Chapter 2

The gathering spilled through Morretti House like smoke: silk, jewelry, and old blood disguised as perfume.

They liked to pretend the modern world belonged to them. They wore tailored suits, spoke in polite tones, and kept their claws hidden behind crystal glasses.

I moved between them because I had no choice. Because James liked me where he could find me. Because the only thing worse than being watched was being forgotten.

Vicky made sure I wasn’t forgotten.

She entered the salon in a pale dress that looked almost white in the candlelight—an insult, in a house that avoided daylight as if it were poison. Her hair was pinned up, throat bared like she was daring anyone to think of teeth.

James stood at her shoulder, composed, attentive.

Not to me.

A noble with a golden signet ring leaned toward me as I passed. “So,” he said, smiling in the way predators smile at prey, “is it true you can walk outside at noon?”

“Yes,” I said.

His eyes slid over my mouth, my throat. “How convenient.”

Another woman laughed. “Convenient for errands. Convenient for… deliveries.”

Vicky’s voice cut through the chatter. “Convenient for being useful.”

A few heads turned. Faces sharpened with interest. The purebloods loved a spectacle almost as much as the wolves did.

Vicky lifted her glass. “To Morretti House,” she said. “And to the little miracle we keep in our walls—our daywalking pet.”

I felt heat rise in my chest—anger, humiliation, the urge to disappear.

I’d disappeared a thousand times. Quietly. Politely. The way they expected.

Tonight, something in me refused.

I took a step forward. “I’m not a pet.”

The room went still. A silence heavy enough to crack bones.

Vicky’s smile widened. “Oh?”

“I’m not a servant,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. “And I’m not a joke you can pass around to make yourselves feel clean.”

Someone made a soft, surprised sound. Like they didn’t expect the furniture to speak.

Vicky tilted her head. “Bold. Where did you learn that tone? From your human friends?”

James’s gaze snapped to me, sharp at last. “Sofia,” he warned quietly.

Not my name, in my mouth.

A leash.

I swallowed. “I’m speaking.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” James said, voice still controlled. “Stop.”

Vicky’s eyes gleamed with victory. She turned to the others, savoring it. “See? I told you. You give them a bed and they start thinking they belong at the table.”

I looked at James. “Do you agree?”

His jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, he looked like the man who had carried me out of the forest, blood on his lips and fury in his eyes.

Then he spoke like the heir of Morretti House.

“You belong where I put you,” he said.

The words hit harder than any insult Vicky could invent.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t plead.

I simply turned and walked out.

Behind me, laughter returned in a rush—relieved, mocking, hungry. Someone said something about “half-blood tantrums.” Someone else joked about how I should be grateful they even allowed me inside.

I didn’t run.

I walked straight through the halls, straight out the side door, and into the night air.

The sky was overcast. No moon. No stars. The estate’s gardens smelled like damp earth and stone.

I kept going until the house was only a shadow behind me.

My lungs filled with cold air, and for the first time in months, I realized I’d been holding my breath in that place.

When I finally returned, the party was dying down. The servants—human, silent, terrified—were collecting glasses.

No one stopped me.

In my room, I locked the door and sat on the floor with my back against it.

I didn’t cry. Crying felt like giving them proof that they’d reached something soft.

My phone buzzed again.

FINAL CLEARANCE: PENDING SIGNATURE CONFIRMATION.

Already signed.

Already in motion.

Morning came in a thin gray line. I slept, exhausted, and woke to the sound of my door opening.

I jolted upright.

James stood in the doorway, a sheet of paper in his hand.

My application.

The border institute letterhead was visible, crisp and human and completely out of place in his dark house.

He held it like it was a weapon he’d just found under his own pillow.

“Explain this,” he said.

I forced myself to stand. “You signed it.”

He didn’t blink. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

The room suddenly felt too small.

On the paper, in the corner, was the institute’s seal.

At the bottom, in clean ink, was his name.

And above it—my name.

My real name.

Not a title. Not a nickname.

A person.

James’s eyes fixed on me, cold and intent.

“Where are you going, Sofia?” he asked.

I opened my mouth.

And lied.