Alaric’s POV
I hadn’t felt two years old in twenty-five years.
Until Vincent said “I put the nightshade in your bottle.”
Now I couldn’t stop feeling it. The burn in my throat. The way my father had roared when he found me convulsing. The way my mother had screamed.
I’d always thought I remembered it because I was Alpha. Because Alphas remember.
I remembered it because it happened.
Because the male I’d called Uncle had tried to murder me in my crib.
I threw the whisky glass. It shattered against the office wall, liquor bleeding down the stone like the blood on my hands.
Vincent’s blood.
“Put him down, Alaric.”
Hazel’s voice. Shaking. Terrified. Not of me. Of what I’d do if I didn’t listen.
And I’d listened.
I’d let the man who poisoned me live. Because she asked.
Be
