POV Avery
Father’s voice could strip paint off walls. He’s been screaming at me for the better part of an hour, pacing his office like a caged animal who just discovered his favorite chew toy is actually a hand grenade.
“HOW THE HELL COULD YOU GET INVOLVED WITH A VAMPIRE?”
The question ricochets off stone walls, bounces around my skull, and lands somewhere in the part of my brain that’s already numb from processing the complete clusterfuck my life has become.
“Father, if you’d just let me explain—”
“EXPLAIN?” His fist slams down on his desk hard enough to crack wood. “EXPLAIN HOW MY DAUGHTER, THE FUTURE ALPHA OF THIS PACK, PUBLICLY DEFENDED A BLOODSUCKER AT HER OWN WEDDING?”
“She’s not just any vampire—”
“SHE’S THE ENEMY!” Spit flies from his mouth. His eyes have gone full wolf, which means we’re approximately thirty seconds away from him shifting and tearing the furniture apart. “EVERYTHING WE’VE BUILT, EVERYTHING WE’VE SACRIFICED, AND YOU THROW IT AWAY FOR WHAT? SOME TWISTED INFATUATION?”
The words hit like physical blows. Because part of me knows how this looks. His daughter, choosing a vampire over her own species. Over centuries of pack tradition. Over everything he’s worked to build.
But the other part of me—the part that’s been awake for the first time in years—knows he’s wrong about everything that matters.
“It’s not infatuation,” I say quietly.
“THEN WHAT IS IT?”
“It’s love.”
Dead silence. He stops pacing. Stops breathing. Just stares at me like I’ve grown a second head that’s also somehow on fire.
“Love.” The word drips from his mouth like poison. “You think you love her.”
“I know I love her.”
“You know nothing.” He turns away, hands clenched behind his back. “You’re twenty years old. You’ve been manipulated by a creature designed to prey on weakness.”
“She didn’t manipulate me.”
“She seduced you. Used your loneliness, your need for approval—”
“She saw me.” The words explode out of me with more force than I intended. “She saw me, not the disappointment, not the failed Alpha, not the political pawn. Me.”
He whips around. “And what did you see in her? What could you possibly—”
“I saw someone who understood what it feels like to never be enough for the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally.”
The accusation hangs between us like a loaded weapon. His face goes through several emotions—surprise, hurt, rage—before settling on something that looks dangerously like disappointment.
“Get out.”
“Father—”
“GET OUT OF MY SIGHT BEFORE I DO SOMETHING WE’LL BOTH REGRET.”
So I do. Because arguing with an Alpha in full rage mode is like trying to negotiate with a natural disaster. Pointless and potentially fatal.
I’m barely through the door when the crash starts behind me. Furniture being destroyed, walls being clawed, the sound of a man having a complete meltdown in the privacy of his own office.
Standard Tuesday in the Shadowmere household.
I find Joanna in the kitchen, stress-eating leftover wedding cake like it personally offended her. Which, considering how the wedding ended, it probably did.
“How’d it go?” she asks around a mouthful of frosting.
“About as well as expected. He’s currently redecorating his office with his claws.”
“Yikes.” She pushes the cake toward me. “Want some? It’s surprisingly good for something that was supposed to celebrate your marriage to a psychopath.”
I grab a fork and dig in, because emotional eating is apparently hereditary in our family.
“I need to find her,” I say after swallowing what tastes like vanilla and regret.
“Find who?”
“Natalie. She’s probably in serious trouble right now because of me.”
Joanna goes very still. That particular kind of stillness that means her psychic bullshit is kicking in.
“Joanna?”
Her eyes go unfocused, pupils dilating like she’s seeing something that isn’t in this room. When she comes back, her face is pale.
“She’s locked up,” she says quietly. “Tower cell. Maximum security.”
“Where?”
“Crimson Coven compound. They’re putting her on trial tomorrow morning.”
My blood turns to ice. “Trial for what?”
“Treason. Consorting with enemies. Betraying her own kind.” Joanna’s voice gets smaller with each word. “Avery, if they find her guilty—”
“They’ll exile her.”
“Or worse.”
The fork clatters to the floor. Because exile for a vampire isn’t just banishment. It’s a slow death sentence. Vampires don’t survive alone. They go insane, then walk into the sunrise.
“That’s not happening,” I say, standing up so fast the chair tips over.
“Avery, what are you going to do? Storm a vampire compound by yourself?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“That’s suicide.”
“Then I’ll die trying.” I head for the door, mind already racing through possibilities. “But she’s not dying because of me. Not on my watch.”