Chapter Eighty-Five: The Den of Wolves
The revelation settled over me like a shroud, heavy and cold. Lyanna's ghost, her stolen life, the blood feud… it wasn't just Rowan's history. It was mine. My bloodline had planted the seed of this hatred. My father, my brother—they weren't just ambitious politicians; they were architects of a young woman's murder.
The need to see them, to look into the eyes of the men who had orchestrated such evil and then dared to call my child an abomination, became a physical ache, sharper than any lingering headache. I had to confront the source of the poison.
Planning it was simple. Too simple. After the emotional storm in the living room, I pleaded exhaustion. "My head… it's splitting," I whispered to Sophia, leaning heavily on her. "I just need to lie down in the dark."
She and Aurora fussed, tucking me into the bed in the master suite, drawing the curtains. I waited, counting the slow ticks of the ornate clock on the mantel, until the house settled into a watchful quiet. Then I moved.
I dressed not for battle, but for invisibility—dark jeans, a simple black sweater, my hair tucked under a knit cap. I used the knowledge Leo had once given me, a casual kindness that now felt like providence: the old garden entrance, hidden by overgrown wisteria, its lock disengaged from the inside.
The night air was a slap, crisp and clean after the suffocating warmth of the house. I didn't take a car. I walked, a ghost moving through familiar, affluent streets, my footsteps silent on the pavement. The Grace mansion loomed ahead, not a home, but a mausoleum of power.
I let myself in through the side veranda, the code unchanged. The house was silent, smelling of lemon wax and quiet decay. I found them in my father's study, as I knew I would. Marcus Grace behind his vast desk, Lucas standing by the fireplace, a crystal glass in hand. They were reviewing a portfolio, their conversation low and satisfied. Two wolves surveying their territory.
They looked up as I entered. Shock, then a swift, chilling calculation smoothed their features.
"Aira," my father said, his voice a practiced blend of warmth and reproach. "What a surprise. We heard you were… unwell. You shouldn't be out."
"I needed to see you," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. I didn't move from the doorway. "I needed to look at you both, knowing what I know now."
Lucas set his glass down with a soft click. "And what is it you think you know, little sister? More of your husband's tragic fairy tales?"
"Lyanna Royce," I said.
The name fell into the room like a stone into a still pond. My father's eyes narrowed. Lucas's jaw tightened, but a cynical smile touched his lips. "Ah. The dead girl. Rowan's convenient ghost. He's using her to manipulate you, Aira. To turn you against your own family."
"He didn't have to turn me," I whispered, the fury beginning to simmer in my veins. "You did that. I saw it. I saw the blood on his hands tonight. But I understand now whose blood it's meant to wash away. It's yours."
Lucas sighed, a sound of exaggerated patience. "This is the problem with sentiment. It clouds judgment. We are at war, Aira. Have been for years. Casualties are… regrettable, but necessary. She was a casualty."
"'It,'" I repeated, the word tasting like ash. "You mean your child. Your own flesh and blood. A 'casualty' of your ambition."
For a flicker of a second, something ugly and raw flashed in Lucas's eyes. Guilt, quickly smothered by rage. "Don't speak of things you don't understand."
"I understand that you're a murderer," I said, my voice rising. "And a coward. You didn't face Charles Royce in business. You seduced and murdered his daughter."
"Enough!" Marcus Grace's voice cracked like a whip. He stood, his presence meant to dominate. "This hysterical nonsense ends now. You have been led astray, Aira. Brainwashed by that criminal and his family. But we can still fix this. We can salvage you."
He stepped out from behind the desk, his gaze dropping pointedly to my stomach. "This… thing you're carrying," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, revolting smoothness. "It's an abomination. A mix of our blood and that criminal's. It's a living symbol of our failure to protect you. We can make it quick, painless. You can go abroad after. Rest. We'll say you had a miscarriage from the stress. A tragic end to a tragic chapter."
The cold, clinical horror of his offer froze the air in my lungs. They weren't denying their sins; they were offering me a chance to commit a new one. To become like them.
I didn't move. I looked from my father's ruthlessly rational face to my brother's impatient, guilt-ridden one. "You did that to her, didn't you?" I asked Lucas, my voice eerily calm. "To Lyanna. The same offer? A quick, quiet end?"
His smile vanished. "Don't speak that name in this house."
"Why?" I took a step forward, the fear completely gone, burned away by a clarifying, righteous fire. "Does it haunt you? Do you see her when you close your eyes? Do you hear the gunshots?" My voice was steady, each word a hammer blow. "You didn't just kill her, Lucas. You murdered your own child. For what? A seat at our father's table? For a bigger slice of power?"
"It was a necessary sacrifice!" he snapped, his composure finally shattering. He took a furious step toward me. "She was a liability! A loose end! And you…" he hissed, pointing a shaking finger at me, "you've become the biggest one of all. Now, we are going to the procedure room. Dr. Evans is waiting. You will walk, or you will be carried."
He moved to grab my arm.
I didn't flinch. I yanked my arm back and stood my ground, my hand flying protectively to my stomach. The fear was gone. In its place was a ferocity I didn't know I possessed.
"I will never," I said, the words ringing clear and final in the tomb-like study, "do the same sin. I am not you, Lucas! This child is not an 'it.' This is not an 'abomination.' This child belongs to the Royces. It has Rowan's blood. It has Charles Royce's blood. It has my love." I met my father's stony gaze, then Lucas's livid one. "And I will never, ever, let you harm it."
For a moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing. I had drawn a line. I had declared my allegiance. Not to the house of Grace, but to the life inside me, and to the damaged, dangerous family I had married into.
Lucas's face twisted into a mask of pure fury. "You foolish girl," he spat. "You've chosen your side. You'll regret it."
He lunged for me.
But I was already moving, fueled by adrenaline and maternal instinct. I sidestepped his grasp, my shoulder slamming into the heavy oak door to wedge it open, and I ran. Not in blind panic, but with a single, desperate goal: to get back to the only place that now offered sanctuary.
Back to the lions' den. Back to Rowan.