FIFTY

FIFTY
DARRAGH'S POV

Sara's fingers laced through mine, warm yet trembling with an unspoken urgency. Her pulse thrummed against my skin as she guided me across the balcony. Omegas parted before us like a reluctant sea, their conversations dying to hushed whispers. Eyes tracked our movement—some curious, others wary—as we pushed through the crowd.

The weight of their stares pressed against my back until Sara pulled me into her room, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle the hinges. The sudden silence felt thick, almost suffocating.

"Why would you do that?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet each word carried the weight of cracking ice. She stood with her back against the door, as if barricading us from the world outside.

I leaned against the opposite wall, crossing my arms across my chest. The defensive posture came naturally. "Because his death is fishy, and he deserves justice."

"No." She pushed away from the door, closing the distance between us until I could see the flecks of gold in her green irises. "Do you suspect your father?"

The question hung between us. I held her gaze but said nothing. My silence was answer enough.

Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as understanding washed over her face. "Darragh, why would you—"

"Because it makes sense," I cut in, working to keep my voice steady even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "My father has more to gain from this forced silence than anyone else. The timing, the circumstances—none of it adds up."

A visible shudder ran through her. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if suddenly cold. "What will the pack say when you imply that your father murdered his own kin?" Her voice dropped even lower. "That's the gravest crime, Darragh. Blood betrayal."

"Don't you want to know what really happened?" I pushed off the wall, stepping toward her. The scent of her fear—sharp and metallic—hit my nostrils. "What if it wasn't an accident? What if someone made it look that way?"

Tears welled in her eyes, catching the light from the window. One escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "If you're doing this for my sake, don't." Her voice cracked. "Don't fall out of favor with your family for me. It's not worth what your father could do to you."

She turned away, fingers reaching for the door handle, but I caught her arm. Not roughly, but firmly enough to stop her.

"Do you know something?"

Her heartbeat spiked—a frantic rhythm I could hear as clearly as if it were my own. The sudden acceleration of her pulse thundered in my ears.

Goddess.

"You do," I said, the realization settling like a cold stone in my gut. "You know what happened."

Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, her gaze drifted to the window, fixed on something beyond the glass.

I followed her line of sight.

There he was. My father. Standing in the balcony, his posture rigid and commanding. My mother stood beside him, her lips moving in conversation, but his attention was elsewhere. His eyes—cold and calculating—were locked on us through the window pane.

I took an instinctive step back. "Is he threatening you?"

"Drop it already!" The words burst from her like a dam breaking. She whirled to face me, tears now flowing freely. "He's my grandfather, not yours. His death was an accident. Let him rest!"

I didn't get to speak after There was a knock at the balcony door; three sharp raps that seemed to echo through the room. I knew that knock. That sound had preceded countless childhood reprimands.

The door swung open before either of us could respond. My father stood in the threshold, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. The scent of him—pine and dominance—flooded the room.

"That's enough, Darragh." His voice was deceptively calm, but I knew the storm that raged beneath.

He reached out, seizing Sara by the arm and pulling her behind him. The movement was fluid, practiced. It was as if he was shielding her or maybe silencing her, I couldn't be sure which.

My mother appeared behind him, her face drawn with worry. Eamon hovered at her shoulder, his expression guarded.

"I know it's a horrible thing," my mother said, her voice soft as if she were soothing a child. "But implying it was murder... that's a bit much, don't you think? You're upsetting everyone."

My jaw tightened until I felt the pressure in my temples. "Can you stop trying to keep the peace for once and support me?" The words came out harsher than I intended. "I'm not accusing anyone specifically. I just want a Delicate involved. Let someone with the supernatural gift to reveal the hidden handle it. What's the harm in that?"

"You forget who rules this pack," My father growled. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "Me. Not you."

I squared my shoulders, meeting his gaze. "The Elders have a say in matters like these. Do I have to bring them in? Make it official?"

He stepped forward, closing the distance between us until I could smell the mint and coffee on his breath. It mingled with something bitter, anger perhaps. Or fear. "One more fucking word out of you, and I will banish you from Moonveil."

I swallowed the retort that rose to my lips. The man before me—alpha or not—wouldn't live forever knowing what I knew. But my heart thundered against my ribs, betraying my calm exterior.

"If you have nothing to hide," I said, my voice quieter now, "then you shouldn't be reacting this violently."

Something in his eyes changed. A flicker, then a flame, then wildfire.

His fist connected with my stomach before I could brace myself. Air rushed from my lungs in a painful whoosh, leaving me gasping. Before I could recover, his knuckles collided with my jaw. Pain exploded across my face, and my vision swam with bright spots.

I tried to move, to block, but he was faster. He was always faster. A blur of fists and fury descended upon me. Another punch landed on my cheek. Another cracked against my ribs. My knee hit the floor as my legs buckled beneath me. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, warm and coppery.

"Bastien, stop!" My mother's scream pierced through the haze of pain.

But her intervention earned her no mercy. Father's hand flew out, striking her across the face with a crack that echoed through the room. The force of it sent her careening into the wall. Her head connected with the decorative tile with a sickening sound. I watched, helpless, as she slid to the floor, limp as a discarded doll. Blood seeped from a gash along her temple, the flesh around it already beginning to knit closed. But not fast enough. Never fast enough.

"Stay out of it, woman!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips.

Sara darted across the room, dropping to her knees beside my mother's crumpled form.

I dragged myself upright, using the wall for support. My lip was split and swelling, my ribs screaming in protest with each breath. The taste of blood coated my tongue, thick and viscous.

"See what you made me do," Father spat, his hand still balled into a fist. Veins stood out on his forearm, pulsing with rage.

I spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. "See you at the Elders' Court tomorrow, father."

A low laugh bubbled from his throat. A sound that made my skin crawl.

Then his foot connected with my face.

White light exploded behind my eyes.

Then red. Nothing but red.

He didn't stop. His boot crashed into my ribs, my back, my head. Again and again.

Pain blossomed through my body like wildfire, consuming everything in its path. I felt my nose give way beneath his heel, cartilage and bone crunching. My teeth cut into the soft flesh of my tongue, adding fresh blood to the pool already forming beneath my cheek.

"Alpha Bastien!" Eamon's voice seemed to come from far away. "He got the message! Enough!"

"Stay in place like a good little wolf!" The Alpha command rolled through the room like thunder, infused with power that couldn't be denied. I watched through swollen eyes as Eamon's body went rigid, muscles straining against the compulsion even as he remained frozen in place. Sweat beaded on his forehead with the effort of resisting.

"I'll beat him until his regeneration finally starts to fucking tic and fail him," Father snarled, his foot rearing back for another blow. His eyes gleamed with something beyond rage, something primal and unhinged. "Maybe then, he'll understand what an accident feels like."

His boot connected with my side again. Something cracked—a rib, maybe two. My body instinctively curled inward, trying to protect my vital organs. The healing process that should have begun hadn't started yet. Too much damage, too quickly. My wolf was overwhelmed, retreating to preserve what it could.

Through the haze of agony, through the taste of blood and the sound of my own ragged breathing, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity:

He was scared.

Not angry. Not disciplining an insubordinate son.

Scared.

Because I was getting too close to something he wanted buried.

And that meant I was right.

The truth lay somewhere beneath his rage, beneath his fists and boots and threats.

It was there in the way his eyes had widened when I mentioned the Elders. In the way his scent had shifted from dominance to something sharper, more primal.

I held onto that thought as consciousness began to slip away. It was a small victory paid for in blood and broken bones but a victory nonetheless.

“You killed him, didn’t you?” I whispered, spitting out the words along with the blood filling my mouth.

My face throbbed with every heartbeat. My jaw was most likely fractured. I couldn’t see out of my left eye anymore. But I didn’t care. I had to say it. Had to get it out.

“You fucking bastard!” he snarled.

His leg pulled back.

“Enough!” Sara’s voice rang out, shrill and raw, echoing like thunder against the hallway walls.

I braced myself.

But the kick never came which made me blink.

Father's foot hovered mid-air. Stuck. Trembling. The tendons in his leg stretched taut, his body frozen in place. Then his arms jerked violently. His shoulders spasmed. His whole frame began to seize.

Blood poured from his nose in a thin, steady stream.

The scent of it hit the air like a warning bell. Metallic. Sickly.

He dropped to the floor in a heap.

Convulsing.

Limbs twisting.

His mouth opened in a silent scream.

I watched him, dazed and breathless, my own blood seeping into the polished floor.

Sara stood behind him, hand outstretched. Her body shook, but her eyes were cold. Steady. Her fingers twitched slightly, like she was channeling something.

Magic?

His body gave one final jerk before going limp.

Silence followed. Heavy. Unnatural.

No one moved.

Not Eamon.

Not my mother.

Not even Sara.

Just my father, unconscious and bleeding on the ground, chest still rising and falling—barely.

I coughed, the pain lancing through my ribs making the edges of my vision go white.

But I was still breathing.

He wasn’t dead.

At least, not yet.