Chapter 2

He sets the plate in front of the mother and raises the lid as she reclines. A human heart that is covered with blood clots lies on a bed of lettuce. Mom exhales with joy and gives a gentle handclap of thanks. Hudson, bravo. Where do you keep finding these exquisite, tiny morsels?

The phrase "a trade secret, ma'am" He gets the other plate and places it in front of the father before lifting the dome to show him almost the same dinner. My father murmurs a thank you, and my parents pick up their cutlery and tuck in, forgetting about the traditional breakfast.

I've witnessed this sight several times throughout my life, before every religious ritual and full moon. But after five years of coexisting with people, I have a slightly more intimate perspective on the organs.

i.e., they once existed as people.

Either I keep my disdain to myself or my mother doesn't notice. She nods towards my plate as she slices a piece of the heart in front of her. "Well. Eat up. The day is busy for us.

I suffocate on my croissant. My fear of the ball and the prospect of seeing Ashton once more are much more difficult to swallow.

Although there are many impressive homes in Toronto, Aconitum Hall stands out among the others. The city has creeped up to the mansion's tower walls and tiered gardens, maintaining it as a fairytale castle out of time because it was built long before skyscrapers and urban planning. And it has served as the primary residence of our pack leader ever since the first stone was laid in the foundation.

Buckingham Palace, but with a lot of werewolves inside.

However, it doesn't resemble the Queen's home at all. I only know this from taking the tour of Aconitum Hall multiple times during field trips to school, but it was constructed in an early Gothic revival style. At first glance, one might think it was a cathedral. There are numerous gargoyles and spires on the roofs of some of the conical towers. As we pull beneath the porte cohere, two of them sneer down at us from the sunroof of the automobile.

"First, the king welcomes us. Dinner will be served once everyone has arrived," Mother reiterates for me, as if I somehow forgot on the way. " Dancing and socialising will follow. Don't forget to talk to at least one person from each family.

They are aware that our disobedient daughter has done it once more. She doesn't have to elaborate on that point.

A valet unlocks the back door as the car comes to a stop. Mother and Father, who rode in the chairs across from me, exit before I can get myself out, a little dizzy from the backward-facing ride. We ascend the stairs on a majestic red carpet and enter the spacious foyer's bright golden light.

As we enter, a valet calls out, "Your wraps, ma'am, miss?" Father shrugs out of his stylish wool coat as Mother and I offer him our furs, and he tucks the coat-check slip into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. It's still January in Toronto, and although werewolves can withstand the cold better than humans can, the breeze from the open doors behind us makes my neck shiver.

My ash blonde hair is in a loose, romantic updo that looks dishevelled and free yet remains completely motionless no matter how much I might toss my head, thanks to Mother's stylist JoOrion. My lovely locks are surrounded by a delicate halo of spun silver wire adorned with sparkling white diamonds, which matches the rhinestone clusters at the hem of my grey tulle overskirt. The silver silk layer behind the diamonds sparkles like the moon's surface as they rise and fall like fading constellations.

This is definitely not a party I want to attend, and neither is the outfit or hairstyle that I would have chosen.

Mother nudges me forward to join the queue of partygoers waiting to be announced in the throne room, whispering, "Come along," with a tight smile.

My feet are already being chafed by my strappy silver heels. Where the blisters will be in the morning is something I can foresee. If I don't trip on the marble floor and crack my skull open, that is.

Why don't we wait for Tara and Clare? I ask. When my father has sworn us to the pack in the past, we have all been present.

My father feels uneasy about the inquiry; he appears to be about to touch my forehead to make sure I'm not sick. Emily, Tara, and Clare are married. They have families of their own. They'll make a declaration alongside their friends.

Oh, I see. I am aware that they were married because I regrettably missed their post-mating ceremony receptions when I departed, but I still find it difficult to accept the fact that my sisters are now adults.

Mother spots her opportunity and pounces to finish the job. And you'll repeat the action the following year, if the gods will it.

if the fates are on your side. She doesn't care if I'm willing or not.

I ignored what she said. "I am looking forward to seeing Tara and Clare and, at last, meeting their partners.

I only know what I could gather from a few quick phone calls about them. While I was gone in the mortal world, my family wasn't allowed to hear from me, but my sisters and I have always broken the rules. Josh, Tara's husband, attended our school and now runs a social media business worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Ashton planned to be a partner at my father's company when he picked me as his future wife, and Clare's match, Julian, is one today. When I departed, I wondered whether Father had offered him a job as a reward.

We're not close enough for me to see the names of the families as they enter the royal room, but I can hear the majordomo's drone proclaiming their names. The atmosphere in the lobby is upbeat and welcoming. I look down the queue as the parents converse with the pair behind them.

Five years have passed since we last saw each other, and a lot has changed.

When it is our turn, we move past the massive black marble pillars and stop in front of the massive glass and steel chandelier that is shaped like the moon in all her phases.

The man's voice booms, "Thomas Dixon the Third, his mate, Vivianne Harcourt-Dixon, and his daughter, Emily blackwood." Another indication that the world I left behind has changed since my departure is the fact that this majordomo is different from the one who had previously held the job for my whole life.

The man seated at the dais is the same.

I recall king Arthur as a broad-shouldered sloucher with a neatly trimmed beard and a small paunch, looking like a costumed dragon from How to Train Your Dragon.

We approach a man, but he is not king Arthur. Whoever this man is, he stands tall and straight. This man appears to have invented the tuxedo based on the way he dresses. I'm unable to take my eyes off of his razor-sharp jawline or his intensely grey eyes, which fixate on mine. His short, black hair is parted on the side and has a little silver sheen.