Chapter 4

　　Olivia's POV

　　Moonlight slithered over the stone floor like a snake. My Lycan spine popped softly as I slipped into Wilmot's study, shadows clinging to me.

　　I flipped the light on—nothing out of place.

　　Neat bookshelves. Scattered documents.

　　Normal. Too normal.

　　Then I spotted the porcelain vase against the wall.

　　Jasmine's "gift" to Wilmot.

　　Always here, always in sight.

　　I approached, lifting it.

　　My heightened senses caught owls flapping wings three halls away—but nothing in this room… until my fingers brushed the wolf-head crest carved into the vase.

　　A thunderclap ripped the air.

　　The sandalwood bookcase split open. Resin lamps flared blue.

　　The hidden chamber reeked of Blackthorn's sacrificial incense—aconite and blood, forbidden and familiar.

　　Inside, walls were choked with portraits.

　　All of Jasmine.

　　Every canvas showed her—standing, sitting, laughing—each dated in wolf-blood in the corner.

　　The earliest dated to the moon festival when I first met Wilmot.

　　The woman's neck bore pale gold veins—the mark of a fully claimed Luna.

　　I met Wilmot when I was fifteen, and I knew he had a gift for painting.

　　After becoming his Luna, I asked him to paint a portrait of Digby and me.

　　He brushed me off, saying he was out of practice.

　　Turns out, it wasn't rustiness—it was refusal.

　　Every stroke on those Jasmine portraits was masterful, alive with a skill he denied me. The raw truth hit harder than any claw—he'd rather preserve her memory in oil and canvas than capture our family in light.

　　I'd thought he buried himself in work.

　　Now I knew—he buried himself in her.

　　As I traced the paintings, a hum rose from the teak chest in the corner.

　　I pried it open. Thirteen wolf-tooth necklaces erupted in bloody light—the same ones the elders gifted Digby on his first birthday, labeled "protection charms."

　　And letters.

　　Dozens of letters, all addressed to "Jasmine only."

　　I trembled as I opened one.

　　The bold script leaped off the page—declarations of Wilmot's love for Jasmine, promises of mornings together and years intertwined.

　　Panicked, I ripped open another.

　　Another love letter. His words for her were as vivid as the blood in my veins.

　　I opened letter after letter, each one a testament to Wilmot's love for Jasmine—passionate and reserved, every word a promise of forever.

　　This chest was a vault of unsent love, his silent homage to a woman who wasn't me.

　　My legs gave out as I sank onto the bed, the truth hitting like a physical blow.

　　Wilmot's love for Jasmine was an ocean, deep and unyielding, while I'd been adrift in a desert of his indifference.

　　He'd never penned a verse for me, claiming his Gamma past left him ill-equipped for poetry.

　　But I knew better—he could paint, could weave words into art. Those talents were never mine to keep.

　　His love was a fire that burned only for her, leaving me in the cold.

　　Five years. Five years of my life, given to a man who loved another.

　　Tears fell silent. My heart ached like a wound.

　　"Mom? What's wrong?" Digby wrapped around my legs.

　　I lifted him, voice raw. "We're leaving Blackthorn, Digby. Want to see the world with me?"

　　"Anywhere you go." He wiped my cheek with a flour-dusted palm.

　　I held him tighter, tears soaking his hair.

　　The truth I'd missed for five years hit me all at once.

　　Today was the Blackthorn Pack assembly.

　　Every year, Blackthorn invited neighboring packs to the square.

　　As their Luna, I had to attend. First, I retrieved a leather-wrapped parcel from the bottom of my trunk.

　　My mother, a voodoo priestess from Louisiana, gifted me a vial of curse potion on my eighteenth birthday.

　　"For when men break hearts," she said.

　　I thought I'd never need it.

　　How wrong I was.

　　I smoothed my expression and stepped outside—straight into Wilmot and Jasmine's conversation.

　　"Feeling better lately?" Wilmot's voice dripped concern.

　　Priscilla coughed delicately. "This body's beyond saving. Sorry I'm such a burden to you both."

　　Wilmot's brow furrowed. "Don't. I found a cure. Just wait—your curse will lift."

　　His "cure" was my son.

　　Rage and grief burned through me. I stepped forward, forcing calm into my voice. "Wilmot. Samuel's looking for you."

　　He snapped out of it. "Excuse me. Right back."