Paul waits at the main entrance like a sentinel carved from granite, his posture rigid with Alpha authority but his eyes carrying warmth that softens when they find mine.
The packhouse rises behind him in familiar stone and shadow, a monument to months of degradation that my nervous system hasn't forgotten despite my best efforts to bury the memories beneath newer, kinder ones.
"You came," he says, and the relief in his voice suggests he wasn't entirely certain I would.
"Zane can be persuasive when he wants to be." I climb the steps toward him, my legs steadier than I expected given the trembling in my hands. "Though I reserve the right to change my mind if this turns out to be a mistake."
Paul's mouth curves, the expression transforming severity into something approaching tenderness. "Then let me show you something that might help convince you to stay."
His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the heavy oak doors and into the entrance hall I remember with painful clarity.
The same flagstone floors, the same tapestries depicting pack history, the same chandelier casting fractured light across surfaces that hold too many memories.
But instead of turning toward the wing where my former room held nothing but bad memories and the ghost of the woman I used to be, Paul leads me deeper into the packhouse—past the formal dining room with its glittering candlelight, past the corridor leading to his private office, up a staircase I rarely had reason to climb.
The main quarters.
'This is where the Alpha family lives,' Nireya observes, her presence stirring with cautious interest. 'He's bringing us into the heart of his territory.'
The hallway here feels different. Rich carpets absorb our footsteps, artwork lines the walls in gilded frames, and the air carries traces of cedar and sandalwood rather than the harsh cleaning chemicals I associate with my former existence.
Paul stops before a door near the end of the corridor, close enough to the Alpha suite that I can see its carved entrance from where I stand.
"This belonged to my grandmother," he says, pushing the door open to reveal a room that steals the breath from my lungs.
"She insisted on keeping her own space even after she moved into the main quarters with my grandfather. Said a woman needed somewhere that belonged only to her."
The bedroom sprawls before me in shades of cream and gold, afternoon light streaming through windows that overlook the formal gardens below. A four-poster bed dominates one wall, draped in fabrics that look soft enough to drown in.
A fireplace occupies the opposite corner, its mantel decorated with carved wolves frozen mid-hunt. The closet door stands open, revealing space enough for a wardrobe I don't possess and probably never will.
"This is too much," I manage, my voice rough with emotions I cannot categorize. "Paul, I don't need—"
"You need a space that reflects what you actually are to us." His hand finds my shoulder, turning me to face him. "This is yours, Morgan. For as long as you want it."
The generosity threatens to undo the careful composure I've been maintaining since we left Ricky's house. I swallow against the tightness in my throat and nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
Paul studies my face for a long moment, reading whatever shows there. Then he presses a kiss to my forehead—gentle, almost chaste—and steps back toward the door.
"I need to coordinate the border closure with Cormac's team," he says. "Zane will bring your things up once he's finished parking. Take whatever time you need to settle in, and I'll find you when the immediate crisis is contained."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I'm alone in a room that feels like a promise I'm afraid to believe.
'Don't get comfortable,' Nireya warns, and unease the threads through her presence. 'Something feels wrong.'
The sensation prickles across my skin before I can identify its source—a shift in the air, a presence that wasn't there moments before.
"Well, well." Sarah's voice slides through the silence like a blade finding its mark. "The prodigal whore returns. I wondered how long it would take before Paul's obsession outweighed his common sense."
I turn slowly, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a startled response.
She stands in the doorway of what must be an adjoining room, a private entrance I hadn't noticed during my initial survey.
Her silk robe catches the afternoon light, her blonde hair arranged with careful perfection, her features composed into the mask of gracious cruelty I've learned to recognize over years of torment.
"Sarah." I let her name carry the weight of everything I'm no longer willing to hide. "I've been looking forward to this conversation."
Her eyebrows rise, surprise flickering beneath the controlled exterior. "Have you? That's remarkably bold for someone in your position. Or have you forgotten that I'm the Luna of this pack?"
"I haven't forgotten anything." I cross the room toward her, each movement designed to communicate that the frightened servant who fled through a window no longer exists.
"In fact, my memory has become remarkably clear over the past few weeks. Especially regarding the man you sent to murder me."
The mask cracks.
It's subtle—a tightening around her eyes, a fractional widening of her pupils, the particular stillness that descends when a predator realizes they've walked into a trap of their own making.
But I see it, and the recognition sends satisfaction coursing through my veins like liquid fire.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sarah says, but her voice carries a tremor that wasn't there before.
"Thomas." I let the name hang between us, watching it land against her composure like a stone against glass. "Your lover, your weapon. He's dead, Sarah. Paul killed him, and now his body is rotting somewhere in the forest."
The pain that crosses her features is brief but unmistakable.
She cared about him, I realize with dawning understanding. Beneath all the manipulation and cruelty, she actually felt something for the man she used as an instrument of murder.
'Interesting,' Nireya murmurs. 'The monster has a heart after all.'
"You're lying," Sarah says, but conviction has drained from her words.
"I'm not, and we both know it." I close the remaining distance between us until I can smell her perfume, floral and cloying, the scent that has haunted my nightmares for years.
"Paul identified the scent on his body. They know it was a Silver Moon warrior, and it's only a matter of time before they find out it was Thomas and connect him to you. Unless, of course, someone gives them a reason to look elsewhere."
"What do you want?" The question comes out flat, stripped of pretense.
"The photograph of you and Thomas becomes even more damning now that he's dead," I continue, pressing my advantage.
"Evidence of an affair with the man who tried to murder me on your orders. But that's not all I can expose, Sarah. I can show them evidence that places you in the kitchen the day my mother died, that proves the wolfsbane was planted in my room."
Her face goes pale, the carefully maintained composure crumbling into something rawer and more desperate than I've ever seen from her.
"You don't understand what you're dealing with," she says, and genuine fear threads through her voice for the first time since I've known her. "You think you have all the answers, but you're missing the most important piece of the puzzle."
"Then enlighten me." I grip her wrist, feeling her pulse hammer against my fingers. "Who told you to poison my mother, Sarah?"
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