The Lost Heir

Unworthy

Landry's POV

Satisfied that we have somehow managed to fit everything into the car, I slam the boot shut on the new SUV my parents bought me over the summer.

The sound is too sharp in the quiet, and still unfamiliar enough that it draws my attention. A year ago, I would not have needed the car. None of us would.

Before New Year, travel had been easier for many of us. Easier than roads, traffic, luggage space, and three fourteen-year-old girls arguing over music before we have even left the drive. The fae trees had worked then. Now they do not—not properly, and not for the vast majority of us.

And so, after an intensive few weeks of learning how to drive one, I have a car.

It is useful. I know that. It will get us to Exton safely, and there are worse things than being trusted with an expensive SUV and my sisters' lives. Still, every time I look at it, I think about how simple things used to be, and I cannot help remembering how I used to be too.

Gonna need a van to haul all this crap back at the end of the year, I mutter to Calix.

Prepare for shifting better and you would not need so many clothes, he replies.

True. In that regard, I probably take after Dad more than I like to admit.

"Take good care of the car," Dad says behind me.

He does mean the car. Mostly.

With Dad, practical instructions have a habit of carrying more than they should. Look after the car. Look after your sisters. Look after yourself. Try not to come back from Exton wearing the same hollow expression you left with.

Perhaps I am adding that last one, but it is difficult not to.

I glance back at my parents, standing shoulder to shoulder outside the front of the pack house. It is good of them to do this, to see us off properly. They are both busy enough that even half an hour like this means something.

I know that, and I feel it too, somewhere beneath the haze.

"I will," I say.

As though summoned by the threat of responsibility, my fourteen-year-old triplet sisters spill through the front door, already grinning.

They are triplets, but not identical. Sage inherited the Lycan side of the family, while Olive and Fern inherited Mum's fae blood instead, which means two-thirds of the loudest chaos in our family comes with an alarming lack of survival instinct.

"Finally," Sage says, dragging her case over the gravel. "Were you planning to brood here all day?"

"I am not brooding."

Olive looks me over. "You are absolutely brooding."

Fern nods. "With shoulders."

"I always have shoulders."

"Not like that," Fern says. "Those are emotional shoulders. Hunched and angry."

Mum hides a smile badly. Dad does not bother hiding his at all.

Brilliant.

"Get in the car," I tell them with an eye roll.

"See?" Olive says. "Grumpy."

They hug our parents quickly, more excited about getting back to school than sentimental about leaving, then pile into the car, two in the back and one in the passenger seat. No one looks back towards the house with dread.

Lucky them.

Mum steps closer and reaches for my face.

I almost pull away, because her concern is not what I need right now. The hesitation is probably too slight for anyone else to notice, but she does. Of course she does. She knows me better than anyone.

Her fingers brush my cheek, and her expression tightens.

She knows. She always knows, and that is one of the complications of having a faerie for a mother. She would never read my aura without permission, but she rarely needs to—not with us, and not when something is sitting close enough to the surface for a single touch to tell her everything I cannot.

"Josh," she says softly.

The softness irritates me, and I hate that it does because it only reminds me of how raw everything still is.

A year ago, I would have leaned into her touch without thinking. Before everything became sharp and wrong. Before she looked at what I had become and decided that putting a hex on me was the answer.

I know why she did it, but that does not mean I have forgiven her for it. Not quite.

"I'll be fine," I say.

The lie feels flat in my mouth.

Her sadness deepens, and for one awful second I want to snap at her not to look at me like that, as though I am damaged. As though she can see every ugly thing I have done and every empty place it left behind.

Instead, I stand there, because she is still my mother and I am still angry with her. Both things can be true. I can still love her, and perhaps that is the part I hate most.

She pulls me into a hug, holding on for longer than usual. I let her, although I do not quite hug her back.

Dad takes his turn after her, all solid arms and firm claps to the back.

"Ollie will be there most days," Dad says. "But if you need us, call. We'll come as soon as we can."

"I hope I won't have to," I mutter.

It is not that I doubt them. That is the problem, really.

If any of us needed them, they would drop everything. My mother could be halfway through running the largest pharmaceutical company in the world, or dealing with the latest crisis to come with owning a university, and she would still come. My father could be managing the biggest pack in the country or sitting in an emergency supernatural Council or United Nations meeting, and he would still find a way to be there.

That is how extraordinary my parents are. They are the sort of people everyone knows and respects, the sort of people from whom everyone expects something.

And then there is me.

Not a big deal. Not even close, according to nature, at least.

Six months ago, my older sister Ophelia formally renounced her place as Dad's heir to our pack. She did not want the title, the pressure, or the power that came with it. Normally, when an heir stepped down, the next worthy Lycan in line would feel the change in their blood within days.

Six months later, neither Sage nor I have felt anything.

Perhaps Sage does not want it. Perhaps I do, although I am no longer certain of much. I used to want it so badly that I could not imagine anything else, but lately it is difficult to want anything at all, and that is part of the problem.

I have slipped so far from myself that I no longer know what to think.

The triplets chatter as I drive through our pack's forest, but I barely hear them. My mind is still somewhere in last year, circling everything I would rather leave buried: the training and discipline I allowed to slip, the girls whose names blur too easily, and the fights I picked because anger was simpler than thought.

And then there was Grey.

That memory is sharper than the rest. Her arm locked around mine, the splintering pain of bone giving way, and the humiliation that roared through me so quickly it drowned out everything else.

I remember the anger most, not because anger is unusual for me—I am an alpha, and rank comes with teeth—but because that anger had not felt entirely like mine. It had been too black, too easy and eager, and before I had properly understood what I was doing, my foot was in her ribs.

I knew the rules. I knew the match was over. I knew better.

Still, I did it.

My hands tighten on the wheel.

Grey is aggravating. She was aggravating then, and she will probably be aggravating again within thirty seconds of being in the same room as me. That does not make what I did feel any more like me, and there are plenty of reasons nature might have looked at me and found nothing worth choosing.

It has been a strange year, although, to be fair, any alpha could probably say the same.

The Goddess revoked mate bonds twenty years ago, and without something destined to steady us, too many alphas began looking for power instead. Rank. Influence. Stronger partners. Anything that might give them an advantage, even when the person they wanted had no wish to be claimed.

It damaged people. Whole packs and families.

My parents have spent most of my life dealing with the fallout, so when I started becoming someone they did not recognise, of course they noticed.

"Are you hopeful, Josh?" Sage asks suddenly.

"Hopeful?"

"About finding your mate, obviously."

Her green eyes are bright with it. Sage has always been better at expecting good things than I am.

I look back at the road, my stomach twisting. Every Lycan is hopeful now. How could we not be? The Goddess has returned something most of us have only ever heard about in stories from our parents.

"She's probably not at Exton," I say.

I am not due to turn eighteen until the end of January, but as an alpha, I might sense her early if she is close enough. The thought should be exciting, but mostly it makes me feel exposed.

"Saffron thinks it'll be the making of you," Sage whispers, quietly enough that only another Lycan would catch it.

The making of me.

As though I am unfinished, or something that has gone wrong and needs correcting. Perhaps that is not so far from the truth, regrettably.

Her words remain with me all the way to Exton, leaving one stubborn thread of hope I cannot quite cut loose.

Could my mate change things? Could she help me find my way back to someone worthy?

I hate that I think it, but I do.

My sisters waste no time grabbing their things the moment I park. By the time I have locked the car, they are already halfway to the entrance, bright with the sort of excitement I cannot seem to reach.

There are no goodbyes and no lingering because I will see them around, but watching them disappear through the doors still leaves me feeling a little hollow.

The atrium is almost empty when I walk in, my suitcase wheels sounding too loud against the floor. Dinner is close; I can smell it from here, which means we are probably among the last to arrive.

Slightly embarrassing, really, when the school is one of the family businesses. Yet another thing with our name on it, and another place I am supposed to fit.

"Good evening," I say, aiming for polite as I approach reception.

The woman behind the desk looks up. She is definitely not Lynda.

"Landry, Joshua," she says with a sigh. "The last student to check in."

"I had precious cargo in the car," I say, taking the envelope and keycard from her. "Couldn't exactly speed, could I?"

She does not look especially moved.

Fair. She probably just wants to finish and go home.

I glance down at the envelope and frown. There must be some mistake.

"This isn't my room number," I say, turning back to her.

"The headmaster changed it," she replies with a shrug, sliding the screen across the opening in the desk in a clear signal that the conversation is over.

Probably a downgrade after your behaviour last year, Calix remarks.

Our behaviour, I snap back. Unless you've forgotten the second-floor cupboard and the wood-nymph.

I remember your hands being involved, and it's kind of you to remember her name...

My jaw tightens.

I also remember not feeling entirely in control of them.

Calix goes quiet.

That is the worst part, really. It is not simply that I did things I regret. Plenty of people do, particularly at my age. It is that parts of last year sit in my memory as though someone else wore my skin badly and left me to deal with the consequences.

I shove the thought down and take a corridor I have never needed to use before, then another. By the time I reach the lifts, irritation has settled into something easier to carry.

My old room was in the original part of the building. Familiar. Solid. Mine, more or less. This keycard sends me three floors up, to the newer section at the top of the boys' block.

Brilliant.

New room, new year, and unfortunately the same mess underneath it all.

The room is not a downgrade, and that is the first problem.

I step into a reception room far larger than any standard dorm should be, with two sofas, a coffee table, several armchairs, and a fridge tucked against one wall. Beyond it, the bedroom is larger too.

He has given you heir quarters, Calix murmurs. Interesting.

Or cruel.

You are only seventeen.

I'm aware.

Then try patience.

I almost laugh at the notion.

These rooms are designed for future pack leaders. They are meant for private meetings, additional lessons, and students coming to ask for guidance from someone already marked by nature as worthy.

Only the pressure of expectation, then.

A wardrobe door closes in the bedroom, and I assume Archer must already have settled in.

"Enjoying the new room, Arch?" I call, dragging my suitcase through.

The wardrobe door swings shut properly, revealing someone who is definitely not Archer.

I stop. "You're not Archer."

Not my finest observation.

The guy nods, amused. "No, I am not."

"Who are you?" I ask, tossing my car keys onto what is apparently now my bed.

His mouth twitches. "Owen Montgomery. Beta. Golden Lycans." He pauses before adding, helpfully, "Your pack."

I stare at him.

Our pack, the Golden Lycans are the biggest pack in the country, but still. Not recognising one of our own betas while standing in heir quarters is not exactly ideal.

It is embarrassing, if anything.

"Right," I say. "Where's Archer?"

"I was asked to room with you this year."

"Asked by who?" I ask.

"Your father."

He says it quietly, but the words still land with all the subtlety of a punch.

Owen returns to stacking jumpers as though he has not just rearranged my entire final year, while I lower myself onto the edge of my new bed.

He is tall, broad-shouldered and solid in the way betas often are, but there is something steadier about him than most. Less performance and less noise. Light brown hair, calm hands, easy posture. The sort of person who looks as though he knows exactly where he belongs, which is irritating when I currently do not.

Archer, by contrast, is another alpha from a pack about eighty miles away. Like me, he is not the eldest in his family.

"All the strength and prestige without the responsibility," he used to say.

Except I had had wanted the responsibility. I had always wanted to succeed my father.

Archer had mostly wanted a good time.

"He didn't think I could choose my own beta?" I ask.

Owen closes the wardrobe and sits on the edge of his bed. "I'm not surprised you don't recognise me."

That lands badly.

"You could end up heir to our pack without knowing half your betas," he continues. "But I know you, Josh. We sparred a few times last year."

I do not recognise this guy at all, I tell Calix.

He has raised an important point.

Great. So I haven't been paying attention?

Not to the right things.

Irritation rises first because it is easier than embarrassment. Dad has interfered again, although, given the available evidence, he probably has his reasons.

I swallow what remains of my pride and stand, holding out my hand. "Then I should probably know you."

Owen stands too and takes it.

"Owen Montgomery," I say, committing the name to memory this time. "I'm sorry I didn't before."

"Last year was a lot," he says as he releases my hand.

"That is generous," I mutter.

There is something about him that feels less beta than most, and perhaps that is the point.

Then, with absolutely no warning, he asks, "Is it true your mum hexed you?"

I stare at him. He looks as though he has been holding the question in since I walked through the door.

"Yes," I sigh, feeling no need to lie about it.

"Wow."

"Is that your entire response?"

"I'm trying to be respectful."

"Try harder."

"What does it do?" he asks, not at all put off by my tone.

He may as well know, Calix says.

I let out a breath and turn away, dragging a hand through my hair. "I couldn't do anything."

Owen waits.

I glance back at him. "Or anyone."

His eyebrows lift slightly at that clarification. "Ah."

"It was meant to wear off when I came back to Exton."

"And has it?"

I hesitate because, when I think about it, I believe it has, although parts of me still feel dulled.

The absence that has been sitting beneath my skin for months is no longer quite as blank. Something has shifted, as though pieces of me are being slowly unearthed. Not cleanly or comfortably, but enough to make me aware of everything I had not been able to feel before.

Which is, frankly, worse.

"I think so," I mutter.

Owen studies me for a moment. "That explains the mood."

"I don't have a mood."

"You absolutely have a mood."

"I'm not angry," I snap.

The silence that follows is deeply unflattering and equally, ironically revealing.

Owen's mouth twitches. "Right. Good to know."

I tip my head back and exhale. "Fine. I'm angry. Mostly frustrated. A few things last year were out of my control, and it isn't something I can simply get over."

"I heard," Owen says. "I take chemistry and biology. I could explain some of it, if you wanted."

Of course.

Dad has assigned me the male version of Mum in the hope that he might become my second-hand brain.

"Maybe another time," I say. "Right now, I'd rather eat."

At the mention of food, Owen is on his feet immediately. "Oh, I am always up for dinner."

Maybe a mix of your mum and your uncle Ollie, Calix says, sounding amused. This could work.

He might be right, which is irritating.

"All right," I say, reaching for my keycard. "You can tell me more about yourself. And your wolf."

"Damon," Owen says, pulling on his trainers.

It means loyal friend, Calix tells me.

I glance at Owen again. Solid. Unbothered. Already here, whether I wanted him or not.

Perhaps Dad has not assigned me a punishment. Perhaps he has assigned me a chance.

I am not ready to feel grateful for it, particularly when he could have warned me rather than springing a room change on me without explanation, but as we head down to dinner, I feel something inside me loosen by a fraction.

Owen finds us a free table, and I head towards the servery, only to spot Archer sitting with a group of betas from his own pack.

Relief hits me first, stupidly.

"Arch," I say, catching his eye. "Can you believe my dad switched you out?"

Archer's expression changes at once. Not surprise, but a cold awkwardness that makes my stomach drop before he has even stood.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "About that. I actually asked to move."

For a moment, I do not understand him. Then I do.

My gaze drops to the table of betas watching us with far too much interest, and heat crawls up my neck.

"Right," I say, remembering his indifference towards me at the end of last year.

Archer leans closer and lowers his voice. "You were fun before, Josh. Midnight swims, parties, girls, stupid ideas that somehow worked." He gives an uncomfortable shrug. "Then you just... weren't. You got weird. Angry. Withdrawn. Honestly, I wanted a final year that didn't feel like sitting beside someone else's bad mood."

I stare at him.

There is probably something I could say to that. Something sharp and careless, something that would land badly enough to make him regret saying it.

Last year, I would have found the words easily. Now, nothing comes, and Archer sits back down.

Worse, he turns away first.

I walk towards the food with familiar anger rising hot and useful beneath my skin.

How dare he, I mutter to Calix. All the fun we had was down to me. Who got him anywhere with Bethany?

Interesting defence, Calix says.

It is not a defence.

No?

I pick up a tray harder than necessary.

He liked me better when I was unbearable.

Calix says nothing, which is probably wise, because that is the part I do not know what to do with.

A floral scent cuts through my temper.

It is not perfume. It is something cleaner, with a wilder edge beneath it, and it pulls my thoughts away from Archer, away from the heat still crawling under my skin, and back into the queue.

I am standing behind a girl with long dark hair falling down her back. She is wearing a fitted jade jumper that draws attention to her slim waist, and jeans that fit well enough for my thoughts to wander somewhere they have not gone properly in months.

That should probably be good news. Somehow, it does not feel like it.

It feels more like being shoved awake.

Wow, I mutter to Calix. Whoever she is, she definitely squats.

The girl stiffens almost at once, her shoulders pulling tight as the queue shuffles forwards.

I go still.

Not because she could have heard me. She could not have. It is the reaction I recognise immediately—the bracing, the way her body prepares for a fight before she has even turned around.

Then she moves her head slightly, just enough for me to catch her profile.

Of course.

Grey.

The scent, the hair, and the body I have just assessed like an i***t all rearrange themselves into the one person in this school I least want to notice.

Lyra Grey.

The gamma who broke my arm in two places. The girl who made me look weak in front of half our year. The girl whose ribs I kicked after the match was already over.

My jaw tightens.

I should feel worse about that than I do in this exact second.

I do feel worse.

Just not enough to stop being annoyed.

"Typical," I mutter under my breath.