Page 7

Victoria sips her tea, studying me over the rim of her cup. "What circumstances would those be, Fiona?"

My throat closes. I can't tell her the truth—that Thomas is Maisie's father, that I've lied about her age, that I'm terrified of what will happen if he discovers his own daughter.

Instead, I say, "He broke my heart. Isn't that enough?"

"Hearts heal," she says simply. "The pack endures."

"So I'm just supposed to—what? Pretend the past never happened? Play along with these trials like there's any chance I'd willingly tie myself to that man?"

"The trials aren't what they once were," Victoria says. "Nic and Luna have seen to that. No more brutal physical challenges. No public humiliation." She sets down her cup. "The trials now focus on compatibility, on communication. On building a foundation that might support a mating bond."

"And if I refuse?"

Her expression grows serious. "Then you would be declared rogue. You and your daughter both. No pack would shelter you. No territory would be safe."

The threat hangs in the air between us. Rogues don't survive long in the human world. Without pack protection, they're vulnerable to hunters, to exposure, to the thousand small dangers that lurk in the spaces between territories.

"So, I have no choice," I say, bitterness flooding my mouth.

Victoria leans forward, her silver eyes intent on mine.

"There is always a choice, Fiona. But choices have consequences." She pauses, then adds softly, "Perhaps there's a reason the ancestors brought you and Thomas together again."

I laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet cottage. "The ancestors have a cruel sense of humor, then."

"Or perhaps they see what we cannot." Victoria stands, moving to the window. "The wheel turns, Fiona. What was broken can be mended. What was lost can be found. It happened to Luna and Dominic."

"Some things don't deserve to be found," I mutter, setting down my untouched tea.

Victoria turns, her expression suddenly sharp. "You carry more secrets than most, Fiona Wright. But secrets have a way of surfacing, like stones in a spring field."

A chill runs through me. Does she know? Can she somehow sense the truth about Maisie?

"I should go," I say, rising quickly. "Thank you for the tea."

Victoria watches me with those knowing eyes. "The first trial begins in three days. Use the time wisely, Fiona. Prepare yourself—and your daughter—for what's to come."

The warning follows me out into the sunlight, settling like a stone in my stomach. I'm so distracted I almost collide with the broad chest that appears suddenly in my path.

Thomas.

He stands at the gate to Victoria's garden, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, looking as if he's been waiting.

Morning sunlight catches in his blonde hair, turning it to gold.

He's freshly shaven, his jaw clean-cut and sharp, his eyes clear and alert.

The sight of him in daylight, so close I could reach out and touch him, makes my breath catch traitorously.

"Fiona," he says, my name careful on his tongue.

I straighten my spine, summoning the anger that's been my shield for six years. "Were you waiting for me?"

"I saw you heading this way." He gestures vaguely toward the main compound. "Thought we could talk."

"About the trials," I say flatly.

"Among other things."

I fold my arms across my chest. "I want to talk at the Pack Building. We can discuss the trials there. I don’t want to be alone with you, Thomas.”

He shifts his weight, frustration flickering across his features. "Look, I know this isn't what either of us wanted—"

"You have no idea what I want," I cut in, voice sharp with six years of stored rage. "You never did."

He flinches as if I've struck him. Good.

"That's not fair," he says quietly.

"Fair?" I repeat, incredulous. "You want to talk about fair? Was it fair when you dumped me without explanation after promising me forever? Was it fair when you left me to—"

I catch myself just in time, swallowing the dangerous words.

Thomas's expression shifts, something like pain shadowing his eyes. "Fiona—”

"Save it," I interrupt, stepping around him. "I'm not interested in your explanations, Thomas. I'm not interested in anything you have to say that isn't directly related to getting through these trials as quickly and painlessly as possible."

He moves to block my path, not touching me but close enough that I have to stop or collide with him.

"You can hate me all you want," he says, voice low and intense. "But we're in this together now. For better or worse."

"There is no ‘together,’" I hiss. "There's you, and there's me, and there's a sick joke of a tradition forcing us to tolerate each other's company. That's it."

His jaw tightens. "Fine. Have it your way. Pack Building, this evening. We'll keep it strictly business."

“Tomorrow,” I correct. “I have Maisie to take care of tonight.”

Not like he’d know what that’s like, a murderous little voice in my head says. It’s not like he’ll ever know.

“Fine,” agrees Thomas flatly. “But you can’t put it off forever.”

“I’m not.”

“Fine.”

"Fine! Glad we understand each other," I say coldly, stepping around him and walking away, resisting the urge to look back and see if he's watching me go.

The day passes in a blur of anxiety and preparations. I pick Maisie up from school, listening to her chatter about the leaf collection they're making, trying to focus on her words instead of the storm in my mind.

That night, after reading her three bedtime stories and singing her favorite lullaby, I tuck the quilt around her small shoulders and kiss her forehead. It's warmer than it should be, a feverish heat that makes my stomach clench with worry.

"Night, Mama," she murmurs, already half-asleep.

"Goodnight, Sweet Pea," I whisper, smoothing her curls back from her face.

I've just turned out the light when her small voice stops me at the door.

"Mama? I don't feel good."

I'm back at her side in an instant, my hand on her forehead. Her skin burns against my palm, her eyes glassy in the dim light from the hallway.

"What hurts, baby?"

"Everything's too hot," she whimpers, kicking off the quilt. "And itchy. Like I'm wearing the wrong skin."

My heart stutters. Wrong skin. Her first shift keeps coming closer, no matter how hard I try to put it off.

"It's okay," I soothe, though panic rises in my throat. "Just a little fever. Let me get you some water."

But when I return with the cool glass, Maisie is curled into a tight ball, shivering despite the heat radiating from her small body. When she looks up at me, her eyes flash amber in the darkness—not just flecks anymore, but a full wolfish glow.

"Mama," she says, her voice trembling. "What's happening to me?"

I gather her into my arms, her burning skin against mine. "Your wolf is waking up, baby. Earlier than we expected."

Fear and wonder battle in her expression. "Is that bad?"

"No, Sweet Pea. It's just... unusual." I stroke her hair, mind racing.

"Will I change? Like in the stories you tell?"

"Not yet," I promise, praying it's true. "This is just the beginning. Your wolf is stretching, getting ready. The full shift won't come for years."

Wishful thinking. It’s all I seem to do these days.

Maisie snuggles closer, her small hand fisting in my nightshirt. "Will you stay with me? I'm scared."

"Of course I will," I whisper, settling beside her on the narrow bed. "I'll always be right here."

She drifts back to sleep eventually, her burning skin gradually cooling as the episode that had gripped her passes. But I lie awake, holding my daughter—our daughter—while my mind spins with impossible choices and mounting fears.

If Maisie's shifter traits continue developing at this rate, concealing her parentage will become impossible. Thomas will see himself in her eyes, in her mannerisms, in the very nature of her emerging wolf. And when he does...

I press my lips to her dark curls, breathing in her sweet scent, trying to memorize this moment of peace before the storm that's surely coming.

"I won't let him take you from me," I whisper against her hair, the promise fierce and desperate in the quiet room. "Not now, not ever."