd unconsciously migrated to this room like survivors clustering around the last warm fire. Maybe it was because the creditors hadn't bothered stripping the mismatched chairs and scarred wooden table—too common, too worthless for their purposes. Or maybe it was because kitchens, by their very nature, suggested survival. Food, warmth, the basic mechanics of staying alive.I sat in the thin afternoon light that struggled through windows that hadn't been properly cleaned in weeks, Jamie's coat spread across my lap like a patient on an operating table. The tear along the sleeve wasn't large—barely three inches—but it gaped wide enough to let in the kind of Welsh wind that could freeze a child's bones. My needle moved in small, precise stitches, the rhythm almost meditative.Threading the needle had become more difficult lately. Not because my eyesight was

Father stood silent for a long moment, his hand resting on the door frame as if he needed the support. The afternoon light had shifted, casting longer shadows across the kitchen floor, and in that half-light his face looked older than his fifty-three years."A rose," he said again, more to himself than to us.There was something in his tone that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle—not fear, exactly, but a kind of premonition. The way people talk about feeling the change in air pressure before a storm hits. I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd said something important without meaning to, something that carried more weight than a simple request for a flower should."It's really not necessary," I said, suddenly wanting to take the words back. "I was just being fanciful."But Father shook his head, a strange kind of resolve settling over his features. "No. You're right. We should have something beautiful. Something to remind us..." He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished

"When was the last time you took human form during the day?" Lucas asked, and I realized I couldn't immediately answer. Weeks, maybe. Possibly longer.The wolf was easier. The wolf didn't think about empty chambers and cold beds and conversations that never came. The wolf focused on immediate concerns—territory, pack, survival. The wolf didn't dream of soft skin and gentle hands, didn't wake with an ache that had nothing to do with the physical demands of the change."The pack needs to see their alpha," Lucas continued when I didn't respond. "Not just the beast who rules them, but the man who chooses to."Choice. The word tasted bitter. What choices had I made in the past twenty-seven years that hadn't been dictated by the curse, by the need to protect both my people and the humans who shared this land from the monster I could become?"I've protected them," I said, hearing the defensive edge in my own voice. "Protected everyone.""By hiding." Lucas's tone was gentle but implacable. "B

Elias -The first drops hit my face like accusations, cold and sharp enough to cut through the fog of self-pity that had become my constant companion. I pulled my collar higher and urged the horse forward, though neither the animal nor I had much enthusiasm for the journey ahead. The sky promised worse weather to come—the kind of autumn storm that could soak a man to his bones and leave him feeling like he'd never be warm again.Much like everything else in my life these days.The road to Millbrook stretched ahead like a penance, fifteen miles of rutted dirt and stone that would give me plenty of time to rehearse the conversations waiting for me. Yes, I understand the emerald necklace has sentimental value. No, I don't have any other options. How much can you offer?Each word would be a small death, another piece of Eleanor's dignity sold to pay for my stupidity. The jewelry had been her grandmother's, passed down through three generations of women who'd never had to question whether