Chapter 12 Father's First Visit (Vivienne POV)
Father is waiting outside Thornfield House when I return from breakfast after the football match, and my stomach drops.
"Vivienne." He opens his arms for a hug, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Surprise."
"Father. I wasn't expecting you." I embrace him briefly, breathing in his familiar scent…coffee and old books and something chemical I've never been able to identify. "Is everything alright?"
"Can't a father visit his daughter without cause for alarm?" But his hands grip my shoulders just a touch too tightly before releasing me. "Walk with me. We need to talk."
We head toward the gardens, past clusters of students enjoying the Saturday morning. Father's gaze sweeps across them constantly, cataloging faces, assessing threats I don't see.
"You look different," he says abruptly. "Healthier. More color in your cheeks."
"The fresh air here is good. And I've been eating better."
"Eating better?" His tone sharpens. "You were on a carefully balanced diet at home. What are you eating here that's different?"
I think about the raw steak I begged from the kitchen, the way cooked meat tastes wrong now. "Just normal school food. Nothing concerning."
"Hmm." He doesn't sound convinced. "And your sleep? Any nightmares?"
The dreams of running through forests, of the silver-eyed woman calling me little wolf. "No more than usual."
"Vivienne." He stops walking, turning to face me fully. "I need you to be honest with me. Have you noticed any... changes? Physical changes? Heightened senses, unusual coordination, cravings for specific foods?"
My heart hammers. He knows. Somehow, he knows.
"I'm fine, Father. Just adjusting to being around people my age for the first time."
"That's not what I asked."
"What do you want me to say?"
"The truth." His grey eyes bore into mine, searching. "Because I've been watching, Vivienne. Monitoring your behavior. And something is different. Something that concerns me greatly."
"You've been watching me? How?"
"I have my methods. Now answer the question."
I should tell him. Should admit that yes, everything is changing, that I can hear conversations three floors away and run faster than I have any right to. That something inside me is waking up and I don't know how to stop it.
But Freya's warning echoes in my mind: He'll try to pull you from school. He'll increase the suppression. Running now could kill you.
"I'm fine," I repeat. "Maybe a bit stressed about coursework, but that's normal for A-levels."
Father studies my face for a long moment. "You're lying to me."
"I'm not…"
"Yes, you are. You've inherited your mother's tell…you touch your left ear when you're being dishonest. You've been doing it since you were four."
My hand drops from my ear, heat flooding my face. "Father…"
"What I can't figure out is why. What are you hiding? Or more specifically, who are you protecting?"
"No one. I'm not protecting anyone."
"Tell me about your classmates. The other students. Anyone who seems... unusual. Especially among the athletic students."
The shift in topic throws me. "Unusual how?"
"Unusually strong. Unusually fast. Unusually coordinated." He pulls out his mobile, scrolling to something. "I saw the football match coverage last night. This boy…Declan Hartley. Tell me about him."
My breath catches. "What about him?"
"He's your age. Attends Blackthorn. Captains the football team." Father shows me the screen…a screenshot from last night's match, Declan mid-leap, ball at his feet. "Four goals. Three assists. The commentators called it the most dominant individual performance they'd ever witnessed."
"He's very talented."
"He's impossible." Father zooms in on the image. "Look at this hang-time. Look at his positioning. No seventeen-year-old human moves like that."
"Maybe he's just exceptionally gifted."
"Or maybe he's something else entirely." Father pockets his phone. "Do you know him? This Declan Hartley?"
I could lie. Should lie. But Father's already suspicious, and if I deny knowing Declan when we have classes together, when we're project partners, he'll investigate further.
"He's in my history class. We're partners for a project on British folklore."
Father's expression darkens. "You're working with him? Closely?"
"It's just a school project."
"How closely?"
"We meet in the library twice a week to research. That's all."
"That's all?" He takes a step closer. "Vivienne, I need you to listen very carefully. That boy is dangerous. I don't know what he is yet, but something about him is wrong. Deeply wrong."
"You can't know that from a football match."
"I know that from twenty years of studying predatory behavior. I know that from pattern recognition. I know that from…" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "Stay away from him."
"Father, you're being paranoid…"
"I'm being cautious. There's a difference." He grips my shoulders again, and this time his hold is almost painful. "Promise me, Vivienne. Promise me you'll keep your distance from Declan Hartley."
"I can't promise that. We have a project due…"
"Then work separately. Communicate via email. But do not spend time alone with him. Do you understand?"
"Why? What are you afraid of?"
"That I'll lose you the same way I lost your mother." His voice cracks slightly. "That something will take you from me, and I won't be able to stop it."
The pain in his expression is real, and it makes my chest ache. But beneath the pain is something else. Fear, yes. But also determination. The kind of determination that leads to desperate measures.
"I'll be careful," I say, which isn't quite a promise but close enough.
Father seems to accept it. He releases me, stepping back. "Good. Now, tell me about your other classmates. Anyone else who seems unusual? Anyone who's shown particular interest in you?"
I think about Helena Wright confronting me about my track time. About Helena asking me what I am. About Freya's revelation that twenty supernatural students attend this school.
"No one concerning," I lie.
We walk for another twenty minutes, Father asking probing questions about my daily routine, my diet, my sleep patterns. I deflect as much as I can, giving vague answers that satisfy his immediate concerns without revealing anything important.
When we reach the student center, Father pauses. "I need to make a phone call. Wait here."
He steps away, mobile to his ear, speaking in tones too low for even my enhanced hearing to catch clearly. But I see his body language…tense, urgent, his free hand gesturing sharply.
"Everything alright?" Sophie appears at my elbow, startling me.
"My father showed up unexpectedly."
"The tall, intense-looking man you're with? Yeah, I noticed. He looks..." She searches for a diplomatic word. "Protective."
"That's one way to describe it."
"Is he staying long?"
"I don't know. I hope not."
Sophie gives me a sympathetic look. "Want me to create an emergency? Fake a crisis so you can escape?"
The offer is tempting, but Father would see through it immediately. "No. But thank you."
Father returns, pocketing his phone. His expression has shifted from suspicious to grimly satisfied.
"I've made arrangements," he says. "I'll be staying in Yorkshire for a few days. There's a hotel near campus. I'll be checking in on you regularly."
My stomach sinks. "Father, that's not necessary…"
"It's very necessary. Something's happening here, Vivienne. Something that requires my attention. Until I know you're safe, I'm not leaving."
"You're being ridiculous. This is a school, not a war zone."
"You'd be surprised how thin that line can be." He pulls a card from his wallet, pressing it into my hand. "Hotel Ashcroft. Room 237. If anything happens…anything unusual or frightening…you call me immediately. Day or night."
"Nothing's going to happen."
"Humor me." He kisses my forehead, and I smell gunpowder beneath the cologne. "I love you, darling. Everything I do is to protect you."
"I know."
But as he walks away toward the parking area, I'm not sure I believe it anymore. Because protecting me seems to involve controlling me, suppressing me, keeping me from becoming what I was born to be.
I watch until his car disappears down the drive, then pull out my mobile. A text to Freya: Father's staying in Yorkshire. He's suspicious of Declan. Says he'll be "checking in regularly."
Her response is immediate: That's not good. We need to talk. Chapel in 20 minutes?
Can't. Meeting Declan at 8. He's going to tell me everything.
Be careful. If your father is watching, he might follow you.
The thought makes my skin crawl. But I need answers. Need to understand what I am, what Declan is, what this bond between us means.
I'll be careful.
I pocket my phone and head back to my room, my mind spinning with Father's questions and accusations. When I open the door, Sophie isn't there, probably at the library or common room.
I'm halfway to my bed when I notice it.
Father's notebook.
It's sitting on my desk, half-hidden under a stack of my own papers. He must have set it down while I was distracted by Sophie and forgotten to retrieve it when he left.
I should return it. Should call him right now and tell him he left something behind.
Instead, I pick it up.
The cover is worn leather, the pages thick with notes and diagrams. I open to a random page and freeze.
Wolf tracks. Dozens of them, sketched in meticulous detail with measurements and location markers. Each one labeled with dates and GPS coordinates.
I flip forward. More tracks. More locations. Some sketches show pawprints larger than any natural wolf's, with spacing that suggests bipedal movement.
Yorkshire Moors - October 15th. Large male, approximately 180cm in human form. Stride pattern suggests pack hierarchy - likely Beta or higher. Territory markers consistent with Greyfang clan.
The words swim before my eyes. Pack hierarchy. Greyfang clan. Territory markers.
I flip to another section. Maps. Hand-drawn territorial boundaries covering Yorkshire and surrounding counties. Different areas shaded in different colors with legend: Red - Greyfang Pack. Blue - Pennine Pack. Green - Suspected neutral zones. Black - Active hunting grounds.
Active hunting grounds.
My hands shake as I turn more pages. Find entries in Father's precise handwriting:
Subject: Marcus Hartley. Confirmed werewolf, Alpha of Greyfang Pack. Eliminated October 2023 during coordinated strike. Silver rounds, UV backup. Body disposed according to protocol. Pack scattered but reformed under heir…son, approximately 16 at time of father's death. Current location unknown but suspected to remain in Yorkshire territory.
The date makes my breath catch. Two years ago. Declan said his father died two years ago.
I flip frantically through more pages, looking for…
There.
Subject: Declan Hartley. Son of Marcus Hartley (deceased). Assumed Alpha position following father's elimination. Age 16 at succession…youngest recorded in Greyfang history. Currently enrolled at Blackthorn Academy under false pretenses. Scholarship athlete. Monitoring for exposure opportunities.
And below that, added more recently in different ink:
Subject showing signs of heat cycle. Behavioral changes consistent with mate bond formation. Potential leverage point identified. Continue surveillance.
The notebook falls from my hands.
Father didn't just kill Declan's father.
He's been hunting Declan.
And he knows about the mate bond.
Which means he knows about me.
I sink onto my bed, my mind reeling. Everything Father said during his visit takes on new meaning. The questions about unusual students. The warning to stay away from Declan. The decision to stay in Yorkshire.
He's not here to protect me.
He's here to hunt.
My mobile buzzes. A text from an unknown number, but I recognize the tone: Your father was at campus today. Photographed me from the parking area. Did he say anything?
Declan.
I stare at the message, at the notebook lying open on my floor with its terrible revelations, at my hands that are shaking so badly I can barely hold the phone.
What do I tell him? That my father killed his? That Father's been tracking him for years? That I'm the "potential leverage point" in Father's hunting strategy?
Yes. He asked about you. Warned me to stay away. Said you're dangerous.
The response takes three minutes: He's not wrong. I am dangerous. But not to you. Never to you.
My father killed yours.
Another pause. Longer this time.
I know.
How long have you known?
Since the day I found out who your father was. Three weeks.
Three weeks. He's known for three weeks that my father murdered his, and he didn't tell me. Didn't run. Didn't reject the bond that's forming between us.
Why didn't you tell me?
Because I was afraid you'd choose him over me. And I couldn't bear that.
I close my eyes, tears burning behind my lids. "I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty room. "I'm so sorry."
Don't apologize for something you didn't do. Your father's choices aren't your burden.
But I'm his daughter. I've been living with him, trusting him, believing his lies about protecting me. How can you even look at me?
Because you're not him. You're nothing like him. And Vivienne? I know this changes everything. I know it makes what's between us even more complicated. But I still need to talk to you tonight. Still need to explain things properly. Will you still meet me?
I look at the notebook on the floor. At the evidence of Father's systematic hunting. At the notation marking me as leverage.
Everything Freya said is true. Father has been suppressing me, controlling me, keeping me from becoming what I was born to be. Not to protect me.
To use me.
Yes. I'll be there. 8pm.
Thank you. And Vivienne? Whatever you learned today…whatever your father showed you or didn't show you…remember that you get to choose who you become. Not him. You.
I pocket my phone and pick up the notebook, flipping to the final pages. Find entries dated within the last week:
Vivienne showing signs of awakening. Enhanced senses confirmed via remote monitoring. Physical coordination improving beyond baseline. Suppression protocols failing faster than projected. Recommend immediate extraction and increased dosage.
And below that, in heavy underlined text:
If extraction not possible, consider terminal solution. Subject poses unacceptable risk in transformed state. Cannot allow another Lyanna situation.
Terminal solution.
Father isn't planning to suppress me.
He's planning to kill me.
Rather than let me become what my mother was, he'll eliminate the threat.
Eliminate me.
I should be terrified. Should be calling someone, running, hiding. But all I feel is cold clarity.
Father isn't the man I thought he was. Isn't the protective, grieving widower raising his daughter in isolation. He's a hunter who murdered his own wife and is now prepared to murder his daughter rather than accept what we are.
I carefully return the notebook to my desk exactly where Father left it. Let him think I never saw it. Let him believe I'm still the obedient daughter who trusts his judgment.
But I'm done being that girl.
Tonight, I'll meet Declan. I'll hear the whole truth about what I am, what we are, what this bond means.
And then I'll make my own choices.
Not as Edmund Ashford's daughter.
But as Vivienne Silvermane's heir.
The afternoon passes in anxious tension. I attend classes mechanically, barely absorbing information. Father texts twice, once to confirm I'm staying on campus, once to remind me about his hotel room number.
I respond with cheerful lies that make my stomach turn.
By seven-thirty, I'm pacing my room. Sophie's at dinner with friends, giving me space I desperately need. I've changed clothes three times, unable to decide what you wear to meet your mate who you now know is the son of the man your father murdered.
Finally, I settle on jeans and a jumper, practical and warm. I tuck Freya's pendant under my shirt, feeling its grounding presence.
At seven-forty-five, I slip out of Thornfield House through the back entrance, avoiding the main paths where Father might be watching.
The library gardens are at the far edge of campus, bordered by old stone walls and overlooked by ancient trees. It's technically off-limits after dark, but couples sneak there regularly enough that security rarely checks.
Declan is already waiting when I arrive, leaning against the garden wall. He straightens when he sees me, and even in the dim light, I can see the tension in his shoulders.