I stare at my reflection. "I... I don't even know what she looked like."

I had never given it much thought. Perhaps my subconscious was protecting me, but until now, the reality of my true mother never crossed my mind. I’d always had to be so strong, to survive. It’s as if I’ve been numb all this time, and only now am I starting to feel. A profound, hollow sadness settles in my chest.

"Come. Let's fix your hair," Poppy says gently, guiding me to a chair. "Such pretty hair," she murmurs as she begins to work. She’s deft and patient, pinning my curls into a simple, elegant updo. It’s understated, but I like it.

"Alright, makeup," she says, moving in front of me. "I’ll keep it clean. Just enhancing your natural beauty."

"Natural beauty? With these scars?"

"Those are a record of what you’ve survived. They make you a warrior. I have my own, and I never cover them. I wear them with pride because I overcame it all. You should, too."

Her words shift something inside me. After a few minutes, she’s finished. I’ve never worn makeup in my life, but looking in the mirror, I don't recognize the woman staring back. She kept it light, clean, and ethereal.

"Perfect. Let’s get your shoes and head downstairs. It’s time."

She produces a pair of ivory heels that match the dress flawlessly. I slip them on, but the moment we step out into the hall, my ankles betray me. I stumble, and I can’t help but burst into a fit of nervous laughter as I nearly face-plant.

"Are you okay?!" she asks, panicked.

"I’m fine—I’ve just never walked in heels before."

She smiles, her eyes softening. "Okay. Let’s fix that." She returns to the closet and fetches a pair with a lower, more stable heel. They fit perfectly, and I walk with newfound confidence. As we pass a painting on the wall, Poppy stops.

"You said you didn't know what she looked like. That’s her."

I stare at the portrait, and my breath hitches. The resemblance is undeniable—the same long, curly hair, though hers was a lighter chestnut; the same hazel eyes. The ache in my chest intensifies. "Thank you... Poppy."

"I’ll have a print brought to your room," she promises. "Let's go."

I enter the dining room with a forced smile, but it falters as dozens of eyes snap toward me. Poppy leads me to a seat directly beside Warrick. As I slide into the chair, I frantically scan the room until I lock eyes with Colt. The tension in my shoulders vanishes instantly. He stands among the generals, a silent sentinel.

"My... daughter." Warrick’s voice is jagged. He eyes me with a look of genuine, haunted sorrow. "You look just like her..." he whispers, low enough that only I can hear.

He looks down, visibly struggling to regain his composure, before the mask of paternal grief vanishes as quickly as it appeared. He stands, and the entire room rises in unison.

"You look incredible," he says, his tone now crisp and rehearsed. "You are truly your mother’s daughter."

He turns to the crowd, his voice booming. "This is Casseopea. My eldest child. Dahlia’s daughter. Unbeknownst to me, she survived all these years under the enemy’s nose. She will be my successor. She is a true Alpha."

Successor.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. If he is my father—and I am starting to believe he is—then I possess Alpha blood.

I am an Alpha.

Warrick introduces his entourage: his brides, Lotus and Jasmin (Skye), my brothers Victor and Garret, and his seven generals, including Serge, Rodrick, and his Beta, Archie.

"Now, tell me," Warrick says, settling back into his chair. "How did you end up in the enemy’s pack, and how did you survive?"

My heart hammers, but I find my voice. "I was told I was found near the river. My mother... was dead. A couple found me and raised me as their own. I didn't know who I was."

Warrick nods, then turns to Colt. "And you, Alexis? How did you stumble upon her, and what made you believe she was mine?"

"I was taken prisoner alongside her," Colt says smoothly. "I punched the Alpha’s daughter, and they threw me in the dungeon as punishment."

Warrick barks a laugh. "You possess so many of your mother’s traits, and you don't even know it. She was a feisty one."

"In the cells, she was attacked by a guard," Colt continues. "That’s when she displayed her power. I knew then."

I stare at Colt, wide-eyed.

So it was me.

I killed Niles with nothing but a thought.

"My boy," Warrick says, beaming at Colt. "You will be rewarded. You’ll take the seat of honor next to my Beta. Beck, move."

Beck rises, seething, and as he passes Colt, he slams his shoulder into him. "You won't be there long," he hisses.

Colt ignores him. He’s closer now, though he refuses to glance at Skye. I feel a pull toward him—a connection deeper and more electric than I ever felt for Ezra.

The dinner progresses with surreal ease. Warrick and his men drink heavily, and by the time Poppy leads me back to my suite, the air is thick with stale wine and smoke.

"Is he always like this?" I ask as she helps me undress.

"No. He was in a rare, good mood. Fear is his preferred tool, but tonight, he was satisfied."

Once she leaves, I pace the room in a oversized pajama shirt, my mind racing. Suddenly, a shadow falls across the floor. I jump, nearly throwing a punch, until I realize it’s Colt.

"How did you get in? You scared the life out of me!"

He smiles, pulling me into a desperate hug. "I came through the balcony. But keep your door locked, Cass."

"Why? Are handsome men going to start pouring in?"

"Exactly that."

I bury my face in his chest. "I was so scared."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Is he... is he really my father?"

Colt nods. "I believe so."

"And this power?"

He sits on the bed, his expression grim. "You’ve heard of Alpha command?"

"Yes, but this is different."

"It’s an ancient, royal lineage—the Solveig, the Gunnvald, and your family, the Chevalier. Only those born with the will of a true Alpha inherit this. Your brothers don't have it. It’s a command over the soul itself. You don't just command a pack member to act; you command their body to obey. Even against their will."

"So, I killed him."

"Don't feel sorry for that. He deserved it."

"You should run, Colt. Go back to your pack."

"I won't leave you."

"Why? You owe me nothing."

"Maybe I’m in love with you," he says, his voice drop-dead serious.

I squint at him. "In love? Really?"

"Do you not feel safe with me? Do you not look for me the moment you enter a room? Do you not think of me until your mind is exhausted?"

He’s right. I do.

"Then maybe," he whispers, leaning his forehead against mine, "this is what love looks like."