"I'm fine. Nothing's wrong. I just..." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "I needed to see you. Talk to you. Can we walk?"
AutumnhadpaintedNorthwoodin gold and crimson. We walked the paths I'd learned over the past weeks, paststudents who stared at us—the scholarship Omega and her working-class father, so obviously not belonging in this world of old money and legacy admissions.
Small talk felt forced.How are your classes. Fine, Dad. The showcase is next week. I know, I'll be there. How's work. Busy. The new season starts in November.
We weren't saying anything real. Dancing around whatever had brought him four hours north to campus on a Tuesday afternoon.
"The Alphas treating you well?" he asked finally.
I paused mid-step. We'd barely talked about the pack since I'd moved in. He knew about the claiming—hard to hide three permanent bite marks on my throat—but we'd avoided discussing the details. The fact that I was living with them. Sleeping with them. Trying to build something that wasn't biology.
"We're figuring it out," I said carefully.
"That's not a yes."
"It's not a no either." I kept walking. "They're trying, Dad. Really trying. Dorian especially. He's—" I broke off. How did you explain your bully-turned-lover to your father? "It's complicated."
"Love usually is."
The word hung between us. Love. Was that what this was? I'd said it to Dorian during heat, meant it even, but saying it out loud in the daylight felt different. More real. More terrifying.
"I wouldn't call it love," I deflected. "More like... complicated attachment with potential for growth."
Dad's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "That's the most Vespera definition of a relationship I've ever heard."
"I'm practical."
"You're scared."
Direct hit. I stopped walking, turning to face him. "Of course I'm scared. I'm nineteen, bonded to three Alphas I barely trust, trying to hold onto my dreams while biology tries to make me someone else. Who wouldn't be scared?"
He was quiet for a stretch. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.
Cream-colored. Expensive paper. My name written in handwriting I hadn't seen in nine years.
My world tilted.
"Your mother left this," Dad said quietly. "For you."
My hand shook as I took it. The envelope was sealed, the paper soft with age. She'd written this years ago. Left it the day before she walked out.
"You've had this for nine years?" My voice came out strangled.
"She made me promise to wait. Until you presented and were old enough to understand." His pain was visible in every line of his face. "I didn't know when the right time was. You presented at fourteen, but you were still a child. Then you were seventeen, eighteen, and it never felt right. And then with everything happening—the claiming, the pack—it felt like now. Like you needed to know."
"I presented at fourteen. I'm nineteen now. How much older did I need to be?"
"I know. I'm sorry. I just—" He looked away. "I wanted to protect you from her one more time."
The envelope burned in my hands. Heavy with words I'd waited nine years to read. Answers to questions I'd stopped asking because they hurt too much.
"I need to read this alone," I said.
"Of course." He squeezed my shoulder. "I'll wait in my car. Take all the time you need."
Ididn'tgotomy room at the pack house. Didn't want the Alphas hovering, asking questions, feeling my emotional spiral through the bonds. Instead, I went to the one place on campus that was truly mine—the small rehearsal studio I'd claimed for solo practice.
Empty. Private. Me and my mother's words.
