Chapter 37 I’m Learning To Hunt
Emily
Every head in the room turns toward Alistair. He stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets, his dark eyes fixed on the weeping woman at his feet. He looks like a judge who has already written the sentence and is just waiting for the ink to dry.
I look at him, and I feel a sudden, sharp chill that has nothing to do with my damp hair. Beatrice is still on her knees, the hem of her silk robe soaking up the spilled tea on the rug like a thirsty sponge. Her forehead is pressed so hard against the floorboards that I can hear the dull thud of her skull against the wood. The arrogant woman who tried to have me thrown out an hour ago is gone. In her place is a puddle of desperation.
"Alistair, please," Beatrice wails, her voice muffled by the carpet. "I’m begging you. Show some leniency. I’ve been a loyal member of this family for decades. I was just... I was confused. My mind wasn’t right. I’ll never touch her again. I’ll never even look at Emily. Just don’t do this."
Alistair doesn’t move an inch. He stands over her, a dark silhouette that seems to grow taller with every second of her pleading. He has his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the fireplace. He looks down at his aunt with the same expression a scientist might give a particularly stubborn mold growth in a petri dish.
"Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, Beatrice," Alistair says. His voice is smooth, devoid of any warmth. "You chose to orchestrate a kidnapping. You chose to put a child in a cage. Now, the bill has come due. Wrongdoing must inevitably be met with punishment. That’s the rule of this house."
Beatrice lifts her head. Her mascara has run so badly that her eyes look like two dark, hollow pits in her pale face. She looks around the room, searching for a face that might offer a shred of mercy. Arthur Sr. is staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight. Martha is busy adjusting the Old Madam’s shawl, refusing to even glance in Beatrice’s direction. The bridge has been burned, and the smoke is choking her.
"What?" Beatrice whispers, her lower lip trembling. "What is the punishment? Just tell me. Exile? A fine? Whatever it is, I’ll take it. Just let this be over."
Everyone is leaning in, their breaths held. Even Celia, the Old Madam, has stopped clicking her beads. She’s watching Alistair, her sharp eyes waiting to see if her grandson has the stomach to truly discipline his own blood. I find myself gripping the arms of my chair, my own heart skipping beats as I wait for the hammer to drop.
Alistair slowly turns his head. He doesn’t look at the elders. He looks at me.
"Emily," he says.
I freeze. The air in my throat feels like sand.
"How do you wish to punish her?" Alistair asks.
The room goes so quiet I can hear the rain tapping against the glass like tiny, frantic fingers. My jaw literally drops. I try to find words, but my brain is a blank slate. Behind Alistair, Arthur Sr. actually chokes on his own breath, his face turning a mottled purple. Celia’s grip on her walking stick tightens until her knuckles are white as bone.
He’s giving the authority to me? To the girl who walked in here with a contract and a no high school degree?
Beatrice’s head snaps toward me. The terror in her eyes is instantly replaced by a flash of white hot rage. She scrambles to her feet, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. She looks like a marionette with its strings tangled.
"What right does she have?" Beatrice screeches, her finger shaking as she points it at my face. "Alistair, have you lost your mind? She’s an outsider! A nobody! You’re going to let this... this street girl decide my fate? I am a Wolfe! She is nothing but a temporary convenience!"
I feel the sting of her words, but I don’t let it show. I keep my back straight against the leather of the armchair. I’m thinking about the dog cage. I’m thinking about Lily’s tears.
Alistair steps toward Beatrice, his presence so overwhelming she actually takes a step back. "She is my wife, Beatrice. She is the Matriarch of the Wolfe clan. That gives her every right to administer punishment to anyone who threatens the peace of this family. Especially someone who tried to frame her for a crime."
"No one here acknowledges her!" Beatrice yells, looking at Arthur Sr. and Celia for support. "Look at them! Do you see a Matriarch? I see a social climber who’s lucky we haven’t checked her for fleas!"
Alistair doesn’t even flinch at the insult. He just shrugs his broad shoulders, a gesture of absolute indifference that seems to infuriate Beatrice even more. "I don’t care whether others acknowledge her or not. I acknowledge her. And in this house, my word is the only one that carries weight."
I look at Alistair’s back. He’s standing there like an iron wall between me and the rest of his family. I know his motivation. He’s cementing my status because it protects his heir. If I’m the Matriarch, my child is the undisputed successor. It’s a calculated move. But seeing him stand up to Beatrice like that... it does something to the cold, clinical walls I’ve built around my heart.
"Emily," Alistair prompts again, his voice slightly softer. "The choice is yours."
I take a deep breath. My mind is racing. I know Beatrice comes from a family with deep pockets and long reach. If I demand she be stripped of her wealth or exiled to the other side of the world, it might backfire. The rest of the family might see it as me being power hungry. I have to be smart. I have to be the bigger person while still making sure she feels the sting.
I look Beatrice in the eye. I see the hate there, but I also see the fear.
"I don’t want your money, Beatrice," I say. My voice is steady, surprisingly calm. "And I don’t want to see you in prison, even though you deserve it for what you did to Lily."
Beatrice scoffs, a wet, ugly sound. "How generous of you."
"I only have one condition," I continue, ignoring her sarcasm. "I want an apology. A real one. Right here, in front of everyone. You will admit what you did, and you will apologize to me and to Lily for the danger you put us in."
The silence returns, but this time it’s lighter. Alistair’s eyebrows twitch upward. He looks... pleased? I think likes the propriety of it. It’s a move that makes me look dignified and her look like the petty criminal she is.
Beatrice’s face goes from red to a sickly, mottled grey. She stares at me as if I’ve asked her to eat broken glass. "An apology? To you? I’d rather rot in hell than utter a single word of regret to a girl like you."
"Is that your final answer?" Alistair asks.
"Yes!" Beatrice barks. She crosses her arms over her chest, trying to reclaim some of her lost dignity. I don’t understand how she could be so shameless. "I will not apologize. I have my pride."
I look at Alistair and let my shoulders slump just a fraction. I make sure my eyes look a little glassy, a little wounded. I look like a woman who tried to be merciful and was spat on for her trouble. It’s a performance, sure, but in this house, you play the role or you get eaten.
"I tried, Alistair," I whisper, looking down at my lap.
Alistair’s jaw sets. The room temperature seems to drop another ten degrees. He turns back to Beatrice, and this time, there is no clinical boredom. There is only judgment.
"Fine," Alistair says. "If you value your pride more than your freedom, so be it. Here is your punishment. You will apologize to Emily and Lily right now, and then you will be confined to the Meditation Room for three days. No phone, no guests, no distractions. Just you and your thoughts."
Beatrice’s eyes widen.
The Meditation Room.
I read about the mediation room in the file Alistair gave to me before coming to this house. It’s a small, windowless space in the old wing of the estate, used generations ago for reflection. It has a single wooden stool and a mat. No television. No silk robes. No audience to perform for. For a woman like Beatrice, who lives for social status and chatter, three days of silence is a nightmare.
"And if you refuse to apologize?" Alistair continues, his voice like grinding stones. "The confinement will be for a week. And I will personally see to it that your monthly allowance is suspended for the next six months to cover the ’security upgrades’ I now have to install because of your schemes."
Beatrice gasps, her hand flying to her throat. She stumbles back, nearly losing her footing on the edge of the rug.
A week in that room? Six months without her funds? It’s a death sentence for her social life. She looks at the faces around her, but everyone has turned away. She’s truly alone.
I watch her, waiting. She’s aghast, her whole world crumbling under the weight of a simple apology. And as I sit there in my oversized sweater, feeling the quiet strength of the man standing in front of me, I know one thing for certain.
The wolf isn’t just Alistair. I’m learning to hunt, too.
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