Page 14

Chapter Ten

Julian

I closed the door to Lilianna's suite with deliberate care, my hand lingering on the handle for a moment longer than necessary.

The sound of her quiet breathing on the other side of the wood made something protective and fierce unfurl in my chest. She was here.

Safe. Away from those people who had spent twenty-three years systematically destroying her sense of self-worth.

Christopher bounced on his toes beside me, practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Do you think she liked it? The room? The violin? Maybe I should have gone with blue instead of lavender. Or maybe the flowers are too much—"

"Christopher," I interrupted gently, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. "It's perfect. Did you see her face when she touched the violin?"

His expression softened, some of the anxiety melting away. "She looked like she couldn't believe it was real."

"Because she couldn't," I said, guiding him down the hallway toward the stairs. "She's spent her entire life being told that her wants don't matter."

Miles waited for us at the bottom of the staircase, his expression unusually serious. "So," he said quietly as we descended, "who wants to discuss the fact that her parents told her she'd be 'returned in disgrace' if she didn't please us?"

A growl rumbled in my chest before I could suppress it. The protective instinct that had sparked when I first caught Lilianna's scent now roared like wildfire, demanding action, demanding retribution. I forced it down with practiced control.

"We knew they were controlling," I said, my voice deliberately calm despite the rage simmering beneath. "But threatening her with disgrace if she fails to please us? That crosses into psychological abuse."

Christopher's usual cheerful demeanor had vanished entirely, replaced by something harder. "They made her believe she was disposable. Damaged goods, she called herself."

Miles ran a hand through his hair, his green eyes flashing with anger. "The way she flinched when I mentioned the financial arrangement—like she was livestock being sold at auction."

I settled into my usual chair in the living room, needing the familiar comfort as my mind raced through implications. "It's worse than we thought. This isn't just traditional family arrangement—it's systematic conditioning designed to make her completely dependent on external validation."

"The question is, what do we do about it?" Christopher asked, perching on the edge of the couch. "She's going to need time to unlearn twenty-three years of programming."

"We give her that time," I said firmly. "And we make sure she understands that her worth isn't contingent on pleasing us. That her value is not contingent onwhat she can do for us or how well she performs."

Miles leaned forward, his expression troubled. "But what about her parents? I'm not comfortable just letting them get away with this."

"They won't," I assured him, my voice hardening. "But our priority right now is Lilianna. Making her feel safe, helping her adjust. The Wycliffes will face consequences, but that's a separate issue."

Miles leaned forward, his expression intense. "We need to be careful not to overwhelm her. She's been taught that her only value is in being whatever others want her to be. If we push too hard for her to 'be herself,' we're just creating another expectation she'll feel compelled to meet."

"You're right," Christopher admitted, his usual energy subdued. "I saw it when I showed her the room—she was looking for the right reaction, trying to gauge what would please us."

I nodded, remembering how she'd hesitated before touching the violin, as if afraid she might be punished for wanting it too much. "We need to create space for her to discover who she really is, not just replace one set of expectations with another."

"Which means patience," Miles concluded, settling back into the couch cushions. "Something we're not all equally blessed with." He shot a pointed look at Christopher, who had already begun to fidget.

"I can be patient," Christopher protested, though his restless hands betrayed him. "I just... I want her to be happy here. To feel at home."

"She will," I assured him, "but it won't happen overnight. This is going to be a process—for all of us."

The front door opened, and Nicolaus's familiar scent drifted into the living room seconds before he appeared in the doorway. His dark red hair was slightly windblown, and his blue eyes immediately scanned our faces, reading the tension in the room.

"She's here, then?" he asked, setting his leather messenger bag on a side table. "How did it go?"

"She's upstairs," I confirmed, watching as Nicolaus's analytical gaze assessed each of our expressions. "Settling in."

"And?" he prompted, loosening his tie as he joined us.

Miles sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Her parents are even worse than we thought. They told her if the courtship fails, she'd be 'returned to them in disgrace' and that no pack would want 'damaged goods.'"

Nicolaus went still, his usual clinical detachment slipping to reveal a flash of cold fury. "They explicitly used those terms?"

"According to her, yes," I confirmed. "Among others."

Nicolaus's jaw tightened as he took a seat, his movements controlled and precise.

"That's textbook psychological manipulation.

They've conditioned her to believe her only value lies in her ability to please others—specifically Alphas.

" He shook his head, disgust evident in his expression.

"It's a form of emotional abuse, designed to create complete dependence. "

"We suspected as much," I acknowledged, "but hearing it directly from her... seeing how those words affected her..." I trailed off, the protective rage rising again.

"So what's our approach?" Nicolaus asked, his analytical mind already working through possibilities. "Standard deprogramming techniques won't work here—they're too obvious, too clinical. She'll recognize them as manipulation, just a different kind."

"We've already started," Christopher said, some of his usual energy returning. "By giving her space that's truly hers. By offering choices without judgment. The violin was a good first step—something she wanted but was denied."

Nicolaus nodded thoughtfully. "Small steps. Building trust through consistency. It's going to take time," he concluded, settling back in his chair. "But we need to be careful not to make her recovery our project, she's not a case study to be solved."

"Agreed," I said firmly. "This isn't about fixing her—it's about giving her space to heal herself."

Miles glanced toward the ceiling, where we could hear the faint sounds of movement from Lilianna's suite. "She's unpacking. That's good, right? Means she's accepting this as her space?"

"Or she's following ingrained habits about proper behavior," Nicolaus observed with his characteristic bluntness. "Her parents would have trained her to be the perfect houseguest—organized, unobtrusive, grateful."

Christopher's expression fell. "I hadn't thought of that. What if she's just doing what she thinks we expect her to do too.”

The question hung in the air, highlighting the complexity of our situation. Every action Lilianna took could be genuine preference or learned behavior, and distinguishing between the two would require careful observation and patience.

"We watch," I said finally. "We pay attention to the small moments when her guard drops.

When she forgets to perform." I thought of how she'd closed her eyes while tasting Christopher's scone, the unconscious pleasure on her face before she remembered herself.

"Those glimpses of authenticity—that's who we're trying to reach. "

Nicolaus leaned forward, his analytical mind engaging. "We should also be prepared for regression. She might have moments of genuine connection followed by periods where she retreats into conditioned behaviors."

"Especially when she's stressed or uncertain," Miles added, his voice thoughtful. "Fight or flight.”

"Which is why consistency matters more than grand gestures," I concluded, glancing around at my packmates. "She needs to know that our acceptance isn't conditional on her performance."

Christopher shifted restlessly in his seat. "Speaking of which, should one of us check on her? She's been up there for almost an hour."

"No," Nicolaus said firmly. "She needs time to process. To exist in that space without feeling observed or evaluated." He paused, considering. "Though we should make sure she knows lunch is available whenever she's ready. No pressure, just information."

Miles nodded toward the kitchen. "I'll put together something light. Sandwiches, maybe some of that soup Christopher made yesterday. Things she can eat whenever she feels comfortable."

"Good thinking," I agreed. "And we should discuss logistics. Her parents will expect contact—"

"Which they won't get," Miles interrupted sharply. "We already agreed—no ongoing obligations."

"I know," I said, raising a hand to calm him. "But they'll try. Phone calls, unexpected visits, social pressure through mutual acquaintances. We need to be prepared."

Nicolaus's expression turned calculating. "I can handle the legal aspects. Restraining orders if necessary. But the social pressure will be more complex—they move in influential circles."

"Let me worry about that," I said, my voice carrying the authority that had served me well in business negotiations. "The Wycliffes aren't the only family with connections. And frankly, their behavior toward their own daughter won't reflect well on them once it becomes known."

"You'd expose them publicly?" Christopher asked, his eyes widening.

"If they force my hand, yes." I met each of their gazes in turn. "We’ll already be under media scrutiny when things get out to the public….” I trailed off already feeling the stress.

“Comes with our jobs unfortunately.” Christopher muttered, “Should we be the first to make a press statement or should we wait.”

"We wait," I decided after a moment's consideration. "Let them make the first move if they choose to involve the media. But we should prepare a statement—something that focuses on our happiness with the arrangement while keeping Lilianna's privacy protected."

Nicolaus pulled out his phone, already making notes. "I'll draft something neutral. Standard language about respecting the courting process and asking for privacy during this time."

Miles stood, stretching his arms above his head. "I still think we're overthinking this. Her parents got what they wanted—money and prestige. Why would they risk that by causing problems?"

"Because they're control addicts," Christopher said darkly, his usual optimism nowhere to be found. "They spent twenty-three years micromanaging every aspect of her life. You think they're just going to let go?"

A soft sound from upstairs made us all freeze—the gentle creak of floorboards just outside the range of normal hearing.

I exchanged glances with my packmates, noting the sudden alertness in their postures.

Lilianna was moving around upstairs, I didn’t want her to hear us talking about her like this.

"Enough," I said quietly, pitching my voice low enough that she wouldn't overhear. "We'll continue this discussion later. For now, focus on making her comfortable."

The others nodded, shifting seamlessly into more casual positions.

Christopher picked up a magazine, Miles headed toward the kitchen with purpose, and Nicolaus pulled out his tablet as if he'd been reviewing work all along.

The practiced ease of our transitions spoke to years of operating as a cohesive unit—something I hoped Lilianna would eventually feel part of, rather than merely adjacent to.

I glanced upwards again, hoping she would come out on her own, but only time would tell.