On the drive home, Jack sulked in the passenger seat, arms crossed. “You just don’t understand. Time travel is mylifeand mypassion. You can’t expect me to shut up because it makes you uncomfortable. We have a gifted daughter—she deserves to know who she is!”
I stared straight ahead, heart pounding, mind racing for a way to keep this from unraveling.
Taking a deep breath, I lied through my teeth.
“Lee and I agree—this whole time travel thing? It’s bogus. Nothing more than a fantasy.”
Jack frowned. “Lee said that? But what about the sacred words—the whole ritual?”
“That’s just legend, not reality,” I said calmly. “He told me before you came in.”
Jack’s expression crumpled with disappointment.
“He laughed. SaidLa Cueva del Fuegois full of trinkets like the dagger we gave him. Nothing special.”
“He did?” Jack asked softly.
“Yes, sweetheart. I know it hurts to hear, and I’m sorry. But we must accept the truth—Olivia is just a normal child, meant for a normal life.”
I reached out, resting my hand gently on his thigh.
He looked at me, surprised by the tenderness. I rubbed his upper arm absently, trying to soothe him. On the surface, I was the picture of a supportive wife. But beneath the calm, a storm was stirring.
A war waged inside me.
I had promised Lee I’d avoid danger and abandon the search for the Moon Dagger. But the idea of wielding that kind of power… of standing toe-to-toe with Balthazar, not as prey, but as an equal—was intoxicating.
Would it be a betrayal if I’d already decided to break the promise before I uttered it?
A sly smile tugged at the corner of my lips as the answer crystallized.
Yes, this was my path. This was my destiny.
I was meant to claim the Sun and Moon Daggers—and nothingwould stop me.
Chapter 39
Balthazar
For years, I was swallowing by the need for revenge against Alina. Her betrayal had carved a hole in me so deep that it echoed with rage. I spent decades plotting and scheming, fueling my existence with the single-minded desire to make her pay.
But everything changed the moment my son was born.
The fury dulled. The need for vengeance faded. In its place bloomed something unexpected—joy. Purpose. A fierce, unwavering love.
I no longer wanted retribution. I wanted to be the best father I could be.
I refused to leave him in the care of nannies or strangers. Tristan was mine, and I would raise him myself. I was there every sleepless night, every first step, every stumble. Those early years became the most fulfilling moments of my life.
As he grew, I tried to shape him—not into a kind man but into a powerful one. In my world, kindness was weakness. Violence, fear, and dominance were the tools of survival. That was the legacy I intended to leave him.
I remembered kneeling before him one day, voice low and firm.
“If someone pushes you,” I said, “you push harder. You hit back. Kick. Break something if you must. Make sure theynevertouch you again. Teach them with pain. Teach them with fear.”
But no matter how many times the other children provoked him,Tristan’s response never changed—tears streaming down his cheeks, his small hands clenched at his sides as he refused to fight back.
Month after month, I watched with growing concern. There was not a flicker of rage, not even a spark of defiance.
