"The High Priest just messaged," Julian announced, glancing up from his phone. "He is thirty minutes out."

"I thought we agreed on nine o'clock," I said, stacking the velvet napkins on the catering table.

"The High Priest keeps his own hours, Mrs. Monroe. Do you have the sacred oil?"

"Not yet. I'll get it."

"Please do. We cannot start the coming-of-age blessing without the anointment."

"Are the Monroe cousins arriving on time?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation away from his rising panic.

"They landed an hour ago," Julian replied, not looking up from his screen. "I sent the cars. They will be here before the ceremony."

"Good. Kael wants the family seated in the front rows."

"I know the seating chart, Mrs. Monroe. My concern is the ceremony itself. The oil. I need it."

"I understand."

"Do you? Because if the High Priest walks in and the altar is empty, my reputation takes the hit."

"I said I will get it, Julian."

Lyra stepped into the foyer, holding the skirt of her blue silk dress off the floor. The heavy emerald rested against her collarbone, catching the chandelier light. "Why is everyone so tense?"

"Nobody is tense," I assured her, forcing a warm smile. "Julian is just organizing the timeline."

"I am thorough," Julian corrected sharply.

Lyra touched the gemstone at her throat. "Dad is looking for you, Mom. He said the caterers brought the wrong champagne."

"He can handle the champagne. I need to go to his study."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. Stay here. Don't get dust on your hem before the photographer arrives."

"It's just a dress."

"It's custom silk. Stay with Julian."

"He usually keeps that room locked," Lyra pointed out, dropping her skirt.

"He unlocked it for me this morning."

"Alright. Hurry back."

I walked away from them, heading down the east corridor. The noise of the party planners faded with every step. The silence in this wing of the house felt heavy.

I pushed open the thick oak door to Kael's study.

"Just get the vial and leave," I muttered to myself.

I crossed the room, my flats sinking into the plush carpet. I reached the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. Kael’s sanctuary.

"Locked," I said, testing the top drawer out of habit. "Always locked."

I crouched down and moved to the bottom right panel.

"Except for today."

I pulled the brass handle. The drawer slid open smoothly on its tracks. Stacks of financial ledgers filled the front. I shoved them aside, digging toward the back. My fingers brushed against a soft velvet pouch.

"Got it."

I lifted the pouch. It felt unusually heavy. As I pulled it clear of the drawer, the drawstring snagged on something flat and stiff tucked underneath the glass bottle.

A thick sheet of folded paper dragged out alongside the velvet, slipping over the edge of the wood and landing on the floor.

"Great," I sighed.

I set the oil on the desk and bent down to retrieve the paper.

The moment my fingers touched it, I paused. The texture wasn't standard printer paper. It was thick, rough parchment. The exact kind Kael used during his military deployments.

I stood up, holding the folded square.

"What is this doing under the ceremony items?"

I flipped it open.

The faded ink formed a sprawling grid. Topography lines. Elevation markers. Sector boundaries.

"A border patrol map," I whispered.

The date stamped in the bottom right corner glared back at me. Ten years ago. The exact month Kael brought Lyra into our home.

"You found her in the southern trenches," I recited his old story out loud, tracing the bottom edge of the map. "Sector four. Mud and rain."

I scanned the southern grid. Nothing. No markings.

My eyes drifted upward, scanning the northern sectors.

A thick, aggressive red circle dominated the upper right quadrant.

"What is that?"

I leaned closer, squinting at the small text printed beneath the red ink.

Point Reyes.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"No."

I placed my index finger directly over the red circle. The rough parchment scraped against my skin, sending a violent tremor up my arm. My fingers started to shake uncontrollably.

"Point Reyes," I repeated, the sound hollow in the empty room.

The jagged coastline. The steep drop.

The exact cliff where my sister Elena fell.

"Fifty miles," I choked out.

I looked at the red circle. Then my eyes darted to the velvet pouch containing the sacred oil. Then back to the map.

"You weren't at the trenches."

My chest seized. The air trapped in my lungs refused to move. The rhythmic rise and fall of my breathing shattered, replaced by short, frantic gasps.

I stared at the red ink until it looked like fresh blood.

Ten years. A decade of believing my husband rescued a nameless orphan from a war-torn border. A decade of raising Lyra, loving her, ignoring the small inconsistencies in Kael's timeline.

The emerald necklace flashing in the vanity mirror.

The tiny, invisible chip near the top prong.

The black calfskin shoe shoved deep under my daughter's bed.

A harsh, ugly laugh tore out of my mouth. The sound shocked me. I should be crying. I should be screaming. Instead, this broken, manic noise echoed off the walls.

"A coincidence," I mocked his smooth, unbothered voice from earlier. "Just an estate sale."

My legs gave out. The strength vanished from my muscles instantly.

I crashed forward, slamming my hip against the edge of the mahogany desk. I gripped the wooden lip with both hands, using the heavy furniture to keep myself upright. My knuckles turned white under the strain.

"He was there," I told the quiet room. "He was at the cliffs."

He didn't find Lyra in the mud. He found her at Point Reyes.

Or worse. He took her from there.

"Elena," I whispered.

Did she fall? Or was she pushed?

I dragged the map closer, my vision swimming. I needed to hide this. I needed to confront him. I needed to get Lyra out of this house.

I reached for the folded edge of the parchment.

Thud.

A heavy footstep struck the hardwood floor in the hallway.

I froze.

Thud. Thud.

The rhythmic, heavy tread approached the study.

"Mom?" Lyra's voice floated from the foyer, distant and muffled. "Julian needs you!"

The footsteps didn't stop. They moved closer, bypassing the kitchen, bypassing the living room.

Heading straight for the east wing.

I snatched the map off the desk. My hands shook so violently I tore a small piece of the corner. I shoved the parchment toward the open bottom drawer.

The footsteps halted right outside the closed oak door.

A dark shadow blocked the sliver of light beneath the threshold.

I shoved the velvet pouch of oil on top of the crumpled map and slammed the drawer shut.

The brass handle of the study door turned halfway down.

"Turn the water off," I commanded.

Lyra twisted the brass knob. The rushing sound stopped instantly, leaving only the dull hum of the ceiling fan. Thick steam coated the vanity mirror, turning the large bathroom into a white, humid box.

"Julian is going to start pacing the halls if we don't hurry," Lyra said.

"Let him pace." I picked up a soft cotton cloth from the counter. "We have one hour until the ceremony. The cleansing comes first."

She sighed, leaning her elbows on the edge of the marble sink. "I do not understand why the High Priest needs me to be completely makeup-free. It feels humiliating."

"It represents purity," I explained, running the cloth under the warm faucet to dampen the fabric. "No masks. No hiding. Just you, presenting your true self to the pack."

"My true self has terrible skin."

"Your skin is flawless."

"You do not get it, Mom. The girls at the academy stare. If I walk out to the altar without my foundation, they will whisper."

"They will whisper anyway. You are Kael's daughter. They envy you."

"Adopted daughter," she corrected, just like she had in the bedroom earlier.

I ignored the jab this time. I pressed the warm, damp cloth against her right cheek. I wiped away the peach blush, the sharp contour lines, the heavy setting powder.

"Turn your head," I instructed.

She rotated her chin, exposing the left side of her face.

For a decade, a thick curtain of golden bangs had covered this side of her forehead. Even now, she reached up instinctively, trying to pull the wet strands down over her eye.

I caught her wrist. "Stop fidgeting."

"I am perfectly capable of washing my own face," she argued, tugging her arm back.

"I am your mother. This is my duty today."

I held her arm firmly, pinning it to her side. With my free hand, I brought the cloth to her left temple.

She tensed. Her jaw locked tight.

I scrubbed the fabric against her skin. The thick, waterproof concealer resisted the warm water. She always bought the expensive theatrical brand. The kind specifically designed to cover tattoos and severe burns.

"You are hurting me," she complained.

"I am barely pressing."

I rubbed harder. The beige pigment finally began to dissolve, staining the white cotton a dirty, muddy brown.

"Enough," Lyra snapped.

"Almost done."

I swiped the cloth one final time, clearing away the last stubborn layer of makeup.

The skin beneath was clean.

My hand stalled in mid-air.

The ventilation fan hummed overhead. A single drop of water fell from the faucet, pinging against the porcelain drain.

"Are we finished?" she asked.

Words failed me.

A solid block of ice formed in my stomach, radiating a freezing dread through my veins. The humid air in the bathroom suddenly felt impossibly thin.

I stared at her left temple.

There was no acne scar. There was no uneven, pitted tissue.

There was a mark.

Deep, vivid purple.

It curved perfectly, ending in two sharp, distinct points.

A crescent moon.

"Mom?" Lyra shifted her weight, unease creeping into her voice. "What is wrong with you?"

I traced the shape with my eyes. I knew every millimeter of that curve. I traced it on Kael's collarbone when he slept. I stared at it when he walked out of the shower. The undeniable, genetic brand of a pureblood Alpha from the Monroe bloodline.

"You..." The word cracked down the middle. I swallowed hard, forcing moisture into my dry throat. "You do not have a scar."

Lyra's eyes darted to the fogged mirror. She could not see her reflection, but she knew exactly what I was looking at.

Her shoulders shot up to her ears.

"It is just a birthmark," she said quickly.

"A birthmark."

"Yes. It looks ugly. That is why I cover it."

"Ugly?" I echoed.

A sharp, erratic laugh burst from my lips. It sounded like breaking glass.

Lyra took a step back, hitting the edge of the bathtub. "Stop laughing."

The sound bubbled up, toxic and bitter. Ten years. Ten years of buying her special makeup. Ten years of holding her hair back while she cried about her flawed skin. Ten years of trusting my husband.

"You cut your bangs when you were eight," I said, my voice dropping to a flat, deadened tone.

"I like bangs."

"You threw a screaming fit at the salon when the stylist tried to pin them back."

"I was a kid!"

"You refused to let the doctors examine your head after you fell off your bike at twelve. You fought the nurses."

"I was terrified of hospitals!"

"You spent three hours in the bathroom every morning locking the door."

"I need privacy!"

"You are a liar."

The bathroom fell dead silent.

Lyra stared at me, her blue eyes wide, her chest heaving rapidly.

I stepped toward her. I raised my hand.

She shrank back, raising her arms defensively. I did not strike her. I gently placed my index finger directly over the purple crescent.

Her skin was ice cold.

She went completely rigid. Every muscle in her body locked.

"This is a Monroe mark," I stated. I did not ask. I stated a fact.

"Lots of people have birthmarks," she deflected, her voice shaking.

"Not this one. This belongs to his bloodline."

"You are being crazy."

"Am I?" I pressed my finger harder against the mark. "He found you at the border. That is the story. An orphan. No family. No history."

"That is the truth!"

"Then why do you carry his genetic stamp on your face?"

"I do not know!" she shouted, swatting my hand away.

"You do know." I stepped closer, trapping her between my body and the marble counter. "You have been hiding it. For ten years, you have painted over it every single day. Why?"

"Because it is ugly!"

"Stop lying to me!" I screamed.

The volume of my own voice startled me, echoing violently off the tile walls.

Lyra clamped her mouth shut.

I stared at the girl I had raised. The girl I had loved like my own flesh and blood. The blue eyes. The golden hair. The exact same shade of blonde as my dead sister, Elena.

The emerald necklace resting on her collarbone.

The map hidden in Kael's desk.

The black shoe under her bed.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

Lyra looked at the floor.

"Look at me," I demanded.

She shook her head.

I grabbed her chin, forcing her face up. "Who are you to him?"

A tear spilled over her lower lash line, cutting a clear path down her damp cheek. Her expression shifted entirely. The frightened child vanished. Her jaw set tight. The vulnerability evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating hardness I had never seen in her before.

It was exactly the way Kael looked right before he destroyed an opponent.

She reached up. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist.

Her grip felt astonishingly strong. Bone-crushing. Not the grip of a human teenager. The fierce, unyielding grip of a wolf.

She ripped my hand away from her face.

She leaned in, bringing her mouth inches from my ear. The sweet, innocent tone she used downstairs was entirely gone.

"Uncle Kael said you couldn't see this," she whispered.