The bedroom was dimly lit, the glow of the fireplace casting shadows along the walls. Luca stood by the window, his back to me, fingers curled into fists as he stared outside. The weight of our conversation still hung between us, suffocating, unresolved.
“She isn’t your mother,” I said again, softer this time.
Luca let out a slow exhale. “No,” he admitted. “My mother died when I was young—too young to even remember her face. My father married her after that.”
The Queen Mother. The woman who ruled this palace like it was hers. The woman who sat at my parents’ table the night they were slaughtered.
Luca’s voice was even, but the undercurrent of anger was unmistakable. “After my mother’s tragic death, my father turned all his focus to the pack. He believed our people needed a strong hand
