The book burns in my hands, its pages whispering secrets that taste like betrayal. I don't knock when I throw open Arthur's study door. He's standing by the window, moonlight carving his silhouette into something too sharp, too beautiful to be human.
"You knew." My voice cracks. "This whole time, you knew they'd want to drain me dry for this child."
Arthur doesn't turn. The ice in his glass clinks as he swirls amber liquid. "You found the archives."
"Answer me!" The book hits the desk with a thud that makes the candle flames shudder. "Is that what I am to you? A fucking battery?"
He moves then—not the controlled predator's gait I'm used to, but a blur of motion that pins me against the wall before I can blink. His forearm presses into my collarbone, not enough to choke but enough to feel the threat humming in his muscles. His breath smells of whiskey and winter.
"Do you really think," he murmurs, lips brushing my temple, "I'd let anyone take you from me?"
The words should soothe. They don't. Because beneath them, I hear the unspoken truth: But I might take you myself.
I bare my teeth. "Your sister seems to think—"
"Remmah," he interrupts, thumb tracing my jugular, "is testing my patience." His grip tightens just enough to make my pulse stutter. "As are you."
The phone buzzes in my pocket. Claire's name flashes—a lifeline. I shove against Arthur's chest. "I have to take this."
His nostrils flare as he scents my sudden spike of adrenaline. But he steps back, eyes gleaming gold in the dark. "Run along, little rabbit. But remember—" His fingers knot in my hair, yanking just hard enough to sting. "The woods aren't safe tonight."
Claire's voice is honey laced with arsenic when I answer. "Lily. Finally." Branches crack under my boots as I trek toward the eastern tree line. The forest smells wrong—moss and rotting leaves undercut with something metallic. Blood.
"You said you had proof," I whisper into the phone. "About Mom."
A pause. Then, too sweet: "Oh, I do. Look up."
The first wolf steps from the shadows. Then another. Blackwater colors on their collars. Claire's laughter tinkles through the receiver. "Michael sends his regards."
The phone drops from my fingers.
I should run. Should scream. But something... shifts. The world sharpens—the rustle of paws on damp earth, the hitch of breath behind me, the way the largest wolf's shoulder muscles tense a fraction before he lunges.
I move first.
Ducking left feels instinctive, like the knowledge lives in my marrow. The wolf crashes into empty air, snarling. The second one comes low, aiming for my thighs, but I'm already twisting, nails raking across its muzzle. It yelps. Human enough to shock us both.
Then teeth sink into my calf.
White pain. Copper flooding my tongue where I've bitten through my lip. The wolves circle, eyes reflecting moonlight like fractured glass. I can feel their hunger, their excitement—salt and heat at the back of my throat.
The biggest one pounces.
A black blur intercepts midair. Arthur.
No—not Arthur. Not anymore.
This thing is all ripping muscle and snapping jaws, fur dark as a starless sky. It— he —tears out the Blackwater wolf's throat with a wet crunch. Blood sprays hot across my cheeks.
The remaining wolves whimper. Arthur's answering growl vibrates through the earth beneath me.
Then he's on them.
It's not a fight. It's slaughter. Limbs twist at unnatural angles. Snarls cut off mid-breath. The forest floor drinks deep.
When it's over, the black wolf turns to me. Blood mats his fur. His golden eyes hold no humanity—just possession. And something darker. Something that makes my stomach clench in a way that isn't entirely fear.
He shifts back mid-step, human hands catching me as my knees buckle. "Mine," Arthur rasps, blood dripping from his chin onto my shirt.
I should be repulsed. Should scream. But the scent of him—wild and iron-rich—makes my head swim. The baby kicks, hard, like it's answering some primal call.
Arthur's fingers dig into my hips as he lifts me. "You're mine to protect," he murmurs against my hair as he carries me home. Then, lower, lips grazing my ear: "But you're also becoming mine to hunt."
Elara's hut smells of dried herbs and something rotting. The old seer's milky eyes roll back as her gnarled hands hover over my stomach.
"The child isn't just bridging worlds," she croaks. A tremor runs through her, rattling the bones hanging from the ceiling. "It's rewriting them."
Arthur tenses by the door.
Elara's nails scrape my belly, leaving raised red trails. "And there are those," she whispers, "who'd kill to stop it."
The candle snuffs out. In the sudden dark, I feel it—the thing watching us from the shadows. Not wolf. Not human. Something older.