Her breath caught.
The girl didn't remind her of Ingrid.
She reminded her of Charles.
Except for the hair — where his was pure, impossible white, hers was an inky black cascade. But everything else… everything else screamed of him.
"My God," she whispered without meaning to.
Charles frowned slightly. "What is it?"
Vivienne shook her head quickly, covering her slip with a brittle smile. "Nothing," she lied.
"You need to stop coming here, Vivienne."
"I came to see my niece," she said softly.
"You and I both know that's not the reason you keep coming around here. Delilah is old enough now. She doesn't need you fawning over her every hour. She's not your daughter."
Vivienne's eyes flashed. She moved toward him slowly. "And yet she is," she countered. "My sister left her to me right before she died."
"Of course," he said, with a faint, sardonic smile. "You are the only witness to your sister's last moments. No one else around to counter that." He tilted his head. "How convenient."
"What should I have done?" she demanded. "Abandoned her? Because you couldn't stand the sight of me?"
He stared at her, his jaw tightening.
"It was the night of the Blood Moon," she said. "The Shadow Wolf was loose. Everything was chaos. Everyone had run for their lives."
Charles looked away.
"And yet you were here," he murmured after a long silence.
"Because I came to tell Ingrid that my daughter had died," she said. "I needed my sister."
Charles turned to face her fully. His silver hair gleamed against the light.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "My point still stands," he said. "If you need to see Delilah, you can ask her to visit you. You don't need to be here."
"And how about when I want to see you?" Vivienne asked.
Charles exhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Ah… there it is," he said dryly. "The real reason you still keep coming. Aren't you tired, Vivienne?"
"Of wanting you?" she asked. "Never. You need a wife, Charles. Delilah needs a mother."
"I need nothing," he said. "And you're filling the mother role quite well. Don't push your luck."
"I see the years haven't dulled your arrogance."
"And I see age didn't fix your delusion," he countered.
"Charles," she said softly.
"Do not come here again unless it's absolutely necessary."
"Charles," she tried again, desperation threading through the silk of her voice. "Why can't you just see me? It's been over twenty years."
He turned away, shoulders squared. "Your sister was my mate," he said flatly. "Respect her memory."
"Am I not in the best position to fill her shoes?"
He turned then, slowly.
"Ingrid," he said quietly, "was beautiful. Lovely. Kind. Gracious. You are nothing like her."
Vivienne's throat closed up. "You forget I buried her with my own hands while you were too broken to breathe."
"Say your goodbyes to Delilah," he said. "Good night, Vivienne."
He turned and walked away.
Vivienne stood rooted where she was, her pulse throbbing in her ears. Her reflection in Ingrid's portrait stared back at her. What was left of her heart cracked again.
Her first and only love couldn't stand the sight of her. Couldn't stand the sight of his daughter — or at least, the daughter he was told was his.
But Vivienne knew the truth.
That night of the Blood Moon — the night the Shadow Wolf broke free from its bindings — she had done what no one would ever forgive. After she'd made sure Ingrid had drawn her final breath, she had switched the infants.
Her own child for Ingrid's.
She had hidden the true heir of Duvall in the servants' quarters, planning to dispose of her once the chaos subsided. But when the storm cleared and she returned — the cradle was empty.
Fate had a strange way of punishing liars.
And every time she saw Delilah's eyes, she saw the truth glaring back.
Vivienne sighed and walked out of the house.
Her car waited at the end of the driveway. Sliding in, she leaned against the headrest for a moment, closing her eyes. She should have gone home. To her empty house, her cold bed, the quiet where no one said her name or cared if she came back. But home wasn't what she needed. Not tonight.
She started the engine, the growl of it echoing through the wet night.
She was headed in search of her.
Brianna Hart.
Brianna Hart had once been a simple lady. Pretty, soft-spoken. She'd babysat Eric Duvall when he was a pup. She hadn't worked in the Duvall household but her sister, Nadine, had.
Nadine who vanished the night of the Blood Moon.
Officially, she'd been one of the casualties. "The Shadow Wolf got her," the reports said.
What if Nadine hadn't died that night? What if she'd taken the child?
Vivienne's hands tightened on the steering wheel. If that were true, everything she had built, every lie she had carefully spun for twenty years, could crumble in one night.
There was only one way to find out.
And Brianna Hart — had a few questions to answer.
*****
Across the city, Eric Duvall's eyes snapped open.
The clock beside his bed read 2:43 a.m.
The night was thick — unnaturally so. His wolf stirred beneath his skin, a restless growl. it had been that way all day. He rolled out of bed, the sheets tangled around his legs.
It wasn't a full moon. He knew that instinctively, even before he pushed the curtains aside. The clouds outside were dense and electric, lightning crawling faintly through them.
Eric stepped out of his bedroom, muscles tense, eyes narrowed as he scanned the darkened hallway. Ever since he'd cut off his connection to his wolf—slammed that mental door shut and locked it—his senses had been sluggish. His hearing, usually sharp enough to detect a mouse breathing several rooms away, was now human-dull. His sense of smell? A tragedy. But it was the price he'd chosen to pay… a price he paid every day.