Claimed by the scarred Alpha

MARGAUX

I had considered going with him.

The urge flickered for barely three seconds as I stood in the doorway, watching him drop the mask and bolt, my own body already half-turned after him. But I let the impulse fade, recognizing it for what it was: a reflex that did not belong to this moment. Whatever existed between Étienne and me was still fragile, unfinished, and barging into the infirmary behind him while his fiancée bled on a cot would help neither of us. I had no right to be there. Not yet. Maybe not ever, depending on how this all unraveled.

I did not let that thought curdle into something self-pitying.

I had seen too many women shrink themselves, folding smaller and smaller around men who never noticed the cost. I refused to become another shadow in that pattern, not here, not now. Whatever Étienne and I were building would not be founded on me chasing after him, desperate to be chosen in front of an audience. My dignity mattered, no matter how fiercely the bond tugged at me.

I crossed the room and picked the mask up off the floor.

It was the plain white mask, all simple lines and no decoration. I turned it over in my hands, then crossed to the dresser and set it back among its companions. My gaze snagged on another mask hidden toward the back, black and far more ornate, gold curling along one cheekbone in a pattern that seemed almost sinister.

I wondered what kind of event called for that one.

A pang of guilt twisted through me as I wondered what state Séverine was truly in. Laurent’s face, when he brought the news, had not been feigning concern. Whatever happened to her had rattled him for real, and I knew better than most just how savage these attacks had been. If she had been caught the way I had—twice—I could only imagine the particular horror she must have felt.

I made a mental note to visit her. No matter what remained unresolved between us, no matter the black thread or the hatred she carried for me, I did not want her dead. I refused to become someone who withheld basic decency from a person in pain just because their suffering complicated my own life.

I retreated to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face until the last traces of the morning’s chaos faded. I met my own eyes in the mirror, steadied my breath, then I picked up my phone and dialed my mother.

She answered on the second ring.

"Margaux?" Her voice came through high and fast, almost breathless. "How are you? Are you alright?"

I paused. "Why do you sound like that?"

"I just want to know you are alright."

I considered the possibility that word of something bad happening to me had already reached her, and she cared enough to be concerned, but that did not align with the version of my mother I knew. Then she answered the question for me before I had to ask it directly.

"Shanelle told me something happened there last night," she said. "I have been worried sick since."

"That is not why I called." It was cold. the way I said it. But something about my mother being suspiciously soft with me was unnerving, and I hated the feeling that came with it. For some reason, I just wanted to kill it at the root. My mother did have her moments. But nothing kind when it came to the pack. That always came first. I suppose everything with the Archambault also had a part to play in this, too. But I refused to linger on that as well.

"Oh... Forgive me for being worried about my own daughter."

"It does not really suit you," I said, and I heard the words land with more edge than I had intended, though I did not take them back.

Silence stretched on her end of the line.

"Why did you call, then?" she said finally, quieter.

"I have been going through something strange lately." I sat down on the edge of the tub, gathering myself before continuing. "Sometimes I see things. People who are not supposed to be there. Dead people." I paused. "And there are these threads, sometimes, connecting people to each other. Different colors." Another pause. "You know what I am talking about. Don’t you?"

The silence this time had a different quality.

"Oh, goddess." Her voice came out strained, almost panicked. "Margaux, that barbaric pack is making you lose your mind. You are saying things that do not even make sense. I need to speak with Shanelle properly. I think you need to come home so you can actually recover, if this is what those wolves are doing to you—"

"Mom."

"I mean it, Margaux, this sounds—"

"Mom," I said it more firmly this time. "Stop."

She stopped.

Confusion tightened in my chest. This reaction did not match anything Étienne had described. He had insisted my mother once saw things others could not, spoke of creatures and threads, back when he and I were too young to grasp her meaning. Since he had been there at that moment, he had been so sure. Yet now she acted as if I had confessed to hearing voices from the radiator.

"Please," I said. "I am being completely serious right now. You can talk to me. I am going through the exact same thing you went through, and it is genuinely frightening, and if you know anything about what this is, I need you to actually be my mother for once and just tell me. That is the least you owe me right now."

"Margaux, you are not making sense. This is not something I have ever experienced. I think your mental state is suffering more than you realize, and I am going to call Shanelle and figure out exactly what is happening to you over there. If I have to come, then—"

I could not do it. Because my rage was building and I knew that in the next second, I was going to talk about the Archambault case. So I cut the line, letting it go dead before I could respond in blind rage.

I sat clutching the phone, staring at the blank screen, replaying the conversation from every angle. Either my mother was lying with a conviction so complete it felt almost theatrical, or she truly had no idea what I meant, and Étienne’s memory had failed him all those years ago.

If it was the second option, what exactly had Étienne actually witnessed back then?

I did not get the chance to follow that thought any further.

A knock came at the door, three measured raps, and I crossed the room and pulled it open without checking who it was first.

Chris stood in the corridor.