Silas's POV
"Silas."
The voice was smooth. Confident. A king welcoming his heir home from war.
Only he was no king.
And I was no heir.
I turned toward him slowly, letting my eyes sweep the man I once called Father.
Damon Duskbane stood tall in ceremonial black, a silver crest pinned to his chest, his hand resting lazily on the carved rail like he ruled the fucking world.
Which, in a way, he did.
Alpha of Crimson Claw. Head of the Duskbane bloodline. My father.
And the man who fucked my mate.
How comical, I struggle not to chuckle.
I stopped three paces away.
We stared at each other.
The air was tight.
Heavy.
"You look older," I said coolly.
"You look alive." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's a surprise."
"Most things about me are."
A flicker passed through his face—something unreadable. But it vanished beneath the usual steel.
"You disappeared without word, without permission. For five years."
"I left to end a war your council refused to acknowledge."
"You disobeyed your Alpha."
I tilted my head. "Didn't realize I still had one."
A pause.
"Still sharp," Damon said. "But reckless. Just like your mother."
The silence turned deadly.
Don't say her name.
He knew what he was doing. Poking at old wounds. Testing how much blood still leaked through the cracks.
I stared at him, jaw tight. "Don't compare me to the woman you ignored until the day she collapsed from exhaustion."
Damon's mouth thinned. But I didn't stop.
"She waited for you. Every night. While you buried yourself in council meetings and other women."
"I was leading a pack."
"You were avoiding a wife," I snapped. "And a son. And a little girl who cried herself to sleep when you missed her fifth blood rite."
His eyes hardened. The mask slipped, just a crack.
"You know nothing about what it takes to rule," he said.
"I know what it takes to bleed. I know what it costs to lose men screaming your name in the dark while you wonder if anyone at home even remembers why they left."
Silence again.
Thicker this time.
He stepped closer. "You're still my blood, Silas. Whether you like it or not."
"And yet you treat me like an inconvenience."
He didn't blink. "Not an inconvenience. A threat."
I smiled. Cold. Slow.
"You should feel threatened."
Before he could answer—before I could step forward and say something I wouldn't be able to take back—
A door opened.
"Well, isn't this cozy," came a voice too smooth to belong to anyone but my aunt.
Lady Varya Duskbane. Damon's younger sister. Dressed in dark green silk and laced in gossip.
Her husband, Lord Emeric, followed with practiced grace and a smile just a little too polished. Their daughter—Delilah—walked behind them, her eyes already scanning me like I was the main course.
"A family reunion!" Varya beamed. "Don't let us interrupt your glaring contest. I assume we missed the part where someone threw a chair?"
"Not yet," I said flatly.
Emeric chuckled. "You must be tired, Silas. A long journey?"
I didn't respond.
Delilah stepped forward, hand to her chest like she was winded by my existence. "I didn't believe the rumors," she said, voice syrupy sweet. "But you're even more... intense than they said."
Her gaze lingered too long. I ignored her.
Varya waved a hand. "Oh, stop it, darling. You're going to make your cousin feel shy."
"He's not shy," Damon said, his voice suddenly easy again. "He's calculating."
My jaw flexed.
The tension didn't break.
It just put on a polite smile.
I hadn't thought about them in months.
But the moment Damon looked at me with that same condescending smirk—the one he always wore when he thought silence was power—I felt her.
My mother.
Not the Luna.
Not the polished figure beside him in old family portraits.
The real her.
The woman I used to find curled on the floor by the fireplace, a bottle of darkberry wine in her hand, lips stained the color of bruises.
She used to hum when she drank.
Low and soft. Like a lullaby no one taught her.
"He's just busy, Silas."
"Your father has important duties."
Always the same excuses. Like repetition would make them true.
I used to sit beside her with a blanket draped over her legs. Sometimes, she would cry without realizing. Her fingers would twitch like they were reaching for something in a dream.
"Tell Mira to stop coughing so loud," she'd whisper, eyes glassy. "I don't want him to be annoyed."
My little sister.
Born too small. Too quiet.
The healers said she'd never shift properly. That her wolf was "delicate."
She used to ask me to sing to her when the pain got bad. Said my voice kept the dark things away.
I was twelve the first time I caught Damon walking out the back door instead of entering the infirmary where Mira lay screaming through a lung seizure.
He didn't even look back.
Didn't ask how she was.
Didn't ask if she made it through the night.
He never came home for her blood rites. Missed her first fever shift. Forgot her twelfth moon blessing until Varya reminded him.
But he always showed up to council.
Always stood tall at pack ceremonies.
Alpha first.
Father never.
I swore I'd never be like him.
And yet here I was—staring at the man who wore my name, my title, and now… her.
Raine.
The only good thing I ever had.
And now she belonged to him.
Just like everything else.
"""
Third-Person POV
---
The memory faded as fast as it came, swallowed by the scent of polished wood, citrus oil, and the faint tinge of power in the air.
Silas blinked once. Nothing in his expression betrayed what he was remembering.
But his jaw… it clenched just slightly tighter.
That was when Delilah moved closer.
Too close.
She stood beside him like she belonged there, her arm brushing his casually as if it were an accident. Her smile was syrupy, but her eyes were calculating—searching for a crack in the mask he wore like armor.
"You must be exhausted," she said, tilting her head, her voice a near whisper. "Or maybe... just tense. I hear time flows differently in other realms. Maybe you need something soft to remind you where you are."
Her hand had the audacity to graze his sleeve.
Silas didn't move. Didn't look at her. He just inhaled once—sharply—and let silence answer for him.
Tension sparked like flint in the space between them.
Then, mercifully, it broke.
A throat cleared, loud enough to command attention.
"My lord Silas," came the calm, neutral voice of the Head of Staff, a man with silver at his temples and nerves made of iron. "May I escort you to your quarters? Your arrival was earlier than anticipated, but we've had your room prepared. Your assistant will handle your travel bags."
The man's gaze didn't linger long enough to be disrespectful, but it was just firm enough to cut through the unfolding drama with practiced ease.
Silas nodded once.
"Lead the way."
As he turned to follow, his steps slow and measured, the Head of Staff gestured for the rest of the family. "The dining hall is ready. Alpha Damon...Lord Emeric, Lady Varya, Lady Delilah… this way, please."
Delilah lingered a moment too long before turning with a pout, falling back beside her mother.
They moved through the marble corridors in tight silence, the sound of expensive heels and polished boots echoing down the gilded halls.
That's when Varya spoke.
Of course she did.
"Where is the Luna?" she asked, her voice cool and scornful. "Not greeting her husband's son after five years away? It hardly reflects well on our leadership when the Luna cannot manage her most basic duties."
Her words sliced through the air like a scalpel, delicate and deliberate.
Silas didn't react.
But Damon… he did.
His voice dropped low. Velvet wrapped around iron.
"She will be at the dinner."
Just seven words.
But it was enough to make Varya go silent.
Even Emeric glanced sideways, wisely deciding not to press.
Silas didn't look back.
But behind his unreadable gaze, something shifted.
She would be at the dinner.
And that meant the real game was just beginning.