Violet

The office is empty by the time I finish organizing the last of the alliance contracts. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright for this late at night. My watch reads 9:47 p.m.

Perfect.

I’ve been timing it carefully all week. Dinner at the house ends around eight. By nine-thirty, my mother and Alaric have usually retired to their private wing or the study. By ten, the halls are quiet enough that I can slip in unnoticed, grab something from the kitchen if I’m lucky, and disappear to my room.

I grab my bag and head for the elevator, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The building feels different this late. Hollow, almost peaceful. No Rachel watching me with those calculating eyes. No whispers following me down the hallways. Just silence.

The parking garage is nearly empty. My rental car sits where I left it this morning, under a flickering light that makes shadows dance across the concrete. I unlock it and slide behind the wheel, tossing my bag onto the passenger seat.

My stomach growls. I ignore it.

Breakfast at my desk, lunch if I remember, dinner skipped entirely. It’s easier this way. Easier than sitting at that massive dining table with Alaric making small talk and my mother watching me with her sharp, assessing eyes.

Easier than risking another encounter with Darius.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel at the thought of him.

Since the incident in the corridor, I’ve been a mess. I can still feel his hands on my wrists, still smell the cedar and smoke that always clings to him, still remember the way his eyes flashed gold when I tried to fight back.

“Tell Julian not to touch you again.”

Heat pools low in my stomach at the memory, unwelcome and confusing. I shove it away and start the car.

The drive takes twenty minutes at this hour. Less traffic. Fewer people to navigate around. The exhaustion sitting heavy in my bones makes even the thought of stopping at a store feel insurmountable.

The guards at the gate wave me through without comment. They’ve learned not to question my late arrivals.

I park in the circular driveway and gather my things, moving slowly. My body feels disconnected. The medication I took this morning is wearing off, leaving that familiar queasy feeling in its wake.

The front door is unlocked. I slip off my heels as soon as I’m inside, not wanting to make noise on the marble floor of the foyer. The house is dark except for a soft glow coming from the living room. Probably James, making his final rounds before bed.

I move toward the stairs, ready to retreat to my room and collapse.

A lamp clicks on. I freeze.

My mother is sitting in one of the high-backed chairs facing the staircase, still dressed from dinner in a sleek, black dress and pearls around her neck. Her hands rest on the armrests, fingers drumming a slow rhythm. Waiting.

My stomach drops.

“Violet.” Her voice is cool. Measured. “Come here.”

I don’t move. “I’m tired. I need to—”

“I said, come here.”

The command makes my jaw clench, but I cross the room until I’m standing a few feet away from her chair. Close enough that I can see the hard glint in her eyes. Far enough that she can’t reach me without standing.

“Sit.”

“I’d rather not.”

Her fingers stop drumming. “Sit down, Violet.”

“I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”

She stands in one fluid motion, and I resist the urge to step back. She’s taller than me. Has always used her height to intimidate.

“You’ve changed,” she says, her voice turning harsh.

A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

“Don’t be smart with me.”

I meet her gaze, refusing to look away. “What did you expect? That I’d come back and hide behind your skirts? Play the good little stepdaughter so you could parade me around and prove you’re a devoted mother?”

Color floods her cheeks. “Watch your tone.”

“Why? So you can keep playing happy family? Pretend you didn’t ship me off to another country the moment I became inconvenient?”

Her hand moves so fast I barely register it before the crack echoes through the room.

My head snaps to the side, cheek stinging. Heat blooms across my skin where her palm connected.

I straighten slowly, turning back to face her. My hand comes up to touch my burning cheek, but I don’t let the tears gathering in my eyes fall.

“I didn’t raise you to be so disrespectful,” she hisses.

“You didn’t raise me at all.” The words taste like acid. “I’ve always been a stain from your past. Something to hide. Something to be ashamed of.” I lean forward slightly, my voice dropping. “I know you wished I’d died alongside Dad and Trevor.”

The color drains from her face. Then, her eyes flash with pure rage, and her hand shoots up again, claws extending. “I told you never to mention them again!”

The second slap is harder. Her claws rake across my cheek, and I feel skin tear. Blood runs hot and wet down my jaw.

I clutch my face, glaring at her through the pain. “Why? Why can’t I mention the only two people who ever cared about me?”

“You will not speak of them. Not in this house. Not ever.”

“They’re all I have left!” My voice breaks despite my best efforts to stay strong. “They’re the only family who ever loved me!”

She advances on me, and I step back instinctively until my shoulders hit the wall.

“You have a family,” she snaps, ice-cold. “Alaric has given you a home. Given us both a home. And you repay him by acting like an ungrateful child.”

“He’s not my father,” I spit back.

Her hand lifts again, trembling with fury.

I straighten my spine. “Go ahead. Beat me black and blue if you want. It doesn’t change the fact that you replaced my father and my brother, and you’ve despised that I survived when they didn’t.”

“How dare you…” Her voice shakes with rage.

“It was easy for you, wasn’t it? Trading them in for a new husband and son. Playing the devoted wife to an alpha. But I’ve never forgotten them. And I never will.”

Her hand comes down once more, claws fully extended. They dig into my cheek, tearing deeper. The pain is sharp and immediate, but I don’t shrink back. Don’t cower.

I just stare at her through the blood running down my face.

She pulls back, breathing hard, her eyes blazing. Then, her expression shifts, becoming cold. Calculated.

“I told you to keep a low profile,” she says, her voice dropping to a dangerous level. “To make yourself invisible. But you couldn’t even do that, could you?”

My chest tightens. “What are you talking about?”

“Tomorrow, you will tell Alaric that you no longer wish to work in the Supernatural Affairs Division.” Her words are clipped. Final. “You will request a transfer to another department. Or better yet, you’ll quit entirely.”

A sharp and unexpected spasm of pain shoots through my chest at her words. I press a hand to my ribs, confused by the intensity of it.

“No.”

“This is not a discussion.” She steps closer, looming over me. “You will stay away from Darius.”

The pain intensifies, spreading through my chest like fire. I don’t understand why my body is reacting this way when I don’t even like him. When he has made it clear what he thinks of me.

“Why?” The word comes out bitter. Angry. “Are you worried I’ll taint your precious stepson with my weak wolf?”

She glares at me, violence in her eyes.

I stand up straight, glaring at her despite the blood running down my face. “If you want me to quit, then you tell your husband. I never wanted to come back here in the first place. You forced me.” My voice rises, trembling with fury. “I won’t be your scapegoat.”

“Violet!” Her face contorts with rage. She raises her hand yet again, claws fully extended.

But she never gets the chance to land the blow. Fingers wrap around her wrist, stopping her mid-swing.

Darius.

He appears from the darkened hallway like a shadow given form, his grip forcing my mother’s arm down to her side. His eyes blaze gold, locked on her face.

“What the hell is going on?”

My mother goes rigid. She tries to jerk her wrist free, but he doesn’t let go. “What are you doing here?”

“I came by for some pack business.” His voice is deadly calm, but I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. His eyes flick to me, taking in the blood, and a dark and furious look crosses his face. “I asked you, what is going on.”

“It’s none of your business.” My mother’s voice turns cold. Dismissive. “A small matter between mother and daughter.”

He twists her wrist, and I see her wince. “Doesn’t look like a small matter to me.”

They stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of will. The air crackles with tension.

Finally, Darius speaks, his voice dropping to a command that makes me obey automatically. “Violet. Go to your room.”

I don’t hesitate. I push off the wall and move toward the stairs, my legs shaking with adrenaline. I can feel both of them watching me as I climb, can hear Darius snarling at my mother, but I don’t look back. I just need to get out of there.

My door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor. My chest heaves with ragged breaths that won’t slow down. My hands are trembling. The pain in my cheek throbs in time with my heartbeat.

But it’s the strange ache in my chest that confuses me. From that spasm of pain when my mother told me to stay away from Darius. My body’s reaction made no sense. I don’t even like him. He said I don’t belong.

So, why does the thought of never seeing him again make my chest feel like it’s caving in?

After a moment, I push myself up to a standing position and move to the full-length mirror in the corner.

The reflection staring back at me looks haunted. Blood has dried in streaks down my jaw and neck. Marking my left cheek are four parallel scratches, angry and red, still seeping slightly.

I touch them gently and wince.

I head into the bathroom, flicking on the harsh overhead light. The shower calls to me. I can smell the office on my skin, feel the day’s exhaustion clinging to every inch of my body.

I strip off my clothes and step under the spray, letting the hot water wash away the blood, the tears I didn’t realize I was crying, and everything else. The water stings where it hits the scratches, but I welcome the pain. It’s grounding. Real.

Better than the hollow ache in my chest.

When I finally emerge, I wrap myself in a silk robe that’s too expensive to be mine and dig through the cabinet under the sink until I find a first aid kit. It’s well-stocked: bandages, antiseptic, gauze, everything I might need.

I carry it back to the bedroom and sit cross-legged on the bed, angling myself toward the mirror so I can see what I’m doing.

The scratches look worse now that they’re clean. Deep enough that they’ll probably scar. My wolf should be healing this already, knitting the skin back together, fighting off infection.

But my wolf is weak. Suppressed. Which means I’m vulnerable. Human-level healing. Higher chance of infection.

I uncap the antiseptic and pour some onto a cotton pad.

The first touch makes me hiss through my teeth. It burns like fire, and my eyes water immediately.

I dab at the scratches carefully, methodically, trying to clean them properly. But my hands are shaking, and my vision keeps blurring with tears I refuse to let fall.

My mother’s words echo in my head.

“I told you never to mention them again!”

“You will not speak of them. Not in this house. Not ever.”

Even their names are forbidden. Even the memory of them has been erased from this place.

“You will stay away from Darius.”

And now she wants to control where I work, who I see, every aspect of my life.

I press the antiseptic-soaked pad against the deepest scratch and bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.

The tears finally spill over. They run hot down my cheeks, mixing with the antiseptic, making everything sting worse. My shoulders quiver with the effort of keeping the sobs silent.

I hate this. Hate feeling this weak.

With trembling fingers, I grab another cotton pad and keep cleaning. The motions are mechanical. Mindless. Something to focus on that isn’t the gaping wound in my chest that has nothing to do with the gouges on my face.

A knock sounds at my door. I freeze, pad pressed to my cheek.

“I’m busy,” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. Failing.

The door opens anyway. Darius steps inside and closes it behind him.

Of course.

Of course he’d ignore a closed door. Ignore my request for privacy. Ignore every boundary I’ve tried to establish.

I don’t turn to look at him. Just keep my eyes on the mirror, on my reflection, on the careful work of cleaning these claw marks.

“I said, I’m busy.”

“I heard you.”

His footsteps are soft against the carpet as he crosses the room. I can see him in the mirror’s reflection. Those dark eyes, locked on me. On the blood. The tears.

He stops at the edge of the bed. Just stands there, watching.

I’m suddenly hyperaware of how I look. Sitting cross-legged in nothing but a robe, hair damp and tangled, face a mess of tears and antiseptic and blood.

“Get out,” I say, but there’s no strength behind the words.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps watching me with those intense eyes that see too much.

I turn back to the mirror, trying to ignore him, trying to focus on cleaning the last scratch. But my hands are shaking harder now, and I can’t get the angle right, and the tears won’t stop coming.

The bed dips beside me.

“Get out.” My voice cracks.

“Give me that.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I know.” He reaches for the antiseptic bottle. “Give it to me anyway.”

I snap. I spin toward him, the antiseptic-soaked cotton pad still clutched in my trembling fingers. My free hand shoots out, aiming for the pressure point just below his ribs. The same move I tried in the corridor.

He catches my wrist before I make contact.

His fingers wrap around mine, firm and warm. As he lowers my hand slowly to my lap, I realize with a jolt that the robe must have ridden up when I shifted positions. Darius’s palm presses against my bare thigh, skin on skin.

The reaction is instantaneous. Heat races up my leg, pools low in my belly, steals the breath from my lungs. My pulse spikes. My skin flushes.

His eyes darken, pupils dilating until the brown is nearly swallowed by black. His gaze drops to where his hand rests on my exposed skin. I watch his jaw clench, see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows hard.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then, he drags his eyes back to my face with visible effort.

“You can fight me all you like.” His voice comes out rougher now. Strained. “But you’re not leaving this bed until I’ve seen to your wounds.”

“I don’t want your pity.” I try to yank my hand free, without success. “Or your help.”

“I don’t pity you.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Right. You’re too busy looking down on me for that.”

I try to push off the bed with my free hand. To get away from him and this heat that’s making it hard to think.

He pulls me back down.

I fall onto my back with a gasp. Before I can scramble up, he’s there. Hovering over me. His knees straddle my hips, pinning me in place without putting his weight on me.

He takes the cotton pad from my fingers.

“What are you—Stop!” I push against his chest, but he doesn’t move. “Get off me!”

“No.” He pours more antiseptic onto the pad, his movements controlled. “Not until this is done.”

“I can do it myself!”

“Your hands are shaking.” He leans forward, bringing the pad toward my face. “Hold still.”

I turn my injured cheek away. “Don’t…”

His free hand cups my jaw, fingers gentle but firm as he turns my face back toward him and holds me in place.

The first touch of the antiseptic makes me cry out. Fresh tears spring to my eyes as it burns.

“I know it hurts,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my jawline. Softly. Soothingly. “Just breathe through it.”

“I hate you,” I grit out.

“I know.”

He dabs delicately at the deepest scratch, his eyes focused on it as if this is the most important thing in the world. Like cleaning my wounds matters more than anything else.

I want to fight him. Want to shove him off of me and tell him to leave me alone.

But I’m so tired. So exhausted from holding everything together, from pretending I’m fine when I’m really falling apart.

My resistance crumbles.

I lie there while he cleans each scratch with infinite patience. Despite the burning sting, I feel how his touch is gentle. Almost tender.

It makes my chest ache worse than the scratches on my face.

“Why do you let her speak to you like that?”

“Why are you so talkative all of a sudden?”

His expression shifts to one of mild amusement. “Where did you learn to fight?”

“None of your business.”

“Everything about you is my business.” The words sound fierce. Possessive.

“Why? Because you’re my brother?”

He flinches as if I’ve struck him. His hand stills on my face. When he speaks, his voice is dark. Venomous. “Just because our parents are mated, it doesn’t make us siblings.”

His tone startles me. There’s a rawness to it that sounds almost like pain.

I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already reaching for a bandage. His movements are quick now. He tears open the packaging and carefully applies the dressing to my cheek, smoothing down the edges with gentle fingers.

His eyes flick to mine, and I see something in them I can’t quite figure out. Then, he sits back slightly, still straddling my hips, and studies my face.

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar.” His eyes narrow. “When was the last time you had a proper meal?”

I press my lips together.

“Breakfast? Lunch?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“Come to the kitchen. I’ll make you dinner.” He shifts his weight forward, preparing to move off me.

But the movement brings him closer. His face hovers inches above mine, and suddenly, I can’t breathe. His scent overwhelms me, making my head spin.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there.

My body responds instantly. My nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of my robe. I know he can see it, know he notices the way my breath hitches, the flush spreading across my skin.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” I manage to whisper. “But you spent years making me think you were a good person. Only took one conversation for me to realize you’re no different from everybody else.”

Pain flashes in his eyes. Or maybe guilt.

“Get out.” This time he lets me push him away. “I don’t need you to save me from my mother. And I don’t need your help or—or whatever game this is.”

He moves off me slowly. Stands beside the bed.

“I know it’s all a lie.” My voice is steady now. “And I won’t be made a fool of.”

He stares at me for a long moment, those dark eyes searching my face like he’s trying to memorize every detail.

Then, he turns and walks to the door. It closes behind him with a quiet click.

I sit there in the sudden silence, every part of me that he touched feeling like it’s on fire. My thigh tingles where his hand rested. My jaw aches from his gentle grasp.

And between my legs…God, I’m wet. Embarrassingly wet. My body is still humming, still aching, still wanting something I can’t bear to label.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I try not to think about how his weight felt pressing me into the mattress. How his scent made me want to arch up into him. How for one breathless moment, when his face was inches from mine, I wanted him to close that distance.

I hate myself for wanting it.

Time passes in a blur. I don’t know how long I sit here, wrapped in this robe, staring at nothing.

Eventually, I stand and move to turn off the light.

My hand is on the switch when I remember I need to lock the door. Can’t risk anyone else walking in uninvited.

But first, for some reason, I pull it open. And I freeze.

A container sits on the floor just outside my door. Clear plastic with a slice of cake inside. The kind with layers of dark chocolate and cream, the expensive kind that Alaric’s chef makes for special occasions.

I stare at it.

My throat tightens as I crouch down and pick it up. The container is still slightly warm, like the slice was just cut. Like someone went downstairs to the kitchen specifically to get this for me.

For one weak moment, I want to eat it. To accept this small kindness and pretend it means something.

Then, reality crashes back.

This doesn’t mean anything. Darius is just playing some game I don’t understand. Easing his conscience, maybe.

I set it back down. I won’t eat it. Won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking a slice of cake makes up for anything.

I close the door. Lock it. Turn off the light. Crawl into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. But sleep doesn’t come.

I lie there in the darkness, my body still humming with awareness, still aching, still burning with the memory of his hands on my skin.

I press my hand to my chest, trying to ease the ache there.

It doesn’t help.

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