Faye's POV
"Sister, you appear unwell. Is everything fine?"
Sally's voice drifted through the doorway, sweet as spun sugar.
Yet now I could detect the venom beneath that sweetness.
My body went rigid. I raised my gaze to meet hers, studying features that had once been my beacon of hope during lonely childhood nights. She remained flawless, naturally. Raven hair flowed across her shoulders, chocolate eyes brimming with apparent worry. She resembled everything safe and familiar.
Now I recognized the truth.
"Sleep eluded me," I murmured, dropping my stare. "Nightmares plagued me. Dreams of Lord Hardy."
Her palm settled softly against my shoulder. "Quiet now," she breathed. "These walls listen to everything. The strain has overwhelmed you, I see that. But speaking such thoughts carelessly could prove dangerous, particularly once you reach the northern territories."
Strain?
I clenched my teeth. Strain hardly captured what consumed me. Strain described the humiliation I endured when my wolf never emerged. This feeling ran deeper, darker.
Following the previous evening's revelation, after witnessing my own mother reward Sally for her treachery from that balcony, nothing remained within me to compress. I had become an empty shell.
Hardy remained silent after the incident. He simply delivered me to my cramped attic quarters, drenched from the tempest, then disappeared without ceremony. No mockery. No intimidation. Not even acknowledgment. His departure stung less than Sally's current facade of sisterly affection.
I trailed behind Sally through the hallway, pretending ignorance. Step by measured step.
Strangely, numbness had settled over me completely.
How could anyone embody such innocence while harboring such malice? Perhaps my naivety had blinded me to reality. Perhaps I foolishly believed that even wolfless daughters deserved affection.
"I drew you a bath," Sally announced, as though bestowing charity. I responded with a silent nod, allowing her guidance into the chamber.
The basin overflowed with cream and flower petals. Lavender, rose, violet. My cherished scents, which Sally remembered perfectly.
Steam rose gently in the flickering candlelight. The scene resembled preparations for royalty. Or perhaps a sacrificial offering.
I undressed wordlessly and descended into the warmth. Heat penetrated my flesh but failed to reach deeper.
Sally positioned herself nearby, humming softly while recounting childhood memories I barely absorbed. Tales of stolen pastries from kitchen raids. Nights when I sought comfort in her bed during thunderstorms.
Those evenings lingered in my memory. Her embrace shielding me from nature's fury. The afternoon she surrendered her shawl after I injured my knee.
Her endearment of "little mouse" when sleep refused to come.
Once, I believed those moments held meaning.
Now uncertainty clouded everything.
Deception. Every interaction. Or perhaps partial truths weaponized against me. How merciless.
After we toweled dry, she escorted me to her wardrobe. "Select whichever gown appeals to you," she offered, throwing the doors wide. "This evening marks your formal presentation. Lord Hardy arrives to claim his intended."
Claim his intended. Hours ago, those words might have stirred some emotion, fear perhaps. Currently? Emptiness consumed me. Not after overhearing last night's conversation.
She extracted a dress without awaiting my choice. Burgundy fabric. Dark as fresh blood. The color would drain my complexion, rendering me ghostly. The ideal victim.
"This selection," she declared with gentle warmth. "The shade will enhance your azure eyes."
Another wordless nod followed. Perpetually silent, as expected.
Curiosity struck me then. When had I transformed into this mute creature?
Laughter once came easily. Questions flowed freely. Dreams filled my thoughts.
Perhaps years of torment had silenced me. The ridicule. The isolation.
Days spent dining beside kitchen doors because my missing wolf marked me as unworthy. Perhaps Father's indifference contributed. Mother's glacial responses. Or maybe Sally herself, my former source of light, gradually dimming into darkness.
Piece by piece, I vanished. Joy faded from my gaze. Smiles abandoned my lips. I became their desired creation. Compliant and insignificant.
Simple to manipulate. Simple to discard.
Sally summoned her personal attendant with sharp claps. "Style her hair. Perfection is required."
The servant worked swiftly, pulling and braiding, incorporating baby's breath, pale roses, and silver threads. I submitted to their ministrations like an inanimate doll.
Sally captured my hands, thumbs caressing my knuckles. "Promise you'll maintain correspondence," she whispered. "I need assurance of your safety, your warmth, your wellbeing."
I stared at her face.
"Northern territories are brutally cold," she continued. "So I've packed extensively beyond mere coats. The thick fur-lined jacket Father once wore, two of Mother's wraps, even that attic quilt you used to pilfer from my chambers."
My breathing faltered.
"Wool stockings are included. Those mittens with velvet interior. Additional blankets for drafty castle halls."
Each mentioned item carved deeper wounds. Was guilt driving these gestures?
Her fingers brushed loose hair behind my ear. "Care for yourself, Faye. When others fail to do so, you must. Do you comprehend?"
I nodded and manufactured another smile.
"Should your letters cease, I'll dispatch Father for visits," Sally warned playfully. "I'm completely serious. You're my sole sister. Letters describing the snow are mandatory."
My gaze searched her features. Truly examined them. Momentarily, I wanted to accept her sincerity. That perhaps she hadn't intended harm. Perhaps pack loyalty motivated her actions. Perhaps she genuinely believed marriage to the Dread Lord would bring devastation.
That deception represented mercy.
Perhaps she expected my understanding.
Yet if truth guided her actions, why did her smile feel like disembowelment?
I heard her voice clearly last night. Her laughter echoed in my memory.
Understanding crystallized. All those whispered secrets beneath blankets, corridor jokes, bread rolls passed secretly at meals meant nothing.
Not when choosing between my welfare and her future.
So this was betrayal by beloved family.
"Self-sufficiency comes naturally to me," I replied softly, forcing brightness. "Worry is unnecessary." I had revealed my cursed abilities to the Dread Lord. His response exposed my family's true nature. That revelation carried significance. "Correspondence will continue."
Relief washed over her features. As though I had simplified her burden.
"Tears threaten to fall," she observed, touching my cheek delicately. "Cosmetics will smear."
I nodded again.
Then came the summons.
A different maid entered, speaking briskly. "Lord Hardy has arrived."
I remained motionless, studying my reflection. My complexion appeared almost transparent, lips painted deliberate crimson, hair secured perfectly beneath pearl ornaments.
Peripherally, I caught it. Relief flickering across Sally's expression.
She draped her personal necklace around my throat, the piece she wore during court functions. "Such beauty," she whispered. "His attention will be captivated."
Inward sneering followed. That man had attempted my destruction mere hours earlier. A beast, nothing more.
He was a monster cloaked in devastating handsomeness and power wielded like a weapon. My only desire now was invisibility. Remaining small and unnoticed. Beyond his deadly focus.
"Your hair resembles precious metals, like gold," Sally smiled. "His appreciation is guaranteed."
Once more, I nodded. Pearls gleamed in my arranged locks, curls framing my face as though prepared for exhibition.
For years, I questioned my blonde hair. My azure eyes. My lack of resemblance to Sally, Mother, or any Duskwood resident. Others possessed thick, dark tresses. Warm brown gazes. Earth-toned skin kissed by southern sunlight.
My appearance remained perpetually foreign. Unnaturally pale skin prompted whispers of illness or fragility.
My features belonged elsewhere entirely. For years I convinced myself of genetic anomaly.
Now understanding dawned.
Before contemplation could spiral, the maid returned. "Alpha Rowan requests your presence in the main hall," she announced. Then added, "Lord Hardy demands to see his bride."
Bride.
I rose. My fingers curved slightly, preventing tremors.
Mourning seemed inappropriate. This place had never offered kindness, warmth, or sanctuary. Yet something within me resisted departure.
Relief should have flooded through me.
Instead, uncertainty's weight pressed down.
Because despite any perceived usefulness, I had witnessed Hardy's calculating stare. Like he continued evaluating my worth versus disposal.
Tragically, I understood that even valuable assets bled when he finished with them.
"How romantic of him," Sally's voice sliced through my reverie, her innocent smile sharp as broken glass.
"Elder sister, isn't meeting your groom thrilling?"