My father did not raise his voice often.

  That was how I knew the argument had crossed something final.

  “You don’t get to decide that alone,” I said, standing in the narrow space between the hearth and the table. “You talked to him. To Damon’s father. About me. And you didn’t even tell me.What are you two plotting behind my back?..”

  His hands were braced against the wood, knuckles pale. He looked older like this. Smaller. As if years of silence had finally bent him forward.

  “I did what I had to.And you don't have to know everything.” he said.

  “You always say that,” I snapped. “You always do what you have to — except when it comes to her.”

  His jaw tightened. “You think standing up to Amery Cramire ends well?”

  “So you let her plan my life?” My chest felt tight, breath coming too fast. “You let her decide what I become?”

  “She’s your mother.”

  “And you’re my father,” I shot back. “Or were you just something she bound and kept around?”

  The words landed harder than I meant them to.

  For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he laughed — short, bitter, nothing like humor.

  “You want the truth?” he said. “Fine. Here it is.”

  He straightened, finally looking at me fully. His eyes weren’t afraid. They were tired. Angry in a way that had been fermenting for years.

  “Witches don’t marry mortals,” he said. “They collect them. Bind them. Siphon what they need and call it tradition.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I didn’t get a choice,” he cut in. “None of us did. Not really. We were useful. We were convenient. And when we broke, when we resisted, we were reminded how easily power can be applied.”

  My stomach dropped.

  “You stayed,” I said. “You stayed with her.”

  “Because leaving meant death,” he said flatly. “Or worse. Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. My throat burned.

  “And now,” he went on, “you stand there asking why I don’t challenge witches openly. Why I don’t defy a coven that’s survived wars by turning people into tools!”

  His voice cracked then, just slightly. “I stayed so you could live.”

  I swallowed hard. “You stayed so you wouldn’t have to choose.”

  His expression hardened.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “I chose every day. And it cost me everything.”

  The silence that followed felt heavy, suffocating.

  “My mother is planning something,” I said quietly. “Something big. Something that marks me.”

  He looked away.

  That was enough to answer.

  I grabbed my coat and left before I said something I couldn’t take back.

  The Sanctum corridors felt narrower than usual.

  Suppression fields pressed in from all sides, a dull hum under my skin that made my magic itch restlessly. I replayed my father’s words with each step — collected, bound, useful. The way his voice sounded when he said them.

  I didn’t know which hurt more: that he hated witches, or that he hated what I might become.

  Natalie fell into step beside me near the west wing, her presence quiet but deliberate. Willow drifted close behind, pale braids brushing her shoulders.

  “You look like you’ve been flayed,” Willow murmured.

  “I’m fine,” I said automatically.

  Natalie glanced at me, dark eyes sharp despite her soft expression. “That’s not true.”

  I exhaled slowly. “I’m… under pressure. My mother is planning something. And my father…” I stopped, shaking my head. “He’s not handling it well.”

  Neither of them pressed. They never did.

  We walked in silence for a few steps before I collided with something solid.

  Hands caught my arms before I could stumble back. Strong. Warm. Unmistakably present.

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  “Careful,” Damon said.

  My breath hitched as I looked up at him. Too close. His grip was steady, one hand firm at my hip, anchoring me. He didn’t move it immediately. Didn’t seem to realize he should.

  The contact sent a jolt through me — awareness sharpening, pulse quickening. I became acutely conscious of the difference in our height, the breadth of his shoulders blocking the corridor behind him, the heat radiating off him like something alive.

  “I’m fine,” I said, even as my balance settled only because he was still holding me.

  His jaw flexed. His gaze dropped briefly — not to my face, but to where his hand rested — before snapping back up. Slowly, reluctantly, he let go.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he said, but his voice wasn’t sharp. It sounded strained.

  Willow tilted her head, eyes distant. “You didn’t collide by accident,” she murmured.

  Damon stiffened. “I—” He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Damon,” someone called from down the corridor.

  Emanuel stood near the archway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Damon hesitated for half a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking back to me.

  Then he stepped away.

  “I have to go,” he said .

  I stood there longer than I meant to, my skin still humming where his hand had been.

  Willow watched me carefully. Natalie pretended not to.

  He followed Emanuel toward the outer passage, where stone gave way to shadow and the forest pressed close enough that the lantern light thinned.

  I started to move.

  Natalie didn’t.

  She slowed, then stopped entirely, fingers brushing the railing as if steadying herself. Her head tilted, just slightly, the way it did when she was listening to more than sound.

  Willow noticed instantly.

  “Well,” she murmured, almost fondly. “That feels intentional.”

  Voices drifted back to us — not loud, but no longer careful enough.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” Emanuel said. “People are already watching you.”

  “They’ve always watched me,” Damon replied. “That’s not new.”

  “This is different,” Emanuel said. “She’s different.”

  My breath caught.

  Natalie’s lips parted. She didn’t look at me.

  “You’re getting close,” Emanuel continued. “Too close. And she’s a witch, Damon. You know exactly how that will be read.”

  A pause. Longer this time.

  “I don’t care how it’s read,” Damon said. His voice was tight now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I care about what’s real.”

  “What’s real,” Emanuel said carefully, “is that your wolf is turning eighteen this year.”

  Silence stretched, thick and heavy.

  “I know,” Damon said.

  “No,” Emanuel replied. “You don’t. Not like this. Not with everything already strained. Your wolf comes into full dominance. Instinct won’t just sharpen — it’ll demand.”

  Natalie’s fingers curled against the stone.

  “And you think proximity to her is helping?” Emanuel went on. “A witch under constant surveillance. A witch tied to everything the Rumya already distrust.”

  “I can handle it,” Damon said.

  “That’s not an answer,” Emanuel snapped. “That’s defiance.”

  Another pause. When Damon spoke again, his voice was lower.

  “It’s not aggression I’m worried about.”

  Natalie inhaled softly.

  “The ball,” Emanuel said. “It's really on an inconvenient night .” pinching his eyebrows

  Lantern light flickered as someone adjusted a ward nearby. Music faltered, then resumed.

  “The first moon of fall,” Emanuel continued. “Full.”

  “I know what night it is.”

  “And the Sanctum will be packed,” Emanuel said. “Suppression fields stretched thin. Bodies pressed together. Noise. Heat. Desire…you of all people should know how werewolves act on a full moon.”

  The word lingered.

  “You’re asking me to stay away from her,” Damon said flatly.

  “I’m telling you to,” Emanuel replied. “Because if you lose control — even for a moment — they won’t blame the moon. They’ll blame her.”

  The forest swallowed the next few words, but Damon’s reply cut through, sharp and unmistakable.

  “I won’t hurt her.”

  Another silence.

  Emanuel’s voice softened, just slightly. “I know you believe that. I also know belief doesn’t stop instinct.”

  Footsteps shifted. Gravel crunched.

  “Be careful,” Emanuel said at last. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then Damon answered, quieter than before. “I am.”

  The voices moved away.

  Natalie released a breath she’d been holding, shoulders dropping a fraction. Willow’s gaze stayed fixed on the shadows long after the sound was gone.

  “Well,” Willow said softly. “That clears very little.”

  “It clears enough,” Natalie replied whilst relaying everything she heard to her.

  I folded my arms tighter against my chest, heart beating too fast, too hard.

  The Sanctum around us gleamed with preparation — silk banners whispering as they were fastened, lanterns burning brighter than necessary, music threading through the halls like a promise no one had examined too closely.

  A ball.

  A full moon.

  A wolf on the edge of becoming something he could no longer divide from himself.

  And me, standing in the middle of it without ever having agreed to be.

  ??Thank you for reading and Patiently waiting for next chapter.Your thoughts and views are appreciated. ??

  S.B