The Reborn She-wolf

I didn't want to intrude on the cozy "family" scene, so I handed my mother's gift to a servant and slipped away to my old bedroom. The room still carried the faint scent of my girlhood. On the wall hung a painting from my tenth birthday, commissioned by my father, Jonathan. It captured the three of us-me, him, and Isobel-before Cordelia came to House Sinclair. My smile in the portrait was bright, unguarded, and my parents' eyes sparkled with pride and love.

I stared at it for a long time, tears welling up. With a deep breath, I pulled out an empty box to pack away these remnants of my past. As I sorted through my things, I realized most of it was tied to Theodore. Eighty-eight gifts I'd given him, all returned. Ninety-nine letters, unopened. A silk pouch I'd pricked my fingers ten times to embroider for him. A luminous glass lantern I'd hunted down. A nine-stringed zither I'd waited ten days in Taldira's royal court to acquire. Each item screamed of how fiercely I'd loved him.

My cold heart stung, like it had been dipped in boiling water. But I packed them all away. If I stopped clinging to these delusions of redemption, those stubborn obsessions couldn't hold me anymore.

When I finished, I left the room. Passing the main hall, I heard the same cheerful chatter. I meant to slip out unnoticed, but then I caught sight of a figure bowing deeply. "Jonathan, Isobel, I'm Killian Crowhurst, here to wish you a happy birthday."

His voice hit me like a thunderbolt, freezing me in place. That voice-it belonged to the rogue leader who'd tortured me for three days, ripping out my fingernails. I could still feel the chains biting into my wrists and ankles, his dagger lifting my chin. "House Sinclair's prized she-wolf," he'd sneered. "Soft as silk but tougher than a brothel girl."

I'd never forget that voice or the searing pain of his blade slicing my skin.

My face drained of color, my body trembling uncontrollably. The box in my hands crashed to the floor.

The laughter in the hall stopped dead. All eyes turned to me. Jonathan's face darkened. "Daphne! Skulking around like that-what trouble are you stirring now?"

I stared at Killian, my voice hoarse. "It's him. He's the rogue who kidnapped me."

"Nonsense!" Isobel snapped, her face twisted with anger. "Killian is Cordelia's friend. How dare you slander him?"

Cordelia's eyes flickered with panic before she masked it with concern. She stepped toward me. "Daphne, you must be exhausted. Let me help you to your room."

I yanked my arm away, ready to confront Killian, but Theodore's iron grip clamped onto my wrist, nearly crushing it. His face was a storm of frost. "Daphne! It's your mother's birthday, and you're still playing these ghostly games? Enough!"

Every word was a dagger, piercing my heart. The pain choked me, and I looked at the four of them-Jonathan, Isobel, Cordelia, Theodore-my lips trembling, unable to form another sound.

I'd almost forgotten: no one here would believe me. No one cared if I lived or died.

In a daze, I clutched the box and fled, like a wounded animal running from a trap.