WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, Rowan stood above me. Barely restrained fury pinned me in place the way it had a decade ago when I tracked him down in his office to beg for help.
“You’re not my father,” I’d said then, bamboozled by the fact that the name on my child-support checks had materialized into someone only a few years older than me.
“You figure?” Rowan leaned forward, sniffing as if he was in wolf rather than human form. Just like today, I’d backpedalled until I fell onto my butt.
I had no weapon other than words, so I used them. “I want to speak with my father.”
“About what, exactly?”
“My mother’s dead.”
Rowan nodded and strode to his desk, giving me a second to pull myself together. By the time I scrambled to my feet, he’d drawn a checkbook out of a drawer, uncapped a fancy fountai
