Chapter 6

Fiona's POV

"Well then, Mr. Sterling."

As the clock struck eleven, Caleb glanced at the weather outside.

The rain had stopped. He rose, smoothed down his clothes, and prepared to take his leave.

"Please pass this along to Fiona. I have already explained the cause of today's incident to the university board. Emily wished to obtain a werewolf's power, so she deliberately approached me under the pretext of academic discussion and slipped a hallucinogenic powder into my tea—one capable of clouding a werewolf's mind."

Caleb toyed with the cufflinks on his shirt, an expression of complete assurance on his face.

"I am willing to offer Fiona a sincere apology, and to invite her to accompany me this weekend to the Volkov family's ball. This outfit is something I prepared especially for her."

He nudged the leather case on the floor with his shoe—the one his driver had carried in earlier.

"Not so fast, Professor Thorne."

Arthur's face was stiff as he called after Caleb, who was already headed for the door.

"Surely you don't imagine that you can turn the page on all this simply by concocting some excuse in front of the university board? Do you still think Fiona is the foolish girl from before, the one whose mind hadn't yet awakened? In other words—your apology is not something she is obligated to accept."

Cold as Uncle Arthur was toward me, I had to admit that among the elders in this house, he understood me best.

I had spent an entire month gathering evidence and arranging the equipment—of course it had all been carefully thought through.

What I hadn't anticipated was that the blow I'd dealt Caleb in public, before all those people, seemed nowhere near as fatal as I'd imagined.

Weighed against profit and reputation, sacrificing a student who had thrown herself at her professor out of infatuation was simply the tidiest way to put the gossip to rest.

"I don't care whether she accepts it or not. All I want is for our engagement to continue."

Caleb gave Arthur a look that was both threatening and amused. "Don't forget, Mr. Sterling—whether or not I secure a seat in the Coexistence Council's cabinet directly determines whether our business dealings can go on as they always have. And if you mean to lay lawful claim to the Sterling family fortune, you can't do without the backing of the Thorne Consortium either."

I pressed a hand to my mouth—not out of shock or anger.

It was only that, before I saw that light of naked greed kindle in Arthur's eyes with my own two, I could never have grasped just how laughable I had been.

There had even been a time when I'd hoped he might retain some shred of humanity, some regard for the brotherly bond he'd once shared with my father.

But the truth was, not a single day passed without his scheming over how to seize and repackage what was mine before my family trust took effect.

Pushing me off onto a greedy werewolf opportunist was likely one of the finest methods he could dream up.

A mediocre half-blood, unloved by her husband and unshielded by any kin, trying to truly belong in the rigidly stratified world of werewolves—it was a pipe dream.

He could hardly wait to go and pick out those silver-jade urns to hold my ashes.

And then, with perfect legitimacy, take away the fortune and the estate my father had left behind.

"I can help you persuade Fiona to honor the engagement."

Arthur picked up the cigar he'd earlier extinguished, relit it, and drew a slow breath.

"But I want you to remember one thing, Professor Thorne. This is the only time. You would do well to restrain yourself. This girl who looks so easy to trample has a werewolf's fangs and claws of her own—don't say I never warned you."

"Don't worry, Mr. Sterling. I'll have her turned back into a docile little kitten beneath me."

As he spoke, Caleb actually tilted his head up toward the ceiling.

He narrowed his long, slanted eyes, and his breath spread slowly upward.

That aggressive male aura—the scent of a werewolf apex predator—mingled with the raw tang of rain and a faint trace of blood, pressing down on my senses like a vast, invisible, viscous net, until I could scarcely breathe.

I didn't know whether he had discovered me. In that moment I hardly dared draw a breath.

But I was fortunate—he never met my eyes, and his gaze didn't linger on the ceiling.

He left.

"Father, will Fiona really agree to go through with the engagement?"

Victoria stepped forward and caught hold of Arthur's cane.

"You didn't see the state she was in today. It was as if she'd become an entirely different person. She loathes Caleb—she'd like nothing better than to see him disgraced and ruined, driven out of her world for good. I half suspect she's lost her mind."

I sneered inwardly. It wasn't madness at all. It was only that I no longer loved him.

The Fiona who had once been devoted to him, heart and soul, no longer existed. Only a fool would agree to pretend, alongside that despicable man, that none of it had ever happened.

He could shamelessly heap all the blame onto Emily—so I was supposed to pretend I believed it was all Emily's fault?

That cunning, gutless, shameless coward.

I would give Arthur no further opening to talk me around. First thing in the morning, I would move out of this place.

No—there was no need to wait for morning. I would go now.

My job at the library paid a little over three thousand a month, but it was more than enough to rent a tiny apartment. Or, for the time being, taking shelter in my secret refuge wouldn't be out of the question either.

Outside, the rain had begun again, as if to drown the whole ancient city.

The room was very dark; only when lightning tore across the night sky did it briefly illuminate the open black suitcase in the corner.

I stood before the wardrobe, my movements mechanical and quick.

I grabbed shirts, trousers, sweaters, stuffing them into the case without care, paying no mind to the wrinkles.

Those old clothes—the ones Caleb had once picked apart, calling them unfit for the mistress of the Thorne household—had now become the treasures I most wanted to take with me.

Beyond the everyday things, there were my parents' photographs, my childhood diaries, and—

My fingers brushed a cold, hard object at the back of the drawer, and my heart clenched for a moment.

It was a piece of obsidian carved with the crest of the Arctic Wolf clan, lying quietly in my palm, giving off a cool, shadowed chill.

The year I turned twelve, when I first crossed paths with Alexander in the library's hidden chamber, he had given it to me with his own hand.

"Fiona?"

A muffled sound came from the front door downstairs, followed by the sound of leather shoes on the staircase.

That sound was all too familiar—each step landing as if directly on my nerves.

It was Uncle Arthur.

My heart contracted violently. I held my breath, my hands frozen in midair.

"Fiona, are you asleep? Let me have a look at the cut on your face."

His voice came through the heavy wooden door, carrying an air of pressure that brooked no refusal—yet deliberately hushed, as though he were suppressing something.

I looked at the nearly full suitcase and gritted my teeth. There was no time.

If he found out I was running, then knowing his nature, he would place me under house arrest without a doubt.