The message from Lyria should have ignited fury. It should have sent me into a blind rage, claws out, heart pounding with the need to tear her apart. But it didn’t.
It chilled me.
Not because of the threat—those were as common as frost in this fortress. Not because of the taunt—she’d been throwing those since the moment she slithered into Frostfen in her white fur and poisoned smiles. No, it was the certainty in her words. The cold, calculated precision. “Wait until you see what I’ve planted in your fortress.”
She wasn’t bluffing.
She’d left something behind. A trap. A weapon. A poison that had already taken root.
And we were standing in the middle of it.
The scroll trembled in my hands. The ink seemed to pulse, the silver ring sigil glowing faintly, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. I looked up at Riven. His jaw was clenched, his fingers tight around the edge of the parchment, his pale gold eyes narrowed, scanning the words again as if they might rearrange themselves into something less dangerous.
“She’s trying to divide us,” I said, voice low. “Make us paranoid. Turn us against each other.”
“She doesn’t need to try,” he said, voice rough. “She’s already done it.”
I didn’t flinch. “You think I don’t know that?”
He turned to me. “You walked out. After the kiss. You didn’t wait. You didn’t listen. You just—left.”
“And you let her touch you,” I shot back. “You let her press her lips to yours in front of the entire pack. You hesitated. You *wanted* it.”
“I didn’t,” he said, stepping closer. “I told you. It was instinct. Biology. The bond reacting before my mind could catch up.”
“And your heart?”
He stilled.
“Did it catch up fast enough?” I pressed. “Or did it stay behind, still feeling her mouth on yours?”
He didn’t answer.
But I saw it—the flicker in his eyes. The doubt. The guilt.
And I hated myself for seeing it.
Because I didn’t want to believe he’d betrayed me.
But I didn’t want to be a fool, either.
“We can’t do this,” I said, stepping back. “We can’t keep circling each other like wounded animals. Not now. Not when she’s already inside our walls.”
“Then what do you suggest?” he asked.
“We find it,” I said. “Whatever she planted. We root it out. Before it kills us.”
He studied me. “And if it’s one of us?”
“Then we deal with it.”
“Even if it’s you?”
My breath caught. “Even if it’s you.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Not warm. Not kind. But something close to respect.
“Then we start now,” he said. “And we don’t stop until it’s gone.”
—
The fortress was on edge.
By midday, every sentinel had been doubled. The gates were sealed. The outer walls patrolled. Riven had issued a decree—no one in, no one out, not without his direct order. The pack elders were confined to their quarters. Even Kael moved with a hand on his dagger, his Beta instincts on high alert.
And I—
I moved through the shadows.
Not as a queen. Not as a mate. Not even as a warrior.
As a hunter.
I started in the guest wing—Lyria’s chambers. The door was still unlocked, as if she’d expected to return. The room was pristine, untouched. Her white fur cloak hung over a chair. Her perfume—nightshade and blood—lingered in the air, cloying, suffocating. I searched every drawer, every seam in the bedding, every hidden compartment in the furniture. Nothing.
No weapons. No scrolls. No vials of blood.
Just absence.
And then—
I found it.
Not in the room.
Beneath it.
A loose floorboard near the hearth. I pried it up with my dagger. And there, wrapped in oilcloth, was a small, flat box of black wood, carved with the sigil of House Virelle.
My pulse jumped.
I opened it.
Inside—no weapon. No poison. No explosive.
Just a single sheet of parchment.
And a photograph.
The photograph was old, the edges worn, the image faded. A man stood in the center—tall, regal, his face half-hidden behind a silver mask. Fae. Nobility. And beside him—
Me.
Younger. Barely ten. My dark braid trailing over one shoulder, my sea-green eyes wide with fear. I was clutching the man’s hand. And he—
He was *smiling*.
My breath caught.
I didn’t remember this. I didn’t remember *him*.
But I knew who he was.
My father.
The fae noble who had abandoned me the night my mother died. The man who had vanished into the shadows, leaving me to burn in the human slums while he returned to his court, his power, his *life*.
And on the parchment—
“You were supposed to die that night, little hybrid. But your father begged for your life. Said you were his blood. His legacy. His mistake.”
My hands shook.
“He saved you,” Lyria had written. “Not out of love. Out of guilt. Out of fear. He knew the truth—that your mother didn’t die by wolf fire. She died by *fae* magic. By *his* hand.”
No.
It was a lie. A trick. A manipulation.
But the photograph—
It was real.
And the words—
They slithered into my mind, cold and insidious, like poison in the veins.
I shoved the box back under the floorboard. Covered it. Stood.
My breath came fast. My vision blurred at the edges.
My father hadn’t abandoned me.
He’d *saved* me.
And my mother—
She hadn’t been murdered by werewolves.
She’d been killed by *fae*.
By *him*.
And Riven—
He hadn’t burned her effigy out of hatred.
He’d done it because he *believed* she was a traitor.
Because he’d been *lied* to.
Just like I had.
Just like we all had.
—
I didn’t go to Riven.
I didn’t tell him what I’d found.
Because I didn’t know if I could trust him. Not yet. Not when my world was unraveling, when the truth I’d built my revenge on was crumbling like ash.
So I went to Mira.
She was in the guest wing, seated by the fire in her small chamber, her hands folded over a leather-bound journal. The two fae were absent—likely still under guard, still unwelcome in the inner sanctum. When I entered, she looked up, her dark eyes sharp, her expression unreadable.
“You’ve found something,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t answer. Just placed the photograph on the table between us.
Her breath caught.
She reached for it. Her fingers trembled.
“Where did you get this?” she whispered.
“Lyria left it. In her chambers.”
“And the note?”
I recited it from memory. Watched her face.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it.
Just closed her eyes.
“It’s true,” she said.
My blood ran cold. “What?”
“Your father,” she said. “He saved you. He begged for your life. He didn’t abandon you, Tide. He *protected* you.”
“And my mother?”
She opened her eyes. Looked at me. Really looked.
“She was killed by fae magic,” she said. “By your father’s hand. But not by his will.”
My breath caught. “What do you mean?”
“He was controlled,” she said. “Enchanted. The Fae Queen—Queen Nyx—ordered the assassination. She saw your mother as a threat. A hybrid sovereign with werewolf strength and fae grace? Unacceptable. So she used your father. Made him believe he was acting of his own accord. Made him cast the spell that burned her alive.”
I felt sick.
“And Riven?”
“He was framed,” Mira said. “Thorne, with the help of House Virelle, made him believe he’d turned on your mother. That he’d lost control. That he’d killed her. And when he woke up, her effigy was burning, and the pack was chanting his name, and he thought—”
“He thought he’d done it,” I finished, voice hollow.
She nodded. “And so did you.”
I sat. My legs wouldn’t hold me.
All of it—the mission, the hatred, the revenge—had been built on lies.
Not just Thorne’s lies.
Not just Lyria’s lies.
But the lies of the world itself.
And now—
Now I didn’t know who to trust.
Who to fight.
Who to *be*.
“Then what do I do?” I whispered.
“You find your father,” Mira said. “He’s in Londra. He’s been waiting for you. Waiting for the day you’d come to claim your throne. Waiting to tell you the truth.”
“And if I go to him?”
“Then you’ll have to decide,” she said. “Do you still want revenge? Or do you want justice?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
—
That night, I stood in the bathing chamber, the water steaming in the iron basin, my reflection fractured in the ripples. I stripped off my tunic, my fingers trembling, and stepped in.
The heat soothed my muscles, but not my mind.
Outside, the fortress was silent. The pack was in chaos. Thorne had vanished. Lyria had disappeared into the night. Riven had issued a decree—anyone found aiding them would be executed.
But none of it mattered.
Because I’d seen the truth.
Not in the scroll.
Not in the key.
But in the photograph. In Mira’s words. In the way my entire world had cracked open and revealed something I never wanted to see.
My father hadn’t abandoned me.
He’d *saved* me.
And Riven—
He hadn’t killed my mother.
He’d been *used*.
Just like me.
And if I stayed here—
If I kept fighting him—
I’d be playing into the hands of the real enemy.
The Fae Queen.
Queen Nyx.
The one who had ordered the assassination. The one who had controlled my father. The one who had set this entire war in motion.
I dipped under the water, letting it swallow me, the silence pressing in, the heat searing my skin.
And in that moment, I made a decision.
I would not be used.
I would not be played.
I would not be *hers*.
And if Riven couldn’t choose me—
Then I’d choose myself.
Even if it meant burning this place to the ground.
—
I found him in the great hall.
He was seated at the long stone table, a map of the Northern Alliance spread before him, his fingers tracing the border between werewolf and fae territory. The fire crackled low. The silver-lined walls blocked any trace of magic. The silence was thick, suffocating.
He didn’t look up when I entered.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.
“You’ve been avoiding me too,” I said, stepping closer.
He finally looked up. His eyes—pale gold, fierce—locked onto mine. “Then stop.”
“I can’t,” I said. “Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I said. “I don’t know who to trust. I don’t know who I am.”
He stood. “Then let me help you.”
“How?”
“By telling you the truth,” he said. “All of it.”
“You already did.”
“No,” he said. “I told you about Thorne. About Lyria. About the coup. But I didn’t tell you about *us*.”
My breath caught.
“I didn’t tell you,” he said, stepping closer, “that the first time I saw you, I didn’t see a threat. I didn’t see a spy. I didn’t see a hybrid abomination.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw *her*,” he said. “Your mother. In your eyes. In your stance. In the way you held your dagger like it was an extension of your soul. And I saw *me*. In your fury. In your pride. In the way you refused to break.”
My pulse jumped.
“And when the bond ignited,” he said, “it wasn’t just magic. It wasn’t just fate. It was *recognition*. Like I’d been waiting for you my entire life.”
I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But my heart—oh, my heart—ached.
“I don’t want to fight you,” he said. “I don’t want to win. I don’t want to survive this if it means losing you.”
“Then don’t,” I whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t let her win,” I said. “Don’t let Thorne win. Don’t let the bond destroy us. If you want me—if you *really* want me—then fight for me. Not with words. Not with promises. But with *action*.”
He stepped closer. “What do you want me to do?”
I took a breath.
And then—
“Come with me,” I said. “To Londra. To find my father. To uncover the truth about my mother’s death. To face the Fae Queen.”
He stilled. “You’re asking me to leave my pack. My throne. My duty.”
“I’m asking you to choose,” I said. “Choose between the lie you’ve lived and the truth we could build. Choose between the king you are and the man I think you could be.”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at me. Really looked.
And then—
“When do we leave?”
I didn’t smile.
But something inside me—something that had been frozen for ten years—began to thaw.
“At dawn,” I said.
He nodded. “Then I’ll be ready.”
And as the fire died to embers and the bond pulsed between us—hot, undeniable, *alive*—I realized something terrifying.
Maybe I wasn’t here to destroy him.
Maybe I was here to *save* him.
And worse—
Maybe I was starting to love him.