Chapter 0007

The crisp winter air bit at my cheeks as Mother and I approached Ivy Sinclair's memorial. The sacred clearing held tributes to all our fallen warriors, but Ivy's stood tallest—a magnificent marble statue of a winged woman standing guard over her pack.

This week's offerings were winter blooms: crimson poinsettias, golden jasmine, delicate aconites, and clusters of snowdrops. Mother pressed her palm against the statue's clasped hands. "Thank you, Ivy," she murmured. "Your sacrifice is remembered."

We worked in comfortable silence, clearing frostbitten foliage, replacing it with fresh blossoms.

"Mother," I ventured, "have you ever met Evelyn?"

She paused, tucking a strand of silver-streaked hair behind her ear. "Of course, darling. Haven't you?"

I shook my head. "Never properly introduced. What's she like?"

"Brilliant. Reserved. Kind." Mother's fingers lingered on a snowdrop stem. "She has Ivy's bone structure but Grant's storm-gray eyes." A wistful smile tugged her lips. "Your father learned the hard way not to underestimate that woman."

My pruning shears stilled. "What?"

Mother chuckled, dusting snow from her knees. "During the Blackthorn-Nightshade tensions, your father tried benching Ivy—she was six months pregnant with Evelyn." Her laughter rang like wind chimes. "She challenged him to single combat. Pinned him in twelve minutes flat. Grant just leaned against the arena wall, grinning like a fool."

My jaw dropped. Father was the strongest Alpha in generations.

"The Nightshade Alpha surrendered when he saw our ranks included two fully operational Guardians," Mother continued. "Though Lucian Blackwood paid dearly for provoking us. When Cassian Nightshade killed him, he absorbed their territory... but lost Isolde in the process. Sebastian was only six."

A cold realization settled in my gut. Sebastian had shouldered the Nightshade Alpha mantle at sixteen after Cassian's grief-stricken decline. Meanwhile, I'd been learning trigonometry and sneaking beers with Donovan.

Mother's office smelled of bergamot and parchment—never a good sign. She poured two glasses of merlot.

"Adrian," she said, staring at the moonlit pines beyond her window. "I know about the girls."

Wine burned my throat. How?

Her reflection smirked in the glass. "Did you truly believe your Luna wouldn't notice her son turning his quarters into a brothel?"

I gripped the armrests.

"Darling," she turned, eyes softening, "when you find your mate—and you will on your birthday—those jealous little she-wolves will make her life hell." She sipped her wine. "At least bed outsiders. Spare your future Luna the humiliation."

Heat crawled up my neck. Seraphina Grey was everything a Luna should be—compassionate yet formidable. The thought of disappointing my own mate twisted something inside me.

"You're right," I rasped. "No more pack girls."

She kissed my forehead. "And for Goddess' sake, use protection. I want grandchildren, but not from some starry-eyed teenager."

"Mother!" I nearly upended my glass. "I'm not an idiot!"

Her laughter chased me down the hallway.