Chapter 93 Palace of grief

Chapter 93 Palace of grief
NATE

The stairs beneath my feet felt like the descent into an execution chamber.

I reached the bottom of the ground-floor landing and stopped outside the heavy oak door of the study. I raised a hand, rapping my knuckles twice against the wood.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Ernest was standing by the large bay window, a heavy crystal tumbler of amber whiskey resting in his hand. He wasn't looking at pack ledgers or signing documents. He was staring quietly up at the massive oil painting hung above the marble fireplace—the lifelike portrait of Ava, her dark eyes painted with the soft, melancholic warmth she carried until the day she died.
Ernest turned his head, his slate-gray eyes studying me in silence for a long, calculating beat.

Without a word, he set his tumbler down on the sideboard, grabbed a second crystal glass from the mahogany bar cabinet, and poured a generous measure of twenty-year single malt into both.
He turned and extended the second glass toward me.

"I suppose you're old enough for this now," Ernest said smoothly.

I took the glass, the cut crystal cold against my fingers.

My father had never done something like this before. Over the years, Cole, Damon, and I had swiped dozens of bottles from his private collection—sneaking them into the woods for bonfires or sharing them with girls we snuck through the basement windows. But he had never offered it. He had never handed me a glass like an equal.

"Sit," Ernest instructed.

To my surprise, he didn't walk around the massive mahogany desk to take his usual seat of authority. Instead, he pulled the leather armchair beside mine, sitting right next to me. We sat shoulder-to-shoulder, facing Ava’s portrait.

I held the glass still, unable to bring myself to drink immediately.

"I raised you and your brothers in a palace of grief, Nathaniel," Ernest began, his deep baritone quiet, almost mournful. He swirled the liquor in his glass. "First, I lost your mother... And then Ava."

I brought the glass to my lips, letting the burning alcohol scorch my throat just to keep my hands from shaking.

Liar.

The word screamed in my skull. He sat there talking about grief and tragic loss, when every fiber of my being knew he killed our sick mother to clear the path for Ava—or, at the very least, neglected our mother until her heart gave out.

"I am going to be straightforward with you, Nathaniel," Ernest continued, looking into the amber liquid. "What happened between me and Iris was neither planned nor premeditated on my part. We grew closer in recent months... and it simply happened. Iris is an adult now, and I assure you I never once pursued her when she was younger."

I took another slow sip, forcing the fiery liquid down, desperately keeping the urge to smash the heavy glass over his temple at bay.

He hadn't pursued Iris when she was underage, sure—but Ava had been sixteen when Ernest first took her into his bed in his thirties. Ava had written in her journals about how she never saw the danger back then, only realizing the sick reality years later when she looked at her own daughter and realized Iris would be sixteen one day. Ernest hadn't spared Iris out of morality. He simply hadn't found her attractive until she grew into her mother's spitting image.

"Iris... is complicated," Ernest murmured. "I recognize my faults in her upbringing. My emotional detachment created a vacuum in our dynamic, leaving space for... something else to flourish. I never intended for you and your brothers to find out the way you did. Especially considering... the bond."

I cleared my throat, forcing my voice into an icy, dismissive monotone. "What bond? We rejected her."

Ernest glanced at me sideways. "Clearly, there appears to be a lingering attachment. Especially on Cole’s part."

"I suppose so," I said with a light, uncaring shrug.

"I wanted to know where you stand, Nathaniel," Ernest said, his tone turning sharp and probing. "I wanted to know what you think. If there is any... resentment."

I finished the rest of the whiskey in a single swallow, letting the burn steady my pulse.

"Honestly?" I scoffed, letting a cold, arrogant smirk touch my lips. "I'm only surprised it took her this long to make her move."

Ernest tilted his head. "Explain."

"She grew up in the exact same palace of grief, Dad," I said, leaning back into the leather cushions. "She looks in the mirror and sees Ava. The moment she realized she couldn't trap Cole, Damon, or me with a mate bond—and realized we were going to throw her out the second we took over—she looked for the next best thing. She saw an easy target. She’s clever, I'll give her that. But I worry you're the one who isn't seeing things clearly."

Ernest’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

"She isn't Ava," I stated with sharp, unvarnished cruelty. "She doesn't love you. She's a gold-digger taking advantage of your grief, playing the victim while burning a massive hole through your credit cards."

Ernest fell completely silent, his eyes locked on mine as he processed my words.

"I appreciate your concern, Nathaniel," Ernest said quietly after a long pause. "But I assure you, I am in absolute control of this situation."

"In my opinion, you should just throw her out on the street," I pressed, keeping my voice firm. "That was the original plan before the Gala nonsense. Iris has brought nothing but disgrace and drama to this family. She doesn't deserve the Crawford name. You always told us that."

"You're right," Ernest murmured, staring back up at the portrait. "She is not one of us."

A sudden, fragile spark of hope flared in my chest. If I could convince him to exile her, the physical danger would end. We could get her to a safehouse, protect her, and figure out the rest without a knife at our throats—

"But I love her," Ernest said softly. "And we love each other."

My hands locked around the leather armrest so hard the stitching popped beneath my fingernails.

A wave of pure, suffocating revulsion washed through my veins. Hearing those words come out of his mouth—the sickening delusion of an old predator claiming love over the girl he had systematically broken—nearly shattered my skull.

I forced my jaw to unlock. I held up my empty glass, gesturing toward the bar. "Can I have another?"

Ernest gave a faint smile. "Of course."

He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and handed me his empty glass. "Refill mine as well."

I stood up and walked over to the mahogany bar cabinet, turning my back to him. My hands shook so violently that the neck of the crystal decanter clattered against the rim of the glasses. Standing there, pouring the amber liquor, every instinct in my body screamed for cyanide, for wolfsbane, for anything lethal enough to dissolve his internal organs on the spot. I prayed to whatever gods existed that his death would be slow, agonizing, and entirely stripped of dignity.

I carried the drinks back and handed Ernest his glass.

"I am going to marry Iris to Christian Harlow," Ernest announced casually, taking a sip. "Jessica’s brother."

I kept my face completely blank, feigning mild, condescending surprise. "Christian? How the hell did Alpha Harlow agree to that? Iris is a nobody."

"Mr. Harlow has pressing issues regarding his son," Ernest explained. "A marriage slightly below their station is preferable to the alternative."

"What alternative?"

"Alpha Harlow has terminal cancer," Ernest said, his voice dropping into a matter-of-fact register. "He is dying. Christian is his sole direct heir, but he is absent, unmarried, and completely detached from pack duty. With Jessica marrying you—the future Alpha of a far larger, superior territory—Mr. Harlow fears that Christian’s lack of an anchor will trigger a succession crisis the moment he dies. He wants the boy tied down to a domestic alliance before he passes."

I leaned back, swirling my glass, letting the silence settle between us before looking at him directly.

"Why did you summon me down here tonight, Dad?" I asked quietly. "You know where I stand. I'm on your side."

Ernest looked at me, a strange, heavy gravity settling over his weathered features.

"Watching Harlow waste away has forced me to consider our own future," Ernest said, his voice low and deliberate. "It forced me to evaluate what happens to the Bloodmoon pack when I am gone... and I am seriously considering naming you as my sole heir."