Chapter Two — Rose’s Birthday, Part II
1478 Words
I face the mirror at my vanity, staring at the reflection that doesn’t feel like me.
The white satin gown gleams under the light, silver threads woven into the lace sleeves, the sweetheart neckline framing my collarbone. My hair falls in soft waves, pinned to one side with a jeweled petal-shaped clip. Diamond studs glint in my ears, a long chain dips into the valley of my chest.
No matter the layers of powder and shadow brushed across my skin, the bruises on my throat still show. Purple fingerprints. Her fingers. Like claws. I consider tying a silk scarf around my neck, but it would ruin the look, too matronly, too out of place with the gown. Better to endure whispered gossip about fashion than explain away the attack of my own mother. Or the wolfish madness that sometimes owns her.
I haven’t seen her since this morning. After the nightmare ended, I stayed in Niger’s room until he left. Later, Steve came to apologize, he thinks she spiked his tea with a sedative around ten last night. Niger drank it, too. She had never drugged them before, not even my father, but this time she proved just how far she’ll go to reach me, pushed by the beast inside.
A single tear breaks free. I swipe it quickly before it smudges the makeup, swallowing the ache in my throat. Tonight I have to smile. I have to look delicate, beautiful. Not like a girl still shaking, afraid of the wolf that might one day wake inside her own veins.
A knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say softly.
My father steps inside. It’s the first I’ve seen him today. His dark hair is neatly combed, his green eyes shining with warmth shadowed by something heavy. He wears a three-piece suit, every line pressed for the occasion. He smiles, sadly, gently, and I see myself in that expression. I got his eyes, his soft smile. The rest is her. The fine jawline, the delicate cheekbones, the dark hair that gleams almost chestnut in the light. Petite like her, five foot five, slim, with modest curves. And the wolf’s curse? That came from both. A legacy sleeping in my blood.
He carries a long black velvet case. He kneels in front of me, kissing my forehead before opening it. Inside lies a wide diamond collar, thick and gleaming, nearly four fingers deep. It’s beautiful. It will cover the bruises. It will also press tight against my throat, silver threaded between the stones to dampen any hint of wolf.
“Forgive me for what happened this morning,” he murmurs, smoothing a hand over my shoulder. “I promise it won’t happen again. The wolf in her… it’s always stronger on your birthday.”
“It’s not your fault,” I whisper. “No one’s. It’s the curse.”
“Even so.” He kisses my hair again. His voice grows heavy. “We need to talk about tonight. Your fifteenth birthday ball isn’t just a party. It’s tradition. Men from the families will court you. They’ll make marriage proposals.”
My throat tightens. I brace myself.
“I’ll refuse them all,” he says. “And you must not encourage any of them. Dance if you must, but nothing more. No touches. No promises. Remember this, Rose, you are untouchable. With the wolf’s secret in your blood, we can’t risk alliances that might expose it.”
“Yes, Father.” The words scrape against the knot in my chest.
Since childhood I’ve known love isn’t mine to claim. He’s warned me often enough at family gatherings, stay distant, stay cold, let no man come close. Tonight I won’t just face my family. I’ll face the entire Tanorra Mafia. If I ever left, if I ever ran, it might end my mother’s attacks. But exposure of the wolf in me would destroy us all.
So I swallow hard, lock my heart away, and accept the fate written the day I was born. I plaster on a smile, take his arm, and let him kiss the top of my head.
“Your mother is sedated but awake in the hall,” he warns. “Keep your distance. Only what’s necessary. The wolf could wake.”
“Yes, Father.”
We descend the mansion’s grand staircase together, chandeliers glittering overhead. Guards swing open the double doors, and the hall falls into silence as every gaze turns to me.
The main attraction. The trophy on display.
The first to greet us are the Boss himself and his son, followed by the Consigliere, the underboss, and the capos. The Five Families of the Tanorra Mafia, rulers of America’s underworld. My father, capo of Nevada, owns the casinos in Las Vegas. Powerful men, all of them. All hungry for alliances. None aware of the wolf that runs beneath our skin.
“Good evening, everyone,” my father calls out, raising a glass of whiskey. “Welcome to our home, as we celebrate the fifteenth birthday of my daughter, Rose Valentine. Enjoy yourselves.”
The hall erupts with cheers. I bow my head politely, hiding the storm inside. It’s terrifying, being paraded before them like a prize. Any of these men might want to claim me. None ever could. The wolf must stay buried.
“Bartolomeu Valentine.” A gravelly voice cuts through. A man in his fifties, eyes sharp and ice-blue. His gaze crawls over me and my skin prickles. “Congratulations, dear girl.”
His hand brushes my shoulder. I flinch, hating the way he looks at me, like prey already caught.
“Thank you, Andrew Tanorra,” my father replies smoothly.
The name hits me hard. Tanorra. The Boss.
Beside him stands his son. Younger. Dark hair, black as midnight, a full beard shadowing a strong jaw. Eyes the same piercing blue as his father’s, but sharper, edged with green. Predatory. Wolf-like. He doesn’t just look at me, he sees through me, as though he senses the secret caged in my veins.
Heat climbs my cheeks. I force myself to glance away, ashamed he caught me staring.
He’s massive. Broad shoulders, solid chest, powerful legs. For the first time all day, my thoughts break free of fear. Something strange coils in my chest. A pull. As if the wolf inside me stretches awake, answering some silent call from his.
“Good evening,” his voice rumbles, low and commanding. He extends his hand. “Would you grant me the first dance?”
“Of course,” his father cuts in. “The debutante must dance with the heir. Go, while I speak with Valentine.”
“Go on, dear,” my father adds, giving me the faintest push forward, his eyes reminding me of his warning.
“Yes, Father.”
My hand slips into his. His palm is rough, warm, steady.
We walk to the center of the floor. My spine straightens, but my heart gallops so loudly I can barely hear the murmurs around us. He pulls me close, one hand anchoring my waist, the other locking around mine. The orchestra begins to play. I recall the lessons drilled into me since I was twelve.
His scent reaches me, warm, spiced, wild. Like pine and smoke and the moonlit forest. It wraps around me, drowning the fear. My eyes drop to his tie, anything to keep from drowning in that gaze. But then I look up, and his eyes are waiting, deep and burning. Seeing too much.
I swallow hard, clutching his hand.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re too tense.” His eyes glitter, lupine. Knowing.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tanorra,” I whisper.
“Call me Ethan.” His voice is smooth, commanding. “I won’t bite. You can breathe.”
“Oh God” I stumble, stepping on his shoe.
He frowns, and my face floods with heat. I want to pull away, but he doesn’t let me. His grip tightens, guiding me effortlessly back into rhythm. He’s so tall, I crane my neck just to meet his eyes. Our chests nearly touch, the heat of him seeping through every layer of fabric.
The intensity of his gaze rattles me. My skin tingles, my heart races, my wolf stirs. I’ve never felt anything like it. For the first time today, fear slips away. All that exists are those eyes, pulling me in.
Ethan must be around twenty-nine, like Niger. He moves with the surety of a man who owns the room, yet his silence speaks more than words ever could. I can’t tell what it means for him. But for me, this is air after drowning.
In his arms, for the briefest moment, I wish the night would never end.
In Ethan’s blue eyes, I saw the promise of a destiny I could never claim.
- Writer
