Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Dr. Sarah bolted the clinic door and pulled the blinds down one-handed.

"Sit. Palm out."

She cleaned the glass cut without a word, then opened a brown folder on the desk between us and started reading from it.

"For the record. Fractured rib, age fourteen. Fractured wrist, fifteen. Concussion, sixteen. Twenty-two stitch visits. Third time in this clinic this month."

"I know my own file."

"I'm not reading it for you." She closed the folder. "As of last night, this is a certified medical record. Sealed, copied, and stored where nobody in this pack can touch it. Whatever happens next—this exists."

My eyes stung. Stupid. Seven years without crying, and a folder almost did it.

"There's more." She slid a slip of paper out from under the folder. "I ran your blood after the last beating. Regan, you don't lack a wolf."

"Everyone says—"

"Everyone's wrong." She tapped the slip. "The marker in your blood is royal Lycan. Pureblood. Your wolf isn't missing, she's sealed—blood-sealed from birth—and the seal breaks on your first full moon past eighteen."

I did the math without wanting to.

"That's in three days."

Their birthday. Of course it was.

At her table I finished my mother's letter, the torn corner fitted back against the rest.

My daughter. The blood in you is royal. I was heir to the Lycan throne before I ran—before I chose your father, this pack, this small life. If I die of anything they call an accident, don't believe the story. At the bottom of this page: one drop of your blood. My family will come.

Below her signature sat a mark pressed in dried blood.

I folded the letter flat and put it inside my shirt, against my skin.

Xavier found me in the kitchen corridor the next morning. Habit of his—he liked an audience, but he'd settle for just me.

"So." He planted a hand on the wall beside my head. "Heard you're pouring my birthday wine. Should we test whether you spill—"

He stopped mid-sentence, mouth still open. His eyes dropped to my hair and he leaned in an inch, like something was reeling him in, and then he jerked back so hard his shoulder cracked against the wall.

"What perfume is that."

"Soap."

He stared at me for three full seconds, swore under his breath, and walked off fast, rolling his shoulder like it hurt him.

Weird. I filed it away and kept moving.

Dinner. My father slid a document across the table without looking up from his plate.

Assignment of Person: Regan, wolfless, to serve as lifetime Omega attendant to Luna-designate Isabelle. Effective upon ceremony.

"You'll sign it after the ceremony," he said.

Heather smiled into her wine glass. Isabelle didn't bother hiding hers at all.

"Lifetime," I said.

"You're lucky it's a household post." He cut his meat, and the knife squealed against the plate. "Rogues gut wolfless strays inside a week."

"Why." It came out smaller than I wanted. "You're my father. Why."

He set the knife down and looked at me properly for the first time in maybe a year.

"Because I haven't punished you enough for killing my mate."

The table went back to eating.

I made it to my room before my hands started shaking, and then I sat on the floor with my back against the bed and let them. Two minutes. That's the allowance I give myself—two minutes to be the girl whose father just said that out loud, and not one second more, because past two minutes I don't get back up.

Then I took out the letter, bit my thumb, and pressed the blood to the mark.

Nothing happened. One breath. Two.

The mark lit silver. Lines crawled out across the paper like frost spreading over glass, and words surfaced where there'd been nothing.

Received. Verified. Blood of the line.

Three days. Full moon. We come for you.

I laughed once into my sleeve so no one would hear.

Their birthday. The ceremony. Isabelle's crowning night. And whatever was coming for me—all of it landing on the same night.

While the house slept, I went down to the records room, found the family register, tore out my own page, and burned it in the washbasin. The ash rinsed down the drain in three turns of the tap.

Whatever came for me in three days, it wouldn't find me listed as his.