Connection - Golden Lycans Sequel 3/3 [Complete]

Light, Free....Me.

***Ophelia***

I smile at Serena briefly and flick my eyebrows upwards.

"Well, people have said that for a few years now, and...I am still human," I mutter.

"A human with an insane jump-shot! Do you play for Vale, now?" Joel asks. Two staff members come in and start placing mixed hors d'oeuvres down in front of us.

"I can't. I can't play for the human team as I have a genetic advantage, and I'd be a handicap in a Lycan team. Plus...I would probably just get injured," I say bitterly.

"Should just have a mixed team. Not everyone fits into a neat little box these days, and why should anyone be subjected to playing based on their DNA? You're either good at the sport or you're not," Joel says, smiling at me kindly. I smile back, grateful for his comment.

"Are you coming tomorrow, Joel?" Serena asks, stabbing a quiche bite and putting it into her mouth. He shakes his head at this question.

"Not this year. Christa and I are off to Zermatt for Christmas in the morning, which is why I am here for the night. Then it's onwards to King Wotsit's place," he replies with an eye roll at the mention of who I know is Valmir, the Elven king.

"You still cannot forgive him?" my uncle asks, his brow furrowed a little. Joel looks at Serena as he shakes his head.

"Never. I don't care what came out of that whole saga. I can still picture your wife being thrown into a van while I was bleeding to death in the grounds of Exton, and I can still picture her intubated in intensive care. He did that. He didn't do it to her, Jay, but he's the whole reason she was there in the first place," Joel says.

The air is silent and cold for a few moments as my aunt looks over towards me, her eyes glassy with emotion.

..

Late that evening, after a rather amusing hour or so of my uncle and Joel teaching me the basics of ballroom dancing, I go to my bedroom, feeling nervous about the following evening.

Hung up in my room is my new dress, and above it is the recently delivered, complimentary mask that was made only a few hours ago. A mask that is apparently going to protect my identity as I rubbed shoulders with the supper echelon of a society that I had no care for.

...Basically, a bunch of snobs.

I reach out and pick up my new mask, which is undoubtedly a thing of absolute beauty. The designer had gone full throttle, a small pair of feathery wings branching out each side of the mask; a homage to my Fae heritage. Silver, gold, light pink feathers and little pearls adorn it and I do feel a little excited about dressing up in it all.

I go into the ensuite and start running a bath. Of course, a palace has the best of the best, so it's a nice big tub, and it comes complete with water jets and all sorts of fancy lighting and other mod-cons I'm sure many homes don't have.

While the bath is running, I do what I have done repeatedly since I got here yesterday morning, picking up the drawing Ares had pushed under my door.

I keep wondering what made him draw it, and I wanted to know how he'd felt when he'd done so. I stare at the vibrancy of my eyes in the drawing, wondering if they really were that vivid. I didn't think they were at all. I wander over to one of the mirrors in the room and get right up close to it, studying my eyes curiously. It was definitely a hyperbolic depiction of what they were really like. ...Or did my eyes look different when I looked at him?

It was a strange idea.

What was it that made him run from me and then avoid me and the others for two solid weeks? Was it fear? He seemed fearless when he was kissing Maddy...

I undress in the bathroom, in front of a very large wall-mounted mirror, seeing my naked form highlighted by some very flattering lighting. Another thing I had done so often before, I do again now, turning my body around as I continue to gaze into the mirror, hoping to see the parallel 'scars' every mature faerie had, running up the inside of my shoulder blades.

"Still nothing," I say quietly, feeling my heart sinking a little.

Despite all the little signs here and there, including one impressive thunderstorm and a pot of red lillies, I was no closer to unlocking it all.

I climb into the bathtub, slipping under the surface of gorgeous-smelling, silky bubbles from some fancy bubble bath I had just plucked out of the cupboard. I lay back, leaning my head on a bath pillow secured on the side, as I look around the room, appreciating the simple, lilac decor, as my mind goes back to replaying that moment on the balcony, and many other interactions I had with Ares previously.

I still felt so crestfallen.

I hadn't even given much thought to Ash's bold proclamation. How kind he was, how much of a gentleman he had been for a while now, apparently. For him to consider Ares' social deficits and give him time to think about it—and all I could do was think of Ares, which felt like an absolute disservice to Ash.

Why did I not like Ash in that way? Just…why?

But, I guess, the heart wants what it wants.

I continue to look around the room, feeling isolated and confused, wishing I hadn't melted into Ares’ arms when he'd hugged me...because maybe things might have been different?

If I hadn't been so tactile, perhaps he wouldn't have freaked out...

My eyes freeze in surprise, landing on the large bay window—on something that should never be here. Not in this bathroom. Not in December. And certainly not in England.

A Blue Morpho butterfly.

It moves its wings slowly, steadily, as though it belongs. Calm, vivid, impossible. I blink, once, twice, trying to understand how a tropical butterfly has found its way into a palace bathroom in the middle of winter.

But just seeing it pulls a memory to the surface—of the butterfly enclosure, of Ares. I can’t help but smile. I remember the way he had looked at me, wonder softening his face as one of the butterflies crawled along his long, olive-toned arm. How had I not felt it then?

Or…had I?

I remember now—the great swirling mass of butterflies and moths in the enclosure, lifting something in me, making me feel light. Uplifted. It was one of the closest I’d ever come to feeling connected to the natural world, the way any faerie should.

But instead, I’d reached for Ares—his long, warm fingers hanging at his side. In that moment, I hadn’t felt alone. I’d felt whole. Full of hope.

Until the next moment, when I remembered: hope had never gotten me anywhere before.

And I was still human.

I stretch out my arm, startled when it lifts off at once, flitting lazily towards me before settling on my wet hand. Wings folded, it rests there, its tiny tongue reaching for a droplet on my thumb.

When I think about it, things have been shifting ever since I arrived at Vale.

Gradually.

Quietly.

But now it was undeniable.

Every day I had grown closer to Ares, the more I had changed. The butterfly enclosure was a prime example—the butterflies did not behave the way that they should.

My hair had lightened. Grown longer. I was almost certain I’d gotten taller.

The plants on my balcony had flourished, blooming wildly out of season.

The thunderstorm.

The endless rain that had stopped the moment Ares found me on the court—his presence enough to draw out the sun, both externally and within me, warming me throughout.

It all felt just within reach.

Yet just as easily, just as suddenly, it might slip further away—especially the longer Ares kept his distance.

The butterfly shifts on my hand, its antennae turning towards me, as if hearing my thoughts.

“You do know what I am, don’t you?” I whisper.

It takes off instantly, fluttering up to land gently on my head. I laugh, the sound bouncing softly around the tiled room as I catch a glimpse of myself in the metal tap.

“I guess that’s a yes.”

It lifts again, drifting to the centre of the room, where it begins to circle—slow, familiar spirals, just like the ones in the enclosure when I stood with Ares, our hands laced.

I watch it for a long time, letting it anchor me.

For a little while, I feel something quiet settle inside me. Something like peace.

I feel seen.

...

***Ares***

"Zer are zum rules for tomorrow evening, Ares," my father says, having come into the library where I have been sitting for several hours now.

I have been reading books about a variety of things, using them as a different type of meditation.

"What sort of rules?" I ask, putting a bookmark inside the book before closing it.

He takes a seat opposite me on another armchair.

"Only ze king, along viv Ella und Austin Landry, are avare of your existence, Ares. But...tomorrow is ven I reveal you to ze world...or ze uzza guests, anyvay. I am so proud of you, so happy zat I have had ze honour of farzaring a son. I do not vant to hide you anymore," he says proudly, making me feel rather comforted. I couldn't feasibly hide my true nature forever, so perhaps at home, where people are expecting to find vampires, is a good place to dip my toes into the idea.

"I am okay with that. But, I would prefer you refer to me by my other name, Aurelius. Ares is not a normal name at the best of times and is highly recognisable. I still want the option of anonymity at Vale, father, if you do not mind," I implore him. He looks skeptical for a moment, before he nods his head in agreement.

"Aurelius is vot I vanted to call you, anyvay. Ares voz ze name your muzza chose," he reveals.

"For the God of War...a name has never suited someone less," I joke.

"Var...but also courage, Ares. She alvays knew, ven you vere in her belly, zat life would not be straight forvard for you. I firmly believe you vill do GREAT fings. Still, I have alvays appreciated irony in a name," my father replies with a smile.

"What is this rule for tomorrow?" I ask, as he hasn't gone into this.

"Do not mention your muzza, and just...be yourself, Ares. Please, try to have zum fun. You have alvays vorked so hard. It is okay to have times vere you relax und enjoy yourzelf."

He reaches out for my shoulder and squeezes it affectionately, before he leaves the vast room.

I feel apprehensive as I sit there, wondering how I would be feeling tomorrow evening.

I was not used to meeting new people, especially not people who knew what I was. It was a little nerve-wrecking. I slide my finger into where my bookmark is, getting ready to open it, before something moves in the corner of my eye.

To my great surprise, there is a butterfly, flitting lazily out from behind a large palm plant, its beautiful blue wings catching the light being cast by the softly lit floor lamp next to me.

I watch its progress with utter fascination, as there shouldn't be a butterfly inside the house, definitely not in December, and definitely not a Blue Morpho, which was indigenous to South America.

I instinctively hold my hand out towards it, sitting on the edge of my chair as I carefully lower the book to the floor next to me. The butterfly swiftly changes direction, and to my utter disbelief, it comes to a stop as it lands onto the back of my hand.

I laugh softly at the situation—it’s unbelievable, and yet, undeniably real. The butterfly relaxes its wings, spreading them wide as it settles, utterly still. Gently, I lift my hand closer to my face, careful not to startle it. My heart stirs as I draw it near. The colour, the texture, the intricate details of its wings—they’re completely captivating.

I smile, remembering the last time I saw one like this. A Blue Morpho, crawling across my outstretched arm in the butterfly enclosure at the zoo. I remember looking up—my eyes locking with Lia’s. Her sea-green gaze had mirrored the same quiet joy I felt in that moment.

The way she looked at me then…

I realise now how profound that moment truly was. Because that was the first time I had felt it.

The butterflies—as Madeleine had once called them.

A bond. Formed with her, right then and there. Nature itself weaving something real and profound between us—simple, and yet impossibly beautiful. The memory tugs at me, and I can’t help but grin as I watch the butterfly now, recalling the exact way she reached for my fingers—how she had chosen me.

And the butterflies had noticed. They moved differently around us, as though they too sensed the shift, the quiet understanding blooming between us. Our growing connection.

And it was something. I just hadn’t known it then.

But I’d felt it again. And again. On so many days since.

That strange, unfamiliar ease. The way being with her allowed me to forget who—what—I was. If only for a moment.

Whenever I’m with Lia…I felt light, free...

...me.

...

***Ophelia***

"No, she needs to wear it all UP," I hear Serena say, to the young man who is doing my hair the following afternoon.

His name is Philippe.

"I prefer wearing it down," I mumble as Philippe starts pulling at my hair a different way.

I could hide behind my hair, with it down.

"It is more elegant. We are attending a formal Ball," she replies, standing behind me as I face myself in a rather flattering mirror. I make a disgruntled face at her as Philippe diligently drags all my hair away from one side and pins it around the other, beginning to work at the back.

"Uh...surely it's a bit uncouth to go to a vampire's ball, having your neck on display?" I wonder, feeling that it was like a large juicy steak laying on the ground in front of a lion. She laughs a little and puts her hand onto my shoulder.

"Diplomatically speaking, the kindest and most respectful thing you could do when going to the home of a vampire, particularly the king, would be to have your neck on display like this. It says that you trust them, Ophelia," she says assuredly.

"Okay. That does make sense," I sigh.

She sits down on a chair next to me and starts using a curling wand on her own hair.

"...yet you're wearing yours down?" I ask in irritation. She smirks at me in the mirror.

"I have attended Augustus Katz's Winter Ball since he began them around ten years ago. I know him, and I am not the one meeting him and his sons for the first time," she explains.

"I've actually met him and one of his son's before. He came to Vale for a lecture, and I had to pretend that his persuasion worked on me, because it didn't. He already knows who I am, and that I'm a hybrid," I point out.

"He does; but this is a formal occasion. Your hair is going up, and it works better with your dress," she replies, letting a curl bounce off the wand.

"It's a strapless dress and I don't have a necklace, so hair down would be fine!" I point out bluntly. She snorts a little at my tenacity.

"Calm down young, alpha, and stop trying to hide. It is going up."

..

Two hours later my hair is finished, along with a serious smoky eye to compliment the shadows the mask is going to make within my eye sockets.

I do not look like myself, and I am more than okay with it. I am looking forward to an evening where I am somebody I'm not...and that, was Ophelia Landry…the version that the world thought existed.

"Step into it love, and I'll come in and do it all up," Pruella calls to me from around the back of a fancy, gilded dressing screen in my bedroom.

I remove the silk robe I've had on, standing there in just my pants and tights. I gingerly take the gown off its cushioned hanger and I position it on the floor in front of me, the many skirts holding up the stiff corset top. I step into it and pull it up my body, holding the front of the corset against my chest.

"I-I’m ready," I call out, and Pruella comes around to start the arduous process of lacing it all up at the back. It takes her a good fifteen minutes to do it all up properly.

"I...am a sodding miracle worker," she says as she wanders all around me, checking it all.

"Excuse me?" I ask, wondering if she is referring to me or the gown...or possibly both. She arches a brow at me.

"Designers make dresses for women with no shape. You have shape. I’ve turned a previously ill-fitting gown into... this," she says smugly, guiding me around the screen and straight to the full-length mirror.

I gasp.

Maybe she is a miracle worker.

I stare at my reflection in stunned silence, my hands instinctively moving over my waist, my hips—my impossibly tiny waist. I look… pretty bloody incredible. I’d thought the gown looked nice in the shop, but whatever Pruella had done... it was next level.

I feel like Cinderella.

“Your gasp, your silence, and the fact you can’t keep your hands off yourself really says it all,” Pruella laughs.

“Thank you, I… I mean, that—that can’t be me,” I mutter, pointing at my reflection.

“Oh, but it is. Get used to it,” she says, patting my arm, "now. One thing is missing.”

She sweeps across the room and returns with the mask. Carefully, she peels away the adhesive strips and presses it onto my face, then slips a few pins through hidden loops to anchor it in place. She gives it a testing wiggle.

It doesn’t budge.

“Now,” she says, with a proud little smile, “you are ready for a masquerade.”

...

***Ares***

“Stop pissing about with all that, the guests will be arriving soon,” Atticus calls from the doorway to what was now my painting room. I lower the paintbrush, staring back at him blankly.

“Come on,” he urges, grin already forming, “I promise you’ll have a good time. I can almost guarantee there’ll be a lovely young lady who catches your eye.”

“Atticus,” I reply, screwing the lids back onto the paint tubes, “you seem to forget who you’re talking to.”

“It’s not that hard, Ares. You just… talk to them. Dance with them. You might even manage to spend the whole evening with one.” He nods at the paints. “Now the lids are on, go put on your suit. Then you can fight Amadeus for the right to wear the black mask.”

He grabs my arm, trying to drag me from the room.

“I’m not eight,” I mutter, yanking myself free.

“Then do as you’re told,” he fires back, pushing open my bedroom door and striding to the wardrobe. He pulls out the suit I wore for Madeleine’s birthday, holding it up with clear distaste.

“This? This is what you meant by a suit? You said you had one—not that you’d stolen it off a shop dummy.”

“It’s all they had. At a local place. One that also sold food,” I say with a shrug.

He looks appalled.

“This is not a suit, Ares. You’re a Katz. We do not buy our formalwear from supermarkets.” He throws it back into the wardrobe with a shudder. “Fortunately for you, I think I have something that might fit. Might be a bit roomy in the arms and back, though.”

..

***Ophelia***

"Oh good god. Serena, what are we doing?" James says to Serena, his eyes falling on me as I join them down in the foyer of the residential aspect of the palace.

She doesn’t answer straight away—just gives me a long, satisfied once-over.

"You worry too much, James. They will be respectful of her. She will be safe," she assures him, readjusting her classic Landry curls.

She is wearing a blood-red, fishtail-style gown with straps, a deep-V neck and a short train at the back. Even though I know it is still very early in her pregnancy, she looks absolutely incredible, but my aunts always did when they dressed up.

"Fine. Shall we go? It started ten minutes ago," he says, checking an actual pocket watch attached to his black dinner suit.

"We will be there in around four minutes," Serena says, opening the door and allowing a load of cold air in.

I shiver a little and fold my arms, feeling like the odd one out once again, being the only one who ever felt the cold. My aunt looks at me kindly for a moment and I shake my head, "I'm fine, please don't worry."

I follow them out of the door, holding up the bottom of my dress as I notice a series of planks that have been laid out in the snow, connecting the tarmac outside the door to the massive tree in the grounds.

My uncle immediately steps through, out of sight within seconds as my aunt turns to face me, an excited look on her face.

"Just remember...you are a Landry, just like me. YOU are the heir to a highly prestigious pack, YOUR father runs the supernatural council and YOUR mother is a badass, scientific mastermind and entrepreneur. You come from GREATNESS. Greatness you WILL one day feel and have," she says fiercely. I am a little taken aback by this sudden pep talk, but I look back at her defiantly and nod.

“You’re right,” I say, though nerves twist in my stomach. “Nobody needs to know I have no magic. No wolf. Not tonight.”

“One more thing,” she says, lowering her voice slightly. “I do not know if your mother ever mentioned this… but to vampires, you may smell like an exotic snack. They love your mother’s scent—fae blood is rare. And they don’t taste Lycans, either. You are one of a kind, Lia. And your blood will make them hungry.”

She grips my hand firmly before I can panic.

“But don’t worry. You are very safe.”

Then she lifts my hand to her lips, kisses it, and gives me a wink.

Raising her free hand to the tree trunk, she takes me through.

...

***Ares***

“Perfect fit. Almost. This is why you need to drink blood, Ares. Your traps are small and pathetic,” Amadeus announces from his throne-like perch on my dresser, legs swinging like a smug child.

“They function. That’s all I require,” I mutter, adjusting the jacket again. It fits better than anything I’ve ever owned. Expensive. Understated. I liked it. It didn't feel like me—but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

Atticus, of course, couldn’t help but chime in. “You’re in decent shape naturally, I’ll give you that—but imagine what you’d look like with blood. You could stop scowling like it’s a personality trait and let your shoulders speak for you instead.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’d settle for him not dressing like a librarian with a death wish,” Amadeus adds, now inspecting his nails.

“Go with the ivory mask,” Atticus says, stepping in behind me. “The one with the horns. If you were a different Aries, I’d say lean into it. But still… makes a statement.”

I glance at it. “What kind of statement?”

Atticus smirks. “A bold one. You were born from the First, Ares. It's time you started acting like it. You’ve grown—socially, I mean. You might even pass as quirky now, instead of completely unapproachable.”

“Touching,” I say flatly, taking the mask from him and pressing it to my face. The inner adhesive helps it cling snugly to my skin as I work the elastic through the mess of my hair.

Atticus walks around me in an approving circle, then suddenly sprays something directly at my neck.

“Gods, what is that?”

“Tom Ford,” he replies simply. “You're welcome.”

“Very you,” Amadeus snorts. “Expensive, overbearing, and makes people cough.”

He suddenly hops down and saunters to the window. “Oh… and look who’s arrived.”

Atticus and I join him at the bay window. The torches lining the orchard walkway flicker, guiding figures through the snow. Guests.

I spot him immediately—the towering frame of the King of the Commonwealth, regal and unmistakable. Just behind him, draped in bold red, is the Queen, Serena Landry. I’ve never met her, but even from here, her presence radiates charm.

But the third figure… she steals my focus completely.

Tall. Composed. Honey-blonde hair woven into an elegant updo. Her mask—shaped like a butterfly—catches the firelight as she walks.

Then there's the dress. Sea-green, strapless corset, soft flowing skirt.

Something about that colour holds me. Something… familiar.

“King’s niece,” Amadeus murmurs, watching her too. “He mentioned bringing her instead of the daughter. Still too young, apparently.”

My breath catches slightly, though I don't know why.

“She doesn’t look Spanish,” Amadeus adds, "so she must be from the Queen’s side…”

“She’s the hybrid,” I breathe, barely audible. I can’t tear my eyes away from the now-empty path.

“Come on, then,” Atticus says with a smirk, "something tells me you’re going to want to meet her. Father will expect one of us to dance with her...I guess that'll be you?”

I follow him to the door, nerves twisting in my gut as we reach the top of the staircase—

That is when it hits me like a blow to the chest.

A scent.

Not just a scent—her scent. Unmistakable. Wild and sweet and utterly singular. It slams into my nose and floods my senses, rooting me to the spot at the top of the staircase. My breath stutters.

In the next second, the hunger ignites—violent and immediate—burning its way down my throat like fire. My fangs drop without thought, sliding free as if summoned by instinct alone.

I can’t move. I can’t.

Panic claws its way up my spine as my hands fly to my mouth. My vision blurs for a moment, narrowing, darkening. The scent is all I know.

Lia.

She’s here!

Somehow, she's here—down there, among the guests, in this house—and I’m barely holding it together.

“Ares, come on—stop pissing about,” Atticus calls, irritated, turning back toward me. He reaches for my arm.

“ATTICUS!” I shout over the rising swell of orchestral music.

He stops. His gaze sharpens as our eyes meet through the cut-outs in our masks.

Then he sees it.

The red.

His whole expression changes—confusion giving way to disbelief.

“Ares?” he breathes, stunned now, stepping closer. “What the hell—?”

“She’s here!” I choke out, voice ragged.

He comes forward, his expression thoughtful. But then he grins, slow and sharp.

“Well, this just got interesting.”