The Letter
957 Words
Chapter Three:
Dillon's POV
"That's not going to work anymore," I said through gritted teeth. "I'm not fifteen. I'm not afraid of you. And I'm not going to let you bury this like you buried everything else."
The pressure vanished.
My father looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
Then he turned and walked away.
"Lori's room is off limits," he said over his shoulder. "Don't go in there. Don't touch her things. She'll be back in two weeks, and when she is, I expect you to stay out of her way."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood there, heart pounding, the letter crumpled in my fist.
"Lori's room."
"Off limits."
"Don't go in there."
I waited exactly sixty seconds.
Then I opened my door and walked to the end of the hall.
Lori's door was closed.
Of course it was. She'd always been careful. Meticulous. Every hair in place, every lie rehearsed, every secret locked behind a perfect smile.
But she'd been gone for two weeks.
Two weeks was a long time to leave secrets unattended.
I glanced down the hall. Empty. The housekeeper had gone home for the night. My father was back in his study, probably pouring himself a drink. The walls were thick. The doors were old.
I reached for the handle.
It was locked.
I almost smiled.
A locked door had never stopped me before.
I pulled a bobby pin from my hair—old habits from boarding school, where the matrons locked the kitchen at night and I was always hungry—and knelt in front of the knob.
Thirty seconds later, the lock clicked.
I pushed the door open and slipped inside.
Lori's room smelled like roses.
It always had.
The same roses she wore in her perfume, the same roses she planted in the garden out back, the same roses she pressed into letters she never sent.
The room was pristine. White furniture. Gold accents. A canopy bed draped in ivory silk. A vanity cluttered with expensive bottles and crystal jars.
It looked like a princess lived here.
But I knew better.
I moved quickly, quietly, opening drawers, scanning shelves, running my fingers along the edges of the furniture for hidden compartments.
Nothing on the desk.
Nothing in the nightstand.
Nothing under the mattress.
I was about to give up when I noticed the painting.
A watercolor of Luna's garden—the one with the sunflowers, the one where I'd hidden with Lucien when we were children. It hung above Lori's bed, slightly crooked.
Lori hated that garden.
She'd told me once, years ago, that it was "sentimental and stupid."
So why was it hanging over her bed?
I reached up and lifted the painting off the hook.
Behind it was a small wall safe, no bigger than a sheet of paper.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Bingo."
The lock was digital—six digits. I didn't know the code. But I knew Lori.
Her birthday? No, too obvious.
The Luna's death date? Too morbid, even for her.
The day she got engaged?
I typed in the numbers—the date of the engagement announcement, just two weeks ago.
The safe clicked open.
Inside was a small leather journal, a silver locket, and a folded piece of paper that looked old—older than the murder, older than my exile.
I pulled out the paper first.
It was a letter.
Not from Lori.
From her mother.
My stepmother.
The words blurred in front of me as I read:
"The Luna is getting too close. She asked about the ritual again. If she finds out what we're doing, we lose everything. Handle it, or I will."
Handle it.
"Handle it."
My hands were shaking.
I reached for the journal next—but the floor creaked behind me.
I spun around.
My father stood in the doorway.
His face was stone.
"What did I say about staying out of her room?"
I held up the letter. "What did *she* mean, Dad? 'Handle it'? Handle what? What ritual?"
His eyes flicked to the paper in my hand, and for one terrible second, I saw it.
Guilt.
Not for the murder—he hadn't killed Luna.
But for "covering it up".
He knew.
He'd always known.
"Put that back," he said quietly.
"No."
"Dillion."
"No." My voice cracked. "You knew she was involved. You knew Lori was lying. And you let them send me away. You let them call me a murderer. You—"
"Put it back, or I'll make you."
His Beta power flared again—harder this time, crushing, suffocating.
My wolf whimpered.
My knees buckled.
I dropped the letter.
It fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird.
My father walked past me, picked it up, and tucked it into his pocket without looking at it.
Then he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of Lori's room.
"I'm doing this to protect you," he said.
"You're doing this to protect *yourself*."
He didn't deny it.
He locked Lori's door behind us, pocketed the key, and pointed toward my room.
"Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."
I didn't move.
"Go."
I went.
But I didn't sleep.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall, replaying the letter in my head.
"If she finds out what we're doing, we lose everything."
What were they doing?
What ritual?
And why did the Luna have to die to stop it?
I pulled the bobby pin from my hair and held it between my fingers.
I hadn't gotten the journal.
I hadn't gotten the locket.
But I'd gotten something.
"Proof that my father knew."
And proof was a beginning.
- Writer
