Chapter 187

Chapter 187
Kael

The black sedan rolled through the iron gates of the Striker estate with the smooth precision of a well-oiled machine, gravel crunching under expensive tires as centuries-old oak trees formed a cathedral arch overhead. I sat rigid in the back seat, watching the familiar landscape slide past the tinted windows—manicured lawns that stretched like green seas, the stone fountain where I'd once broken my arm at seven trying to prove I could climb as high as Alaric, the practice yard where my father had taught me that pain was weakness leaving the body.

Every landmark carried a memory, and every memory carried the weight of never being quite enough.

The car stopped at the circular drive before the main house, all grey stone and severe lines, built to intimidate rather than welcome. I stepped out into the crisp morning air, adjusting my uniform with movements made automatic by decades of conditioning. The house loomed before me, three stories of Striker legacy and expectation, its windows reflecting the pale sunlight like accusatory eyes.

I'd grown up here. I'd bled here, trained here, learned here that love was conditional and approval was earned through achievement. And I'd left here at eighteen believing that if I just pushed hard enough, fought well enough, became strong enough, maybe my father would finally look at me the way he looked at Alaric—with pride instead of calculation, warmth instead of assessment.

Thirty years later, I still hadn't learned.

The front door opened as I approached, the family butler stepping aside with a respectful nod that felt more like pity. I crossed the threshold into the marble-floored entrance hall, and my gaze immediately caught on the wall of photographs that dominated the space—a shrine to Striker success that told the story of two sons, but only celebrated one.

Center position, in a gilt frame that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary: Alaric's promotion ceremony. Our father, General Vincent Striker, stood tall and proud in full dress uniform, personally pinning the brigadier general's star to my brother's chest. Our mother, Isolde, gazed up at Alaric with a smile so radiant it seemed to illuminate the entire photograph. Behind them, flags snapped in an invisible wind, and Alaric's posture screamed triumph.

I remembered that day. I'd been in the field, leading a covert operation that would later earn me a classified commendation and the nickname "Night Butcher." I'd missed the ceremony. My father hadn't spoken to me for three months afterward.

To the left: Alaric's bonding ceremony with his mate, Claire, daughter of the Southern Territory's most influential senator. The happy couple stood beneath an arch of white roses, hands clasped, eyes locked in that nauseating way that suggested they actually believed in the fairy tale. My parents flanked them like proud bookends, my mother's hand resting on Alaric's shoulder in a gesture of maternal blessing I couldn't remember ever receiving.

To the right: Alaric's son's fifth birthday party, three generations of Strikers gathered around a cake shaped like a starship. The boy grinned gap-toothed at the camera while my father held him on his lap, the old general's stern features softened in a way I'd seen so rarely it felt like looking at a stranger.

And there, relegated to the far end of the wall, practically in the corner where the hallway turned: a single photograph of me in my dress uniform on military academy graduation day. Younger, leaner, with hope still visible in my eyes and a foolish belief that excellence might earn me a place in this gallery of achievement. The frame was smaller than the others, the glass slightly dusty, and the placement spoke volumes about my position in the family hierarchy.

I stood there longer than I should have, cataloging the evidence of my own irrelevance, until my mother's voice drifted from the study like smoke from a dying fire.

"Kael's back?"

Not "Kael's home." Not "our son has arrived." Just a question posed with the same inflection she might use to confirm a delivery had been made. Flat. Disinterested. A formality to be acknowledged and dismissed.

I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my expression into the neutral mask I'd perfected over three decades of disappointing my parents, and walked toward the study. Each step echoed in the cavernous hall, and I found myself counting them—twenty-three from the door to the study threshold—the same number it had always been, the same distance I'd traveled a thousand times as a boy, a cadet, a soldier, a son perpetually seeking approval I'd never receive.

The study door stood open, and I paused in the doorway, taking in the scene with tactical precision. My father sat behind the massive mahogany desk that had belonged to three generations of Striker generals, its surface organized with military efficiency—reports stacked at perfect right angles, pens arranged by size, a crystal paperweight catching the light from the tall windows. Vincent Striker, even in civilian clothes, radiated command, his silver hair cut short, his posture ramrod straight despite his sixty-eight years.

He didn't look up when I entered.

"Stand there," he said, still focused on whatever document held his attention. "This won't take long."

My jaw tightened, but I moved to stand before the desk, hands clasped behind my back, feet shoulder-width apart—at attention without the formal declaration, because that's what Strikers did. We stood tall, we endured, we presented a perfect facade even when everything inside us screamed rebellion.

My father finally set down his pen, leaning back in his leather chair with a sigh that suggested my very presence was an inconvenience. His grey green eyes—so like my own, yet somehow infinitely harder—fixed on me with the assessing gaze of a general evaluating substandard troops.

"There was a princess," he began without preamble, his voice carrying the crisp enunciation of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question, "hiding at Zenith University, disguised as a male student. You were her tactical instructor. You saw her nearly every day for months. And you noticed nothing."

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation, delivered with surgical precision to cut exactly where it would hurt most.

I kept my expression neutral, though my fingers tightened behind my back. "I verified her combat capabilities. She earned her place through merit."

"I didn't ask about her capabilities." My father's voice dropped to that particular tone of disappointment I'd heard my entire life—quiet, controlled, devastating. "I asked how you, a decorated special forces commander trained in intelligence and observation, failed to identify a high-value political target operating under false pretenses in your own classroom."

The words hung in the air like smoke from a battlefield, and I felt something twist in my chest. Because he was right, in the most technical sense. I had failed to identify Ray as Princess Rhea Winterbourne.

I'd been too busy drowning in the confusing attraction to a student I'd thought was male, too distracted by my wolf's insistent recognition of a mate bond that made no sense, too caught up in the impossible pull toward someone who should have been off-limits in every conceivable way.

But I'd known she was special. I'd known she was hiding something. I'd known, on some level my conscious mind refused to acknowledge, that Ray Winters was more than he appeared.

"If I had known—" I started, but my father cut me off with a sharp gesture.

"If you had known, this family could have been the ones to shelter a runaway princess. The Winterbournes would have owed us a debt of gratitude. Political capital we could have leveraged for decades." He stood, moving to the window with the measured pace of a man who'd spent his life commanding rooms.

"Your brother would have seen the opportunity immediately. Alaric has a gift for turning situations to our advantage. It's why he's a general at thirty-five, why his mate's family connections have opened doors across three territories, why his son will inherit not just our name but a network of alliances that will serve him his entire life."

Each word landed like a physical blow, carefully aimed, precisely delivered. I'd heard variations of this speech before—you're not Alaric, you'll never be Alaric, why can't you be more like Alaric—but it never got easier. The comparison still stung, still made something small and wounded inside me flinch away from the light.

My mother's voice drifted from where she sat in the corner, embroidering something delicate and useless. "Alaric closed that trade agreement with the Northern packs last week. Three million in revenue for the family interests. At your age, he was already building the foundation of his political career."

She looked up, her elegant features arranged in an expression of gentle concern that didn't quite reach her eyes. "What exactly have you built, Kael? You gave up your position in special forces—gave up the glory you'd earned—to play teacher to teenagers. For what?"