Chapter Sixty: Carol's POV
Marcus and Leon finally returned. They weren't alone.
Between them walked a man in his fifties, rumpled and unshaven, carrying the nervous sweat of someone who'd spent a lifetime looking over his shoulder. His hands were bound in front of him, and in Leon's other hand was a bulging leather satchel.
"This is him," Marcus announced, his voice carrying clearly through the silent chamber. He lifted the satchel and shook it slightly so the papers inside rustled. "Practice versions of the forged letter. Handwriting samples. And three thousand dollars in cash, all covered with Belinda Valodin's scent."
Vasquez held out her hand. Leon crossed the room to place the satchel in her grip. She opened it with deliberate slowness, pulling out each piece of evidence and laying it on the table before her—the draft letters, each one showing progression as the forger perfected my handwriting. The samples he'd worked from, photocopies of my signature on Council reports. And finally, the money, still bound in the bank's paper wrapper, reeking of Belinda's rose-water perfume and the distinctive musk of her personal scent.
Thornton stared at the evidence, silent for a moment. Then he turned to the man standing between Marcus and Leon. "Is this true?" he demanded. "Did Belinda Valodin hire you to forge documents intended to frame Carol for treason?"
The man opened his mouth, closed it, then looked at me with an expression so pitiful it was almost comical. He thought I might do to him what I'd done to the servant, reach into his head and pull the truth out by force. But I didn't need to. He was already broken.
"Yes," he whispered. "She came to me three weeks ago. Said she needed a letter that would look like it came from Carol, something to prove she was working with the Blackwood pack. She gave me everything—handwriting samples, scent sample, even specific details about what the letter should promise. She paid me half upfront, said I'd get the rest once Carol was expelled." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I needed the money. My daughter's medical bills—I didn't think anyone would get hurt, I just thought it was pack politics, I didn't understand—"
"Take him to holding," Vasquez cut him off, her voice devoid of sympathy. "And the servant. They'll be dealt with according to pack law." She turned to Belinda, and for the first time since I'd met her, I saw genuine anger in Vasquez's eyes—the kind of cold fury that came from betrayal not just of law but of honor. "Belinda Valodin. You stand accused of conspiracy, forgery, perjury, and malicious defamation of a pack member. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
Belinda's mouth worked silently, her perfect composure finally, completely shattered. She looked around the room as if searching for allies, for anyone who might step forward to defend her, but even Seraphina had shifted subtly away, creating physical distance. "I—this is—you can't possibly believe—"
"I believe the evidence," Vasquez said flatly. "I believe the confession. And I believe my own eyes, which just watched your paid witness admit to lying." She stood, her hand coming down on the table with enough force to crack the wood. "Council guards. Remove Belinda Valodin from this chamber. She is to be confined to quarters pending formal charges. The two who gave false testimony are likewise remanded to holding. This hearing is adjourned."
The guards moved swiftly, professionally, their faces carefully neutral as they took Belinda by the arms and lifted her from her seat. She went rigid, her mouth opening as if to protest, to argue, to somehow talk her way out of this disaster she'd created, but no words came out.
She just stared at me, her eyes wide and disbelieving, as if she couldn't comprehend how the trap she'd spent weeks constructing had snapped shut on her instead of me.
I watched them escort her from the chamber, watched Seraphina hurry out behind them with her head down, and I felt nothing. Not satisfaction, not triumph, not even relief. Just a cold, hollow exhaustion.
The other Council members began to disperse. Some stopped to speak in low voices; others left quickly as if afraid proximity to this scandal might contaminate them.
Vasquez remained at the head table, gathering the evidence into a pile, her movements methodical and precise.
I left the Council chamber. The corridor lights were a bit harsh. I walked through the main building to the hospital wing.
I sat down beside Simon's bed. Before I could speak, there was a knock at the door. It was already late. I almost thought it might be some well-meaning pack member wanting to express support, or wanting to tactfully keep their distance.
But the scent drifting through the door crack made my heart jump. It was Derek.
He brought food and an air of determination. I opened the door. He was carrying a large tray loaded with what seemed like an entire dinner service, as if he'd moved the whole kitchen over.
His expression was stubborn yet uncertain, as if testing a boundary between us that had never been explicitly drawn.
"I figured you didn't eat after the hearing," he said, eyes not quite meeting mine, sidling into the room and setting the tray heavily on the table. "I'm telling you, I'm not taking this back until you say I should leave. So you might as well eat."
The young wolf who not long ago had resented my existence was now barging in to make sure I was taking care of myself. The sheer audacity of it made me laugh.
"Thank you," I said, the words carrying more weight than they seemed. "You didn't have to do this."
"Well." Derek shrugged, finally meeting my eyes directly. "You took a hit for me during that rescue. Literal claws to the arm—you stepped between me and that transformed wolf. I can at least make sure you're not starving."
We ate in comfortable silence. After a while, Derek put down his fork and looked at me.
"I know how Simon sees you," he said, his voice more serious than usual. "He's not the type to trust people easily. He trusts you. That's enough."
I didn't respond. He didn't say anything more, just stood up and stacked the empty plates to take away. At the door, he paused.
"Get some rest," he said.
The door closed. The room was left with only the sound of the monitor, beeping softly and steadily.
I pulled my chair closer and rested my hand on Simon's blanket. His fingers were cool. I closed my eyes, my mind suddenly flashing back to that night eight years ago.
He'd rescued me from the casino owner with these same hands, pulling me up from the ground.
Later I fell asleep. I don't know how long passed. The light outside the window shifted from gray-white to deep blue, then from deep blue back to gray-white.
I woke groggily, then closed my eyes again.
Simon still hadn't woken.
At dawn, I stood up and left the ward.
I had many things to handle. Belinda's unfinished business, Council documents that needed completion, and pack members waiting to see which way the wind would blow. With Simon gone, these things could only be done by me.
When I walked out of the building, the sunlight was bright. I squinted.
A young werewolf was walking toward me from across the way. Seeing me, he stepped aside to the edge of the path.
From that moment on, they looked at me differently. No longer with contempt, no longer with the casual dismissal they'd shown the human girl who didn't belong.
When I walked through Valodin's corridors, werewolves would step aside.
When I spoke in Council meetings, they would listen.
When I made suggestions, they would consider carefully before responding, as if weighing not just my words but the possibility that I might reach into their minds and verify whether they meant what they said.
I'd won. I'd proven my innocence, exposed Belinda's lies, secured my place in the pack hierarchy through a demonstration of power that no one could ignore or dismiss.
But victory tasted nothing like I'd imagined. It tasted like isolation.
When people realize you can strip away their pretenses with a glance, they leave space around you.
No one knows exactly how much you can see, so genuine interaction becomes careful politeness, afraid to get too close.
Slowly, I suddenly understood something.
Perhaps this was what Simon had been bearing alone all these years.
Not the danger of being discovered, but this loneliness of standing opposite everyone.