Chapter One
Violet
The taxi window is smudged with fingerprints and dust, but I press my forehead against it anyway, watching the landscape blur past. I should be happy to be home. Instead, I feel miserable. Coming back here is a reminder of everything I’ve lost and everything I’ve been forced to become to appease my mother.
The small medicine bottle feels cool as I roll it between my fingers, the pills rattling softly inside. The sound is oddly soothing, rhythmic, and I focus on it instead of the knot tightening in my stomach.
My watch beeps, a sharp, insistent sound. I glance down at the reminder flashing on the screen: MEDICATION TIME. I close my eyes, trying to ignore it.
The watch beeps again, more aggressively now.
“Fine,” I mutter, unscrewing the cap. The taxi hits a pothole, and I clutch the bottle tightly, my heart jumping. Losing these pills would be a disaster. Worse than a disaster.
I shake out two pills and pop them in my mouth, forcing them down dry. The bitter taste lingers on my tongue, familiar and unwelcome. Within seconds, nausea rolls through my stomach like a wave. I swallow hard, shutting my eyes and breathing through my nose.
Eleven years of this. Or maybe more; I can’t remember beyond that. At least eleven years of taking meds that make me feel sick, that leave me weaker than I should be.
The bottle goes back in my purse, tucked into the side pocket where it always lives. Within reach. Always within reach.
I lean back against the seat, waiting for the worst of it to pass. It never fully goes away, just dulls to a constant, queasy feeling that sits in my stomach like a stone.
Of course, the pills aren’t the only things making me feel unsettled. It’s not like I expected a grand homecoming or anything. I’m the Alpha’s stepdaughter, but I’m an embarrassment. Even so, at the very least, I thought my mother would pick me up at the airport. Turns out, I’m not even worth a rental car.
I waited at Arrivals for an hour, watching families reunite around me, children launching themselves into waiting arms, lovers embracing. I stood there with my single suitcase, scanning the crowd for a familiar face that never appeared, for someone holding up a sign with my name on it.
Eventually, I gave up. Dragged my suitcase to the taxi stand and gave the driver an address I had to look at on a piece of paper to recall. And now, here I am. On my way home. Alone.
It doesn’t surprise me, really. My fragile health has never been welcomed in wolf shifter circles. We prize strength above all else: the ability to transform, to fight, to dominate. But me? I’m the opposite of everything we value.
Too weak. Too fragile. Too breakable.
The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are amber, distinctly shifter. He probably caught my scent the moment I got in and knows exactly what I am. Or rather, what I’m not. What I’m failing to be. He looks away, but it’s too late. I already saw the pity in his expression. Somehow, it’s worse than contempt.
The streets get cleaner as we drive, the buildings nicer. We pass a coffee shop with outdoor seating, a boutique with expensive dresses in the window, a park where children are playing. This is pack territory now, where the wealthy live and the weak don’t belong.
My mother’s home, I think to myself. Not mine. My home—my family—was razed to the ground eleven years ago. At that point, I became baggage that my mother had no choice but to cart around.
The gate comes into view: wrought iron topped with decorative wolves frozen mid-howl. Guard posts flank either side, and I can see at least three people on duty. The taxi slows down as we approach the closed gate. One of the guards, a man in his thirties with a scar running down his left cheek, steps forward, hand raised.
“State your business,” he says, not even glancing at me in the back seat.
“Just dropping—” the driver starts.
“I live here,” I interrupt, leaning forward. “I’m Violet. Alpha Alaric’s stepdaughter.”
The guard’s eyes finally land on me, and a strange look flickers across his face. Disbelief. Maybe amusement.
“The Alpha’s stepdaughter.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question; his tone makes it clear what he thinks of my claim.
“Yes.”
He exchanges a glance with another guard, a younger man who’s trying not to smirk. “Right. And I’m the Moon Goddess herself.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Call up to the house if you don’t believe me.”
“Oh, we’ll call up to the house.” The scarred guard leans against the taxi. “But first, you’ll need to step out of the vehicle. Security protocol.”
“I have identification—”
