Chapter 4
The scent in my room was wrong.
I knew it the second I stepped inside.
The faint trace of lavender and rain–my scent–was buried under something artificial, something sickeningly sweet.
Queenie.
The bed I had neatly made before leaving? A complete disaster. The closet had been ransacked, my clothes scattered.
But that wasn’t what made my wolf’s fur bristle.
It was the music box.
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A delicate, handcrafted castle–gifted to me by my grandfather when I was a pup- now lay in pieces on the floor, the tiny glass towers shattered, glittering under the dim light like broken dreams.
Something inside me snapped.
“Malcolm!” My voice rang through the house, edged with the sharp bite of my wolf. “Who’s been in this room? Who touched my things?”
Heavy footsteps approached.
Malcolm stepped in, brows furrowed. He scanned the mess, then–just as quickly- his expression smoothed into something unreadable.
“It’s just some handmade thing.” His voice was casual, dismissive. “I’ll find someone to put it back together for you.”
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I stared at him.
That tone–so indifferent, so careless.
As if the last six years meant nothing.
As if I meant nothing.
It was Queenie.
I didn’t need to ask. I knew.
I saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. In the way he refused to meet my eyes.
But I asked anyway.
“It was Queenie, wasn’t it?”
Malcolm’s expression darkened. His jaw
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I had been surrounded by a rogue pack on my way home.”
When I called out through our bond, he didn’t hesitate. He ran headlong into the woods, not even bothering with a weapon.
That night, the always–gentle, rule–abiding bookworm threw away every restraint.
He fought like a wild beast–no tactics, no strategy, just raw, desperate strength.
By the time the patrol arrived, he was covered in blood, barely conscious.
But before he passed out, he still had the audacity to smile.
“Rowena… good… you’re not hurt…”
That was the man I loved.
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This man standing before me?
I didn’t recognize him.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t have proof, and Malcolm had already made his choice.
So i kneeled, carefully gathering the broken pieces–piece by tiny, shattered piece.
The two glass towers had completely collapsed. I picked them up last, cradling them in my palm like something fragile, something already lost.
Then, I heard it.
A soft, pitiful voice drifting in from the hallway.
“Malcolm… please don’t fight with Rowena…”
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Queenie limped into the room, her big, doe–like eyes filled with false sorrow. “Even if I didn’t do it… if Rowena wants to blame me, then let her. No one’s ever liked me since I was a kid. It’s normal she doesn’t like me either…”
Oh, she was good.
Malcolm exhaled sharply, already softening. Already believing her.
And then–she crouched beside me.
One delicate, perfectly manicured foot stepped right onto a jagged shard of the music box.
She twisted her foot. Hard.
Then, in a voice only I could hear, she
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whispered-
“Yeah, I broke it. So what?”
Rage exploded through my veins.
Before I even realized what I was doing, I pushed her.
Or at least, I tried to.
Queenie didn’t even wait for my hands to touch her.
She threw herself backward, flinging her body dramatically onto the floor, her injured foot slamming straight into the corner of the nightstand.
A beat of silence.
Then-
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“Rowena… I was just trying to help…”
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