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 relented.
It's late, nearing eleven, and I'm sure no one sees me slip in, weaving around to the backyard where the tree house stands. I climb the familiar rungs, feel the worn wood under my palms, and settle inside the small sanctuary of blankets and colorful throw pillows.
But Doyle's scent is here.
It's taunting. It's everywhere.
Here he took my virginity. Here he whispered that I was the sun, that his world revolved around 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 make him come back, as if it can undo what I just heard.
Doyle and Mina.
I have known both since childhood. We grew up together. We were the three musketeers.
And they betray me like this.
When did our friendship twist into a game of thrones? 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. And they burn my trust to ash. Burn me. Without remorse. Without care.
Are they the true mates then?
Even though Mina is just the healer's daughter, she is easily the strongest werewolf on our side of the realm. Is that why Doyle chooses her? A power-couple fantasy?
Do 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.
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, I decide. I will make sure of it.
Then I laugh—a sharp, broken thing—as molten anger ignites within me, the formidable fury of the Drakonia heritage stirring awake.
She called me a proud princess, right? Well, I am all that and more, and this proud princess will not bow to two fools. 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, a living, dangerous 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."
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. 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. And I conclude that the first act of letting go will be the damning of this house.
It hurts, but I will not falter.
"Goodbye," I mutter, 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.
I pour it over the wood, over the memories, over the ghosts of lies. I take nothing. No pictures. No souvenirs. Nothing. I want nothing from them. I want to burn it all.
When the can empties, I stare at the tree house one last time. "I am sorry," I whisper to the walls, as a tear slips free, then hurries down. I light the lighter and throw it inside. The fire catches before I can blink.
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 run out. I'm not sure how they hear so quickly—maybe one of the guards has mindlinked them.
"Lucy, Lucy, are you okay?" my mother cries, holding my cheeks, her eyes glassy with tears. She must think I have been inside.
"Where is Doyle?"
Of course—Doyle.
After all, she knows how much I have 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 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, 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. Where is Doyle? I want to congratulate him."
"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.