Lady and the Rogue

Jamila The Duvall mansion was less a home than a mausoleum of triumphs. Every wall glared with history, sepia portraits of Black industrialists who had clawed their way into Motor City wealth after the Great Migration, wolf ancestors painted in oils so dark their eyes seemed to glimmer when the chandeliers swayed. Between them, gilt frames held maps of land of the Black Bottom before the bulldozers, Paradise Valley before the freeways carved it open. My father had curated our legacy like a museum exhibit, selective, sanitized, and dripping in marble polish. Tonight the halls were dressed in velvet banners for our annual Juneteenth gala, though there was nothing free about it. Strings hummed from the ballroom, waiters drifted with trays of champagne, and polished voices discussed land deals as if our ancestors had not been bled dry for those very acres. Juneteenth was supposed to be sacred, but in the Duvall house it was branding proof of our “cultural investment,” another mask in the family empire. I stood before the largest portrait in the hall, a woman with eyes like mine, framed in silver leaf. Her skin was deep brown, her shoulders draped in indigo cloth, and at her throat hung a charm shaped like an Akan bird—looking back, the wings sharp as blades. I had asked my father once who she was. He told me only, “An ancestor who knew her place.” I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but everyone knew not to question Samuel Duvall, Alpha of the Akan Clan. I never met my mother. My father told me she died during childbirth. I always wondered if she was this woman on the portrait. I smoothed the silk of my sage green gown that shimmered like a soft flame under the lights. Fe Noel had designed it to cling and flow at once. A pearl choker circled my throat, but I’d had an Akan pendant fitted to it in secret, a rebellion hidden in plain sight. My hair fell in long curls pinned with gold combs, each carved with adinkra symbols. Outwardly, I was every inch the Duvall daughter. Inwardly, I was restless, my blood thrumming to a rhythm the orchestra couldn’t play. A tremor slid through me as I moved past the portrait gallery. The air was sharp with a fragrance of copper and pine, as though a storm prowled just beyond the walls. My breath caught. It wasn’t the scent of roses in crystal bowls or bourbon on polished lips. Its scent was wild, untamed, and it caught my attention. Something feral inside me stirred, scraping at my ribs. I pressed my palm against the cool marble, closing my eyes. For months now, I had felt her, especially at night when the moon was high. I saw it in my dreams where my reflection wasn’t my own. The eyes were glowing bright violet, the teeth sharper than they should be. A wolf’s shadow clung to me. “Jamila.” My cousin Amina’s voice broke through the haze. She appeared in a formal gown made of silk, the color of red wine. Her braids were long down her back as she hurried up the hall. She was only seventeen, which made us five years apart, but she was like the little sister I never had. “Everyone’s waiting. Uncle’s speech is about to start.” I nodded, swallowing the metallic taste in my mouth. “Just a moment.” Her gaze softened, then sharpened. “You feel it again, don’t you?” She was the only one who knew. I've always known that when my wolf comes, my father would put me on a pedestal. He already does, but if he knew, then I wouldn't have a say about how I want my life to turn out. She squeezed my hand. My wolf wanted to emerge, but I couldn’t let her. I practiced day and night to keep her contained, but she was getting stronger and stronger. I got her when I turned eighteen, but everyone believed that I didn't. I made them believe that I was the weak daughter and the only reason I even got recognition was because of my father. I loved it that way. It gave me hope. I didn’t want my father to know because he would then want me to find a mate and lead our pack. I had no intention of leading because I’d rather have my freedom then to spend my life, dictating, and preparing for territorial wars with other packs. “Don’t let them see you like this,” she grabbed a wet washcloth to wipe the sweat that was forming on my skin. “You know how Uncle is. He would be pissed if he found out you had your wolf all of this time!” I knew my father could turn his own daughter into a liability if it meant securing our clan. Our family was not built on sentiment. We were built on survival by any means necessary. After she finished, I freshened up and reapplied some light make-up and we left. We swept into the ballroom as my father took the stage. Amina immediately joined her father and mother. My father was stood at the podium, tall, broad-shouldered, and his suit as black as a midnight sky. He smiled at the crowd like a benevolent king. Behind him, the Akan's crest gleamed a wolf’s head encircled by laurel, its eyes red enamel along with the Sankofa bird with its head turned backwards. “Tonight,” he began, his voice immediately capturing everyone's attention, “we honor freedom. But freedom means nothing without strength. The Duvalls have carried our people through centuries of struggle. We are still the shield and the sword, and we expanded our reach to ensure the future will remember us not as victims, but as victors.” Applause thundered and glasses were raised. Cameras flashed, and I smiled for them, because that’s what I was trained to do. But the wolf in my blood whispered otherwise. It whispered of breaking free and running barefoot through woods. She and I both wanted a freedom that had nothing to do with polished speeches. I observed everyone in attendance. Members of our pack along with other alpha’s from different packs and other faces that my father had an alliance with throughout the city. From the far edge of the ballroom, beyond the line of crystal chandeliers, I saw him. I smelled of pine and it made my pulse increase. He was leaning against the column like he owned the darkness behind him. I wasn't sure how he got past our security, but I was impressed. Black leather jacket and eyes sharp and silver. He wasn’t clapping. He was watching me. Something inside urged me to lunge toward him, hunger flooding my veins and, for the first time, I didn’t push it down. But it was too risky. As I was getting ready to go to one of the bathrooms, my father turned his attention to me. “Jamila, my child, come,” My father’s voice rang out, a summons that turned every head toward me. My body stiffened, my pulse leaping into my throat. There was no escape. I forced myself to breathe slowly as I stepped forward. The crowd parted without a word, bodies shifting to create a narrow corridor that felt more like a gauntlet. Their eyes followed me as I made my way to my father’s waiting hand. When I joined him, he smiled at me. I leaned in and kissed his cheek, though the gesture felt hollow. “My only daughter, my princess,” he smiled, pride swelling in his voice. “Her mother would be so proud of the woman she’s become. With Alpha’s blood, specifically Akan’s blood, soon she would be next to run the pack.” My breath caught. What? My head snapped toward him, then again, as if hearing the words twice might make them sound different. “You can’t be serious,” I whispered, though the words barely left my lips. My chest tightened, as if the air itself had turned against me. He laughed, the sound was rich and booming. It rolled across the gathered pack like thunder. It should have been joyous, but to me, it sounded cruel. “Why, my dear? What could be more serious?” His eyes shone, but there was no kindness. He squeezed my hand, as though tethering me to his vision. Instead of comfort, the gesture prickled my skin, leaving me cold. This wasn’t the future I had dreamed of. This wasn’t my life. It was his, grafted onto me like a crown of thorns. I dared to glance at the faces surrounding us. There was no mercy or pity in their eyes. Only the pressure of their expectation, their need for me to become something I never asked to be. My heart thrashed in my chest, frantic, like a caged bird throwing itself against unyielding bars. That’s all this was, a gilded cage. “You carry Akan’s fire, Jamila,” my father thundered. “Do not dishonor it.” “I never asked for this.” My voice shook, but it carried. “I never wanted to lead.” Gasps and whispers sliced through the room and I saw the hurt in some eyes, the judgment in others. They looked at me with such disdain as if I’d spit on the very earth we stood upon. My father’s jaw clenched. His voice was sharp as glass. “This is not about want. It is about our destiny.” His gaze bored into mine, daring me to defy him outright. The ground felt unsteady, my legs weak, but I stayed rooted. I wanted to rip my hand from my father’s and vanish. I knew that I couldn’t. My father would not take being humiliated like that kindly. In all of my twenty-two years, I never disrespected my father. I took a shaky breath, and forced myself to meet his stare. For the first time, I didn’t look away. “Then maybe destiny chose wrong this time.” The pack wasn’t just waiting to see if I would bow or burn. They were waiting to see if I would ignite the fire that could tear us all apart.