The Alpha's Unwanted Daughter Returns for Blood

Ever POV:

The pain in my palm was a sharp, clarifying sting. It cut through the fog of the past, making the edges of my hatred clean and precise. I didn't just remember the fire and the accusations. I remembered the thousand tiny cuts that came before.

I remembered Luna Juliana. My mother. She never looked at me directly, always just past my shoulder, as if focusing on me might contaminate her. Once, I'd accidentally brushed her arm as I passed in a hallway. I watched her, from the corner of my eye, as she took out a silk handkerchief and scrubbed at the spot, her expression one of profound disgust.

Alpha Fremont, my father, only spoke to me to ask one question, in variations. "Has it happened yet?" or "Still nothing?" Each time, his voice was flat, impatient. He wasn't asking about my well-being. He was asking if I had managed to stop being a genetic failure. His questions were always public, in the dining hall or the training yard, designed to remind everyone of my deficiency.

And Kane. His cruelty wasn't subtle. It was his favorite sport. He once "accidentally" tripped me during a training drill, sending me sprawling into the mud. He and his friends had laughed, a chorus of deep, mocking sounds, as I struggled to my feet, covered in filth. "Look," he'd said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The pack's shame, right where she belongs. In the dirt."

Caroline was always there, right on cue. She would rush to my side, her expression a perfect mask of sisterly concern. She'd help me up, dabbing at the mud on my cheek with her own pristine handkerchief, all while scolding Kane in a soft, gentle voice.

"Kane, stop it. She's our sister."

But looking back now, through the lens of betrayal, I saw it. I saw the flicker of triumph in her eyes. The small, satisfied smile she hid behind her hand. She wasn't my defender. She was the director of my humiliation.

The worst memory, the one that truly broke me, wasn't about public shame. It was about a secret hope.

I had overheard two maids whispering that Luna Juliana was unwell. A strange malady, they said, a recurring ache in her bones that only a rare herb, Moonpetal Fern, could soothe.

A foolish, desperate idea took root in my heart. This was my chance. A way to prove my worth. A way to earn a single glance of maternal affection.

The fern grew only in the Whisperwood, a dangerous stretch of forest at the very edge of our territory, known for rogue patrols. I didn't care.

I slipped out of the manor at dawn. For three days, I searched. Thorns tore at my skin and clothes. I slept in hollow logs, my stomach aching with hunger, and I drank from streams, my ears straining at every snapped twig, terrified of being found by rogues. Twice, I had to hide in dense undergrowth, holding my breath as the scent of strange wolves passed nearby.

Finally, on the third day, I found it. A small patch of delicate, silver-leafed ferns, glowing faintly in the dappled sunlight.

I returned to the manor, exhausted but triumphant, clutching my muddy prize. I was a mess of scratches and dirt, but my heart was soaring. I was going to help my mother.

I reached her chambers, my hand raised to knock. But I froze when I heard voices from within. Kane's and Caroline's.

"Can you believe she actually went?" Kane's voice was thick with amusement. "She really bought it? Mom just made that up because she couldn't stand the sight of her moping face for another day."

Then Caroline's, sweet as poison. "Don't be so mean, brother. She meant well. Even if... these weeds are completely useless."

The Moonpetal Ferns in my hand suddenly felt like they were burning my skin. I couldn't breathe. The air in my lungs turned to stone.

I backed away from the door, silent as a ghost, and hid behind a statue in the hall. A moment later, Kane emerged from the room. He was holding my ferns.

He walked with a casual stride across the manicured courtyard, straight to the stone incinerator where the household trash was burned. Without a second glance, he tossed them in.

I watched the delicate silver leaves curl, blacken, and turn to ash.

Just like my heart.

That moment. That was the real death. Being called a murderer was a sharp, violent blow. But this... this was the slow, grinding realization that I had never, ever been wanted. That every path to their affection was a dead end they had designed themselves.

Back in the stable, the wind howled outside, a lonely, mournful sound.

I closed my eyes, sealing that memory away not in sadness, but in a cold, hard vault inside my chest. The Ever who had sought their love was dead. She had died in that hallway, watching her hope turn to ash.

I opened my eyes. The hate was gone. In its place was a terrifying calm. It was the quiet of a frozen sea, vast and deep and deadly.

I was done trying to explain. Done trying to beg.

A single thought echoed in the silence of my mind: Survive.

Slowly, painfully, I crawled on my hands and knees across the filthy floor. I reached the wooden bowl. The oatmeal was cold now, a gray, congealed paste with bits of dirt and hay floating in it.

I picked it up with a steady hand.

I ignored the grime. I ignored the sour smell.

I lifted the bowl to my lips and drank.

The gruel was vile. It tasted like despair. But I forced myself to swallow every last drop. This wasn't food. It was fuel.

And I had a long, long fire to build.