My breathing becomes faster now. “Hera would have said something.”
“Hera never does the expected.” A ghost of a smile crosses Kieran’s face. “Gypsy witches mate with humans and shifters alike, Daciana. It’s actually very rare for them to give birth to another gypsy witch. Once in a decade, maybe.”
I’m trembling now, and I hate it. Hate how vulnerable I feel.
“Gypsy witches usually give birth to males, and males can’t inherit their powers. Those children are returned to the father. It’s a law among their kind. They cannot raise males.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “You might be a descendant of one of Elara’s brothers. If any existed.”
A shaky laugh escapes me. I rub my hand over my face, trying to hold myself together. “Stop rewriting my history.”
But even as I say it, I feel the truth of his words settling into my bones. The wrongness I’ve always felt, like I didn’t quite fit in my own skin. The way my parents found it so easy to throw me away to my uncle, to be a sacrifice. Would it have been that easy if I were their own flesh and blood? I’ve seen how they treat my brothers. They never treated me like that. I never got that kind of love.
I need to move. I push against Kieran’s chest, and he lets me get up. I walk to the other side of the room, putting distance between us because I can’t think when he’s that close. I can’t think when he’s telling me everything I’ve believed my whole life could be a lie.
“Let’s say you’re right,” I say, my back to him, “and I am of that bloodline. Maybe one of my parents is, too.”
“No.”
The certainty in his voice makes me turn.
He shakes his head. “Your magic is weak, but if your parents were descendants, at least one of your siblings would have had magical capabilities.” His eyes search my face. “From your reaction to all this, I’m guessing none of them ever showed any signs.”
The room starts to spin. I grip the edge of the desk to steady myself. “No. They didn’t.”
“Which means you were placed with them.”
“You’re saying I’m adopted.” The words feel like broken glass in my throat.
“I’m saying it’s the most likely explanation.” His voice gentles slightly, but there’s steel beneath it. “The necromancer must be aware of your history. He must have been watching you for a long time, in each life, and even in this one.” Kieran slowly moves closer to me, and the grace in his movements distracts me for a moment. “We need to find out how you came to be raised in your pack.”
“This is crazy.” I let out another laugh, but it’s brittle. “You realize how insane this sounds, right?”
“I know.” He reaches for me, and I feel the need to step away, but I don’t. “But if we discover that you were placed there and that the necromancer knew, then we might be able to figure out who he is.”
My head is spinning. “The necromancer is also reincarnating, Kieran. Wouldn’t he have been a child or very young when I was born? How would he be—”
“Arrangements could have been made,” Kieran says simply. “When I realized that I was reincarnating, I decided to make arrangements. Artisem’s family has been entrusted with my secret. We have a passcode for when I am reborn. There are tasks I’ve given them over the centuries, things they look after for me. I’m sure the necromancer would be no different.”
I let out a shuddering breath. “Why is this so complicated?”
He kisses my forehead. “No matter how complicated it gets, I’m right here, Daciana. We will figure this out together.”
I close my eyes and whisper, “I’m not really a witch, am I?”
He chuckles against my forehead, and the sound vibrates through me. “No, love. You have magic, but you may never beable to use it. It’s most likely dormant even though I can still feel it.”
I am relieved. However, I still have questions for my parents, questions they may not want to answer very eagerly.
I wet my lips, looking up at my mate. “We’re going to have to tell Lucian and Astra about this whole thing. The attack was in public, on palace grounds. We can’t keep any of this from them anymore.”
Kieran doesn’t look pleased, but he nods.
I sitin Lucian’s study, my fingers twisting together as I watch his expression morph from disbelief to grim acceptance. Kieran is seated beside me, his hand resting on my thigh—always touching, always claiming. Was he always this possessive? This touchy-feely? I can’t remember him being quite so physical before the marking, but now it’s like he can’t help himself. His hand is always on me somewhere—my thigh, my waist, the nape of my neck—as if he needs the contact to be able to breathe.
“This is an incredible story,” Lucian finally says, leaning back in his chair. His jaw is set, and I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes.
The telling of it was exhausting. Every detail—Hera’s visit, the curse, the reincarnations, the gypsy witches’ sacrifice. Kieran did most of the talking, his voice steady and factual, while I filled in the emotional gaps.
Lucian’s fingers drum against his desk. “What you’re saying is that we have the same enemy: the necromancer.” He pauses, his frustration evident. “But we’re no closer to identifying him.”
