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—”

“Out of the vehicle. Now.”

I reach for the door handle, keeping my expression neutral. The driver looks uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say anything. Why would he? I’m nobody to him.

I step out onto the pavement, my legs steady. The younger guard is already pulling my suitcase from the trunk.

“Hey, careful with that!”

He drops it on the ground with more force than necessary. Something inside crunches.

“Oops,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.

The scarred guard circles me slowly, like I’m a threat he’s assessing. “You don’t look like pack. You don’t smell like pack, either.”

I don’t respond. There’s no point explaining myself to someone who has already decided I don’t belong.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “Funny thing…I’ve been working security here for eight years. Never seen you before in my life.”

I hold his gaze, silent.

“And the Alpha’s stepdaughter would have a car service. Transportation arranged. Wouldn’t show up in some random taxi like someone who doesn’t belong here.”

The driver clears his throat. “Look, I just need to get paid…”

“Then get paid and leave,” the younger guard says dismissively.

I pull my wallet out of my purse and hand the driver three twenties, more than enough to cover the fare and tip. He takes the money and practically peels out, leaving me standing there with two guards who clearly think I’m lying.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the scarred guard says. “We’re going to call up to the main house. And when they tell us they don’t know who you are, you’re going to pick up that suitcase and walk back the way you came. Understand?”

“Make the call.”

He pulls out a radio, never taking his eyes off me. “Main gate to house. We have a situation.”

Static crackles, then a voice responds. “Go ahead.”

“Got a girl here claiming to be the Alpha’s stepdaughter. Says her name is Violet.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

My heart pounds in my chest. What if they don’t remember me? What if my mother tells them to turn me away?

“Describe her,” the voice says finally.

The guard looks me over with barely concealed disdain. “Five-five, maybe five-six. Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Looks human. Weak.”

Another pause.

“Send her through,” the voice says, but there’s surprise in his tone. “I’ll send someone down to escort her.”

The guard’s expression sours, but he lowers the radio. “Looks like you’re telling the truth.”

“Shocking,” I say flatly.

“You’ll still need to wait here until your escort arrives. Can’t have just anyone wandering the grounds.”

I don’t bother responding. I simply stand there while the two guards watch me like I might attack at any second. The younger one keeps glancing at my suitcase, probably hoping I’ll ask him to carry it so he can refuse.

Five minutes pass. Finally, I see someone approaching from the main house, a man in his fifties, dressed in the crisp uniform of the household staff. A butler, maybe. His expression is carefully neutral as he reaches the gate.

“Miss Violet,” he says with a slight bow. “Welcome home. I’m James, head butler. I apologize for the…inconvenience.”

“It’s fine,” I lie.

He gives the guards a look that could freeze fire. “The Alpha will hear about this treatment of his family.”

The scarred guard at least has the decency to look uncomfortable. “We were only following protocol.”

“You were following your own prejudices,” James says coldly. “There’s a difference.” He turns to me, his expression softening. “Please, allow me to take your luggage.”

“I can manage.”

But he’s already picking up my suitcase, handling it with far more care than the young guard did. “This way, miss.”

I follow him through the gate, refusing to look back at the guards. But I can feel their eyes on me, their judgment like a physical weight.

The walk up to the main house is longer than I remembered. The driveway curves through manicured gardens, past fountains and sculptures that probably cost more than most people’s houses. Everything is perfect. Pristine. Cold.

“I apologize again for the guards,” James says quietly. “They should have shown more respect.”

“They didn’t believe I belonged here.” I glance at him. “Can you blame them?”

He doesn’t respond to that, which is answer enough.

We reach the front steps: marble, gleaming in the afternoon sun. The house looms above us, three stories of wealth and power and everything I’m not.

I tighten my grip on my purse. Here we go.

James opens the front door, and I step inside. My shoes click against marble floors that shine like mirrors. The entryway is exactly as I recall: vaulted ceiling, enormous chandelier, fresh flowers arranged in a crystal vase on the center table.

“Please wait here, miss,” James says, setting my suitcase down gently. “I’ll inform the Madam of your arrival.”

He disappears down a hallway, leaving me standing alone in the massive foyer. The silence presses against my eardrums, broken only by the ticking of an antique clock somewhere down the hall.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

I should have expected this. No one’s rushing to greet me.

Footsteps finally echo from deeper in the house. Heels clicking against marble.

My mother appears at the top of the grand staircase. She’s wearing a deep green, silk dress that probably cost thousands. It matches the emeralds at her throat, wrists, and ears, and it flows around her as she descends. Her hair is swept up in an elaborate style, not a strand out of place. Her makeup is applied flawlessly.

She looks like she’s about to attend a gala, not greet her daughter. But it’s the expression on her face that makes my chest tighten. Cool. Assessing. Like I’m a problem she needs to solve rather than a loved one she hasn’t seen in six years.

“Violet.” She reaches the bottom of the stairs, and her eyes sweep over me. “You look exhausted.”

“The flight was long,” I say, keeping my voice level. Controlled.

“I see.” She moves past me, and I catch the scent of her perfume: expensive, floral, overwhelming. “When did you arrive?”

“I landed at the airport a few hours ago.”

She pauses, turning back to look at me. A look of guilt crosses her face—or maybe it’s annoyance. It’s gone too quickly to tell. “You should have called. I would have sent someone.”

My nails dig into my palms. “I did message you. The flight details. Everything.”

“Hmm.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve been so busy with the alliance preparations. You know how it is.” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Come. Sit.”

I follow her into the living room. The furniture is fancy: cream-colored sofas that look like they’ve never been sat on, abstract art on the walls, fresh flowers everywhere. She settles onto one of the sofas with practiced grace. I lower myself onto the edge of the opposite one, perched as if I may need to bolt at any moment.

“You look thin,” she observes, studying me with that clinical gaze. “Are you eating properly?”

“Yes.”

“And the medicine?” Her voice sharpens. “You’re taking it regularly?”

“Twice a day, just like always.” My hand moves to my purse instinctively.

She leans forward, her eyes boring into mine. “Show me.”

My throat tightens. “What?”

“The bottle. Show me.”

Heat crawls up my neck, but I reach into my bag and pull out the medicine bottle. She takes it from me, reading the label, shaking it to hear the pills rattle. Counting, maybe. Making sure I haven’t missed doses.

“Good.” She hands it back. “You cannot be careless with this, Violet. Not here. Not in this house.”

“I know.” The words come out clipped.

“Do you?” She stands abruptly, moving to the window. Her back is to me now. “This isn’t like being away at school. Here, there are expectations. Standards. Alaric—” She cuts herself off, turning to face me again. “You need to be careful. Keep your head down. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

The words are familiar. She’s been saying them to me for as long as I can remember, ever since my life imploded. Even before she shipped me off to another country for “school.”

“Why did you ask me to come back?”

Her expression shutters. “This is your home.”

“Is it?”

“Don’t be difficult.” She moves toward the door, clearly done with this conversation. “You’ll stay in your old room. Third floor, east wing.” She pauses in the doorway. “There’s a welcome dinner tonight at seven. Family only. Don’t be late.”

I get to my feet. “Mom—”

But she’s already walking away, heels clicking against the marble again. She doesn’t look back.

I stand there for a moment, alone in this pristine room that feels nothing like home. The medicine bottle weighs down my purse.

Then, James appears in the doorway, my suitcase in his hand.

“I’ll show you to your room, miss,” he says gently.

I follow the butler through hallways I barely remember, past rooms I’ve never been allowed to enter. We climb two flights of stairs, and I keep up just fine, but my mind is racing. Six years I’ve been away, and nothing has changed. I’m still the unwanted burden. Still the weak link.

Finally, James stops in front of a door at the end of a long corridor.

“Here we are.” He opens it for me and sets my suitcase inside gently. “Dinner is at seven in the main dining room. Would you like me to collect you beforehand?”

“No. Thank you, James.”

He nods and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

I lean against it. Not because I need the support, but because I need a barrier between me and the rest of this house.

The room is nice. Too nice. Fresh flowers on the dresser, new curtains, bedding that looks untouched. But there’s nothing of mine here. No childhood drawings, no books, no trace that I ever existed in this space at all.

They’ve erased me.

I move to the window and look out over the garden below. Roses and hedges trimmed into perfect shapes. Beyond that, the grounds stretch toward the forest.

My watch beeps: a calendar reminder sent from my mother. Welcome home dinner, tonight at 7:00 PM.

I stare at the notification. Welcome home. Right.

I turn away from the window, kick off my shoes, and head to the bathroom. The marble is cool under my bare feet, and everything is spotless and gleaming. The shower helps, washing away the grime and exhaustion of travel. I keep it quick, then wrap myself in a towel that’s softer than anything I own.

Back in the bedroom, I move to my suitcase, kneeling beside it on the plush carpet. Most of my clothes are wrinkled from the journey, but they can wait. Right now, I’m searching for something specific.

My fingers find it tucked between two shirts: a photograph in a simple wooden frame. The glass is cracked in one corner from being moved around too many times, but the image is still clear.

A young girl with bright eyes and a genuine smile, her hair catching the sunlight. An older boy with his arm slung around her shoulders, grinning at the camera like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And a man behind them both, his arms wrapped around them, his face lit up with pure joy.

My throat tightens. I sink onto the bed, holding the picture with both hands. I grip it so tightly, the frame bites into my palms.

“Trevor,” I whisper as one finger traces over my brother’s face. He looks so alive in this picture. So full of light and laughter. “Dad.” My father’s smile is wide, sincere. I can’t remember the joke he’d just told, but I remember how I felt. Safe. Loved. Whole.

Clutching the old photo to my chest, I lie back on the bed. The mattress is too soft, the pillows too fluffy. Everything is too perfect and sterile and wrong.

“I wish you were here,” I whisper to the ceiling, to the image pressed against my heart, to the ghosts that never leave me.

My eyes grow heavy despite the light streaming through the window. The hours of travel, the medicine, the emotional weight of being back here—it all crashes over me at once. Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just until I can breathe again.

A knock at the door jolts me awake.

I blink at the ceiling, disoriented. The room is dimmer now, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the walls. How long was I asleep?

The knock comes again. “Miss Violet?”

James. The butler.

I sit up quickly, and the photograph slides off my chest. I catch it before it hits the floor.

“Yes?” My voice comes out rough, heavy with sleep.

“Dinner is in an hour, miss. I thought you might like to know.”

Relief washes through me. An hour. That’s plenty of time.

“Thank you, James,” I call out.

After hearing him retreat down the hallway, I gently set the photograph on the nightstand, running my thumb over the cracked glass one more time before standing.

An hour to get ready. An hour to prepare myself to face whatever announcement Alaric has planned. An hour until I might see Darius again.

There’s a flutter in my chest at the thought, a nervous anticipation I don’t quite understand. He was always kind to me, in that distant way of his. Never cruel like the others. Darius never looked at me with disgust.

I remember being fourteen and dropping an entire tray of dishes in the dining room during a formal dinner. The crash was deafening, and I stood there, frozen, surrounded by shattered porcelain and spilled food, while everyone stared. My mother’s face went white with fury.

But Darius simply stood up, walked over, and started helping me pick up the pieces. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a big show of it. Just knelt beside me and helped clean up the mess while his father redirected the guests’ attention.

It was such a small thing, but I never forgot it.

I shake off the memory and go to my suitcase, from which I pull out my navy dress. It’s modest, unremarkable, exactly what my mother would approve of. I smooth it over the bed, then twist my damp hair into a simple bun at the base of my neck. No makeup. At least I look presentable enough not to embarrass anyone.

I slip on a pair of simple flats and glance at the clock. Still forty minutes until dinner. I move back to the window and watch the grounds below. Pack members go about their evening routines: adults heading home from work, children playing in the distance. It all looks so normal. So peaceful. From up here, I could almost believe I belong.

Almost.

At five minutes to seven, I leave my room and make my way downstairs. The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should. My footsteps echo in the empty hallways, and I force myself to breathe steadily.

I can hear voices as I approach: first my mother’s crisp tone, then a deeper, male voice I recognize even after six years. Alpha Alaric.

I pause before going in, smoothing down my dress even though there’s nothing to smooth.

You can do this. Just get through dinner, I tell myself silently.

I push open the door.

The dining room looks just like I remember it: crystal chandelier overhead, paintings of past alphas lining the walls, and a long table that could seat twenty. But right now, there are only two people present: my mother, looking elegant and composed, and next to her, at the head of the table, Alpha Alaric.

He hasn’t changed. Still handsome in that distinguished way older men can be, with silver threading through his dark hair and sharp, intelligent eyes that miss nothing. His suit is perfectly tailored, his posture radiating authority even while he is seated. Alaric is the kind of man who commands a room simply by existing in it.

Those stern eyes land on me as I enter, and I feel the weight of his assessment. His expression changes as he takes me in. A look of concern, maybe. His brow furrows slightly.

“Alpha Alaric,” I say, keeping my voice steady. I don’t bow—I’m family, technically, even if it doesn’t feel that way—but I incline my head respectfully.

His features soften slightly. “Violet. It’s good to see you. Please, call me Father.”

The word hangs in the air between the three of us.

My mother speaks before I can respond, her voice quick and sharp. “She may not be comfortable with that yet, Alaric.”

I remember being fourteen the first time he asked me to call him that. I did so without hesitation, desperate to please, to show gratitude. My mother smiled at the dinner table. Then, she dragged me back to our quarters and beat me into silence. The bruises lasted weeks. The lesson, even longer.

I meet my mother’s eyes now and watch her expression tighten in warning. The same look she gave me all those years ago.

A cold fury settles in my chest.

“I have no problem calling you Father,” I say, turning back to the Alpha. The word tastes strange on my tongue after all these years, but I force it out clearly. Deliberately.

My mother’s glare could cut glass.

Good.

I’m not a child anymore. She can’t touch me now. Not here, not in front of him. And if she tries when we’re alone? I’ll fight back this time. I’ve spent six years learning how.

Alaric looks pleased, and he gestures to a chair near him. “Please, sit. Tell me about your studies. Your mother mentioned you completed your master’s degree?”

“Yes, Father.” I slide into the chair. The table is too large, the space between us too formal. “In business administration.”

“Excellent.” He nods approvingly. “That will serve you well. Once Darius arrives, I have an announcement to make that concerns you both.”

My head snaps up. “Darius is joining us?”

A warmth flickers in my chest—not quite happiness, but close. The nervous anticipation from earlier returns, stronger now.

But then, I catch my mother’s expression: lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed. That familiar disapproval.

I don’t let it dim my mood this time. I’m done letting her steal even the smallest moments of happiness from me.

“You seem pleased,” Alaric observes, studying me with his sharp eyes.

“Darius was always kind to me,” I say carefully. “Before I left.”

“He’ll be glad to see you, I’m sure.” Alaric leans back in his chair. “Tell me, did you meet anyone during your time away? Any romantic prospects?”

The question catches me off guard. “No. I was focused on my education.”

My mother’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. “Well, that needs to change. You should be thinking about settling down. Starting a family.”

“There’s no rush,” Alaric says mildly, but there’s a calculating gleam in his expression. “Violet has only just returned—”

The sound of someone in the hallway cuts him off.

I straighten in my chair, turning toward the door. My pulse quickens.

The door opens, and Darius walks in.

He’s…different. Taller than I remember, broader in the shoulders. He must be close to six-three now, his frame filling out the dark suit he wears like it was made for him. Probably was. His hair is darker than his father’s, almost black, styled back from his face. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, the kind of devastating good looks that shifters are known for, yet somehow more refined. More dangerous.

He looks at his father first, nodding in greeting. Then, his gaze sweeps the table—and lands on me. Dark brown orbs, almost black in the chandelier light. And intense. So intense, it feels like they’re pinning me in place.

Everything stops.

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My heart slams against my ribs so hard, I’m sure everyone can hear it. Every nerve in my body suddenly ignites, white-hot and overwhelming. It’s like being struck by lightning and set on fire at the same time.

His scent hits me: rich and dark, like cedar and smoke and winter nights and something wild I can’t put my finger on. It wraps around me, sinking into my skin, my lungs, my bones. I want to drown in it. I want to breathe nothing else for the rest of my life.

Heat floods through me, pooling low in my stomach, between my thighs. My skin feels too tight, too hot, like I might combust if he doesn’t touch me. My dress is too restrictive all of a sudden. Everything is too much and not enough at the same time.

I can’t stop staring at him. At the strong column of his throat where I can see his pulse pounding. At the sharp line of his jaw. At his hands, elegant and powerful, and I imagine them on my skin. At his lips, and I wonder what they’d feel like against mine.

My fingers are white knuckled where they grip the edge of the table. The room fades away. My mother, Alpha Alaric, the chandelier, the paintings—everything disappears until there’s only him. Only us. Only this impossible, inexplicable pull that’s threatening to tear me apart.

What is this? What is happening to me?

Darius goes completely rigid.

His eyes—dark brown a second ago—flash bright gold, his wolf rising to the surface. I watch his pupils blow wide, his shoulders tense like a bowstring pulled taut. His hands curl into fists at his sides as his chest rises and falls rapidly, like he can’t get enough air.

A low sound rumbles from deep in his chest, so quiet I almost miss it. But I feel it. God, I feel it everywhere.

He’s staring at me like I’m the sun and he’s been living in darkness. Like I’m water and he’s been dying of thirst. Like I’m everything he’s ever wanted and the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen, all at once.

His scent intensifies, wrapping around me tighter, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

“Darius?” Alaric’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Far away and muffled. “Son?”

But Darius doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even seem to hear his father. He is locked on me, that gold still blazing in his eyes, his entire body trembling with the effort of staying still.

For one breathless moment, I think he’s going to come to me. I can see the war raging behind his eyes, the way his body leans forward infinitesimally, drawn by the same invisible force that’s pulling at me.

Then, his expression shutters. From terror, maybe. Or realization.

He turns and walks out. No, he flees.

The door slams shut behind him, and the sound echoes through the dining room like a gunshot. Then, silence.

“Well,” my mother says after a long moment, her voice tense. “That was rude.”

But I barely hear her. My chest is heaving like I just ran a marathon. My hands are shaking where they still grip the table.

His scent still clings to me, gripping my throat like a collar. I feel the ghost of that impact in my chest, like something fundamental just shifted in my world. Like a door I didn’t know existed just opened, and I can never close it again.

The room spins slightly. My skin is too hot, my body still humming with that impossible need.

“Violet?” Alaric’s voice cuts through the chaos in my head, sharp with concern. “I apologize for Darius. That must have startled you. Are you alright?”

I force myself to nod, even though nothing about this is alright. “I’m fine.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

I’m not fine.

What the hell just happened?

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