Claimed by the scarred Alpha

VIVIANNE

The words coming out of his mouth were my own. Or rather, hers. Sentences about threads and dead people and the creeping, suffocating certainty of madness, written in a hand I recognized instantly even from across the room, even after all these years of refusing to look at anything that carried her handwriting.

"Does that not sound remarkably similar to what your daughter described to you today?" He closed the book partially, keeping one finger inside to hold the page open. "And you could not give her anything useful, could you? Because even the real Vivianne kept this from you while she was alive. She kept everything from you, in the end. Funny, considering how close you two were supposed to be. Twin magic."

My hands turned cold, even as warm morning light filled the room.

"You," I said. "How did you even get that. I thought it had been destroyed years ago."

"I enjoy being in control, sister." He said it simply, like stating a fact about the weather outside. "Does that genuinely surprise you at this point in our relationship?" He extended the book toward me, holding it out like an offering rather than a weapon, though it was unmistakably the latter. "Read through it properly. Help your daughter understand what is happening to her before it gets worse. I would rather not deal with another situation like our sister’s, should Margaux ever decide her own circumstances have become too heavy to keep carrying."

I stared at the book without taking it, my arms remaining fixed at my sides.

"But do find out more," he continued, almost as an afterthought, his tone shifting back into something lighter, "about what exactly these things are asking her for. What favors do they want in exchange for their assistance? I would like to know the specifics."

"You bugged my phone." My voice came out flatter than I intended, the shock of the diary settling into something colder and more practical.

"If you insist on dragging this conversation out further, then let us simply continue it for as long as you need." His tone shifted again, the pleasantness thinning at the edges into something with more teeth. "Shanelle is currently in Valcourt territory. And you lied to me about it. Again, sister. I am growing tired of discovering your omissions secondhand."

"I am not your enemy here," he added, watching my face carefully. "And yet the way you look at me sometimes, one might genuinely think I was some kind of monster."

He laughed at that, the sound easy and unbothered, as though the accusation in his own observation amused rather than concerned him.

"What files," he said, his laughter dissolving into a cold, predatory silence, "need to be returned before anyone—before I—notice they’ve vanished?" His voice was a blade now, soft and slicing, every syllable promising consequences best left unnamed.

My stomach dropped, the cold spreading from my hands through the rest of me.

He crossed the room and stood close enough that I could smell the particular cologne he always wore, expensive and slightly too strong, the same scent that had haunted every room he had ever walked into since we were children.

"Stop that," he said, his voice dropping low, all pretense of pleasantness finally abandoned. "Start talking, Isabelle."

The name hit me again, harder this time, settling into my chest as a stone dropped into still water. I had not heard it spoken aloud in eight years. Not once. Not by Armand, who believed Vivianne had always been Vivianne. Not by my children, who had no reason to suspect their mother was anyone other than how she presented herself. Not even by myself, in the privacy of my own thoughts, because using it required acknowledging a version of reality I had spent nearly a decade burying under careful habits and practiced gestures.

"Lucian... I don’t know what you’re talking about. But—"

He struck me before the words even left my mouth. The sound rang out, sharp and merciless, and my head snapped sideways. My skin burned. I tasted blood. I met his eyes with murder in my stare, but he only smiled, a thin, joyless thing that made my stomach ice over. "Do you think you have wings now?" His tone was almost gentle, which only made it worse. "What did you give Shanelle to help with Margo’s new family problems?"

He stalked closer, shadows pooling behind him. "

You had no pity for Bastien when it was his turn to be devoured by this machine. But for Margaux... is it different? Is it because she’s your daughter?"

My voice broke, raw and furious. "And what if it is? I sacrificed her anyway. I tore her apart with my own hands, Lucian! Forgive me for wanting her to survive after everything I’ve already done to her. Yes, I took a file—a worthless, ancient file that might be the only thing that can save her! You’re the only one who seems to enjoy these new privileges our family bleeds for. Vivianne didn’t. I didn’t. Not even the children born into this mess do! Just because you never found your happy ending doesn’t mean you have to drag us all into the fire with you!"

Lucian’s laughter was jagged, joyless—a sound that scraped at the edges of the room. "So, the Omega finds her voice. Isabelle, you’ve danced through blood and secrets, survived only because you wear the title of Luna like a mask. That is your armor. That is your curse. Power is a crown of knives, and you bleed with every step you take. But I won’t shield you any longer. Go on, expose us—drag our rot into the light. Show them what we are: leeches, monsters, architects of every massacre our name has ever touched. Especially the Archambault slaughter. We led it. And no amount of guilt will ever wash that away."

My voice trembled, rage and guilt warring in my chest. "I never wanted to hurt those people!"

He stepped closer, his eyes lit with a fanatic’s glee. "But we did, Isabelle. We broke them. And let me share a secret, since you’re so desperate for honesty. The smallest one—the boy Margaux loved—do you remember him? I sold him."

The world tilted. "What?"

He grinned, eyes cold as a grave. "Yes. I fucking sold him to a brothel. Let the worst of humanity tear him apart. He’s almost certainly dead now. That’s what kindness looks like in this world—letting the child do the dirty work themselves. Killing him outright would have been merciful. But mercy isn’t a luxury for people like us." His laughter was low and poisonous, echoing off the walls.

Revulsion twisted through me. "You’re sick, Lucian."

He bared his teeth. "So are you. Don’t pretend your motives were pure—you did it all for Margaux. Don’t think I missed it. Sing, little sister. Confess it all. Let her look at you and see the monster you really are. We’re bound by blood and by every head we’ve sent rolling. So drop the act and tell me, Isa, what files did you hand to Valcourt?"

My voice was nothing but ash. "It was the Archambault files."