LUCY
I find solace in the tree house, in the Alpha's compound—the one my father built for me when I was six, after I pestered him endlessly until he finally relented.
It's late, nearing eleven, and I'm sure no one sees me slip into the compound, weaving around to the backyard where the tree house stands, nestled beneath the great oak.
I climb the familiar rungs, my hands automatically finding the worn wood polished smooth by years of use, and settle inside the small sanctuary of blankets and colorful throw pillows.
But Doyle's scent is here. It's everywhere.
Gods. It's taunting.
Suddenly this place, my safe haven, feels like a cruel joke.
Here he took my virginity.
Here he whispered that I was the sun; that his world revolved around me; that he lived for me; that he would make me happy until my last breath.
Is this it?
This happiness he promised? This forever after?
I collapse onto the soft bed of our shared memories, clutching the sheets to my chest, inhaling his scent, weeping until my body shakes.
Doyle.
Doyle.
Doyle.
I scream his name in my mind, over and over, as if repeating it can bring him back. As if saying it enough times can somehow undo what I just heard.
Doyle and Mina.
Gods.
I have known both since childhood.
We grew up together. We were the three musketeers. Inseparable.
And they betray me like this.
Why?
When did our friendship twist into a game of thrones?
When did politics enter it? When did cruelty?
When did the shift happen? And why haven't I noticed?
I press my face into the sheets that still smell of him, weeping until my chest hurts, until the air trembles out of me in ragged, uneven breaths.
How can Mina do this to me? We are sisters in every sense but blood.
We played in this very tree house. We shared secrets in this very place. We laughed here. Dreamed here.
And they burn my trust to ash.
Burn me, without remorse. Without care.
Are they true mates then?
Even though Mina is only the healer's daughter, she is easily the strongest werewolf on our side of the realm.
Is that why Doyle chose her? A power-couple fantasy?
Yet… Did they have to deal the cards this way?
Of course, I muse bitterly, letting the bedsheets fall. They want the throne.
They want my throne. My birthright.
Well… They will never have it.
Hot tears scorch my cheeks as I push to my feet, surveying the tree house I love as dearly as anything.
They will never have the throne.
Never.
I will make sure of it.
Then I laugh.
Not because anything is funny.
But because something ugly and ancient rises within me.
The formidable fury of the Drakonia blood.
Mina called me a proud princess, right?
Well, I am.
I am all that and more.
And this proud princess will not bow to two fools.
No. Drakonias do not kneel. My father raised me better than that.
But I sag against the wall just as quickly as the memories surge again.
And before I know it, I am sliding to the ground, weeping anew, even though my anger hums beneath my skin like a living thing.
"I'm sorry," I mutter again and again to the baby in my womb.
"I'm sorry for not giving you a responsible father."
"I'm sorry."
Fresh tears spill down my face.
But no more of those mistakes, I surmise a moment later. Then I wipe my tears away.
No more tears for those two either.
You have cried enough. I tell myself firmly. Enough. No more.
They are not worth it!
I might be wolfless. But I am not evil.
Those two are.
In my dictionary, they rank worse than me. And that says everything. So I have to let go.
Hand pressed to my belly, I stand weakly and survey the room.
The fairy lights hanging around the walls. The little bookshelf filled with novels. The bright curtains Mother had chosen.
The photographs. The colorful cushions. The tiny refrigerator. The knitted blanket Doyle once wrapped around me during winter.
Cozy. Warm. Home.
And I conclude that the first act of letting go will be the damning of this house.
It hurts.
Gods, it hurts.
But I will not falter.
"Goodbye," I whisper, stepping away.
Down the rungs I go, each step fueled by righteous wrath.
I storm into the shed, seize a can of fuel, and return to the tree house.
Flames will claim this place. Everything inside. Everything.
I pour it over the wood. Over the bed. Over the walls. Over the memories. Over the ghosts of lies.
I take nothing.
Not the pictures. Not the souvenirs. Not the gifts. Nothing.
I want to burn it all.
When the can empties, I stare around the tree house one last time.
Memories flash before my eyes.
Six-year-old me begging Father for it.
Mother helping to decorate it.
Doyle kissing me.
Mina laughing.
"I am sorry," I whisper to the walls, a tear slipping free.
Then I hurry down.
I light the lighter and throw it inside.
The fire catches before I can blink.
Orange flames roar upward.
And somehow, watching them devour everything feels like watching my old life burn.
It doesn't take a minute before chaos erupts.
Maids and guards rush out, shouting.
"Princess, are you okay?" one asks, eyes darting between me and the burning tree.
Before I can respond, my parents come running.
I'm not sure how they hear so quickly. Maybe one of the guards mindlinked them.
"Lucy! Lucy, are you okay?" my mother cries, holding my cheeks, her eyes glassy with tears.
She must think I've been inside.
"Where is Doyle?"
Of course. Doyle.
After all, she knows how much I prepared for tonight. My second anniversary with that whore.
"Mum, it's okay… it's just fire. An accident. I'm just glad I escaped before it caught me."
I ignore her other question. Fortunately, she doesn't press.
Instead, she pulls me into an embrace, relief trembling through her breath.
I catch my father's gaze over her shoulder.
"Dad, can you call the meeting at the Sacred Grounds…"
Confusion flashes across his face, even as a smile tugs at his lips.
He must be wondering why the beloved tree house burns while I am announcing my marriage to Doyle.
Still, he closes the distance and presses a kiss to my forehead.
"You are finally ready?"
I nod. "Yes, Father."
"Good. But you need a few days. Preparations must be made. Food, invitations…"
I shake my head. "I want it tomorrow evening. Is that okay?"
He smiles, amused. "Can't wait, huh? Alright then… consider it done."
Then he chuckles. "Where is Doyle? I want to congratulate him."
Pain slices through me. But I smile.
"You can do that tomorrow, Dad…" I murmur past the ache, slipping my arm through his, then my mother's, guiding them toward the mansion.
They can congratulate Doyle tomorrow, when I set him free forever.