The ink smudges on my fingers match the ones on the parchment, which means I've been at this for five hours without noticing. Again.
I lean back in my chair and it groans in protest, the sound echoing through the Archives in a way that makes me acutely aware of how alone I am down here. Sunlight filters through the high windows, dust motes dancing in the beams like tiny spirits. My stomach reminds me that I skipped lunch, but the genealogy chart spread across my desk is almost complete, and I'm not about to stop now when I'm this close to tracing the Blackwood line back to the founding packs.
"Mom, you said you'd only be an hour."
I jump, pressing a hand to my chest as I spin around. Lyric stands in the doorway, her backpack still slung over one shoulder, those enormous amber eyes—so much like mine—fixed on me with an expression that's far too knowing for a seven-year-old.
"I did say that, didn't I?" I glance at the antique clock on the wall. Three-fifteen. School let out over an hour ago. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I just got caught up in the Blackwood records and—"
"You always get caught up." She doesn't sound angry, just resigned, which somehow makes it worse. She drops her backpack by the door and weaves through the stacks of books and manuscripts toward my desk with the careful precision of someone who's learned not to disturb anything. "Mrs. Chen says when people lose track of time, it means they're doing what they love."
"Mrs. Chen is a wise woman." I pull her into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her curly head. She smells like playground mulch and the apple slices I packed in her lunch. "How was school?"
"Fine." She wriggles out of my embrace to peer at the genealogy chart. Her finger traces one of the bloodlines, moving with an odd certainty. "This one's wrong. The mate bond didn't form between these two—it was his brother."
I blink down at the chart, then at my daughter. "How do you..."
But I trail off because she's right. I cross-reference with the Chronicle entry I've been working from, and there it is—a smudged notation I misread. Marcus Blackwood, not Malcolm. I make the correction, trying to ignore the prickle of unease at the base of my skull.
"You're getting scary good at this," I say, keeping my tone light.
"I can see the threads." She says it matter-of-factly, the way another child might announce they can see clouds in the sky. "They connect people. The ones who are supposed to be together have gold threads, and they're all tangled up and beautiful."
The unease intensifies into something sharper. We've been through this before—Lyric's stories about threads connecting people, about colors and patterns only she can see. The pack healer, Dr. Wen, assured me it's just an overactive imagination, that some children are more sensitive to pack bonds than others. She'll grow out of it.
"That's lovely, sweetheart." I start gathering my notes, stacking them with practiced efficiency. "Why don't you grab your homework and work on it here while I finish up? Then we'll head home and make that pasta you like."
"The kind with the cream sauce?"
"The very same."
She brightens, retrieving her backpack, and I try to shake off the strange feeling her words always leave me with. It's not the first time she's mentioned the threads. It won't be the last. Dr. Wen said imagination. That's all it is.
Lyric settles at the small reading table I keep in the corner, pulling out her math homework with a sigh that would be comical if it weren't so weary. She's always been an old soul, my daughter. Sometimes when I look at her, I get this fleeting impression that she's the adult and I'm the child, that she's indulging me rather than the other way around.
I turn back to my work, but my concentration has shattered. Instead, I find myself staring at the Chronicles stacked on the shelf to my right—ancient leather-bound volumes that contain the complete history of the Silverpine Pack and several neighboring territories. Eight centuries of births, deaths, matings, challenges, treaties, and wars. All meticulously recorded, preserved, and maintained by the pack historian.
By me.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone actually appreciates what I do down here. The pack sees me as Cade's mate, the Alpha's somewhat bookish partner who spends too much time with dusty records. They're polite, of course. They smile and nod when I pass. But I've never quite fit into their world of pack runs and territorial disputes and political maneuvering.
The Archives are my world. Down here, I matter. Down here, I'm not just an accessory to someone else's power.
The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, and heavy footsteps descend. I know those footsteps. I've been hearing them for six years.
Cade appears, ducking slightly to clear the doorframe because the Archives were built long before Alphas were quite so tall. He's in his usual uniform of dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he's built like he was carved from granite. His ice-blue eyes sweep the room, cataloging everything in seconds, before landing on me.
"Still working." It's not a question.
"Just finishing up." I gesture at the genealogy chart. "The Blackwoods have been requesting an updated lineage record for their archives, and I wanted to make sure it was accurate before I sent it over."
"The Blackwoods can wait." He moves closer, and I catch his scent—pine and smoke and something undeniably Alpha. It should make my wolf preen, should trigger that instinctive response that comes with a mate bond. Instead, I just feel tired. "The council meeting starts in thirty minutes. You need to be there."
I frown, scanning my mental calendar. "There's no council meeting on my schedule."
"Marcus called an emergency session." Cade's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Something about territorial disputes with the Shadowbrook Pack. He wants all ranking members present, which includes you as the pack historian and my mate."
The way he says "my mate" sounds less like a term of endearment and more like a job title. I push down the sting of it and nod, already reaching for my blazer draped over the chair.
"Daddy!" Lyric launches herself at him, and for a moment, his entire demeanor shifts. His expression softens as he catches her, swinging her up with an ease that makes her shriek with laughter.
"There's my girl." He presses a kiss to her forehead. "How's my favorite troublemaker?"
"I'm not trouble. Mrs. Chen says I'm a model student."
"Mrs. Chen doesn't know you like I do." But he's smiling, and it's genuine, and for a brief moment I remember why I fell for him in the first place. He loves our daughter with a fierceness that matches my own. That, at least, has never been in question.
What is in question is everything else.
"Can I stay with Mom while you're in the meeting?" Lyric asks, still clinging to his neck.
"The meeting might run late." Cade glances at me, and the warmth from moments ago has already cooled. "Thea, can you drop her at Sera's on the way?"
"Of course." I'm already texting my best friend, who responds almost immediately with a thumbs up and a string of wine glass emojis. Sera's always been better at this—the casual pack socializing, the easy friendships, the sense of belonging. She'll make sure Lyric has dinner and entertainment while I sit through what will undoubtedly be several hours of territorial posturing.
Cade sets Lyric down, ruffling her hair. "Be good for Auntie Sera."
"I'm always good."
"That's what worries me." He straightens, and just like that, he's Alpha again. All business, no warmth. "We need to leave now if we're going to make it on time."
I gather my things, shoving my notes into my worn leather satchel. As I move toward the door, I pause, glancing back at the Archives. The afternoon light has shifted, casting long shadows across the shelves. For just a moment—barely a heartbeat—I see something else. A flicker of orange and red where there should only be dust and books. I smell smoke.
Then I blink and it's gone.
"Thea?" Cade's voice is sharp with impatience.
"Coming." I shake my head, attributing the flash to eye strain. I've been staring at parchment for too long. That's all.
But as I climb the stairs behind Cade, with Lyric's small hand warm in mine, I can't shake the feeling that I've seen those flames before. That I've stood in this exact spot, watching the Archives burn, while my world crumbled around me.
Which is impossible.
Isn't it?