[redith].
Yes, I had overheard her denying Dennis minutes earlier, behind the closed door, but this—this felt different.
This wasn’t confusion or hysteria. This wasn’t her illness whispering nonsense either.
There was pity in her eyes, clarity in her voice, and a grounded truth in the way her words flowed. And it was that clarity that made the breath lodge in my throat.
My pulse quickened. If she were ranting, I could dismiss it. If she were angry, I could question it.
But like this—calm, lucid, almost grieving, it felt too real.
And for the first ti since stepping into this place, a chill crept beneath my skin as the weight of Lady Oatrun’s words settled heavily over .
She’s telling the truth. Or at least, she believes she is. And I didn’t know which option frightened more.
I forced myself to breathe and gather my courage. "Why do you say so?" I asked quietly.
Whether what she said made sense or not, I needed to hear more. I needed to understand.
Lady Oatrun leaned in—so close I could feel her breath warm against my ear.
Her whisper was soft but sharp. "Randall brought him to from outside."
I blinked. Outside? That made no sense.
If Dennis were brought from outside, soone—anyone—would have known. Rumours traveled fast among werewolves, even faster in noble circles. There had never been a single whisper of adoption, infidelity, or scandal.
Before I could question it, she continued:
"I had just given birth to a stillborn when he brought the child to ."
My stomach tightened.
"He wanted to raise the child he had with his mistress as my own, which I refused." Her voice sharpened, trembling with old anger. "We had a big fight, and then he declared mad and locked down here."
For a mont—just a mont, I believed her. Her tone, her expression, the rawness of her voice...
But then— ’locked up here.’
The belief died instantly. My shock deflated.
Draven had told himself that she ca down here willingly. That she chose isolation, that she misrembered the truth.
If he hadn’t told that earlier, I would have already believed her entire story.
Trying to ground myself, I said gently, "But Dennis and Draven look so much alike."
She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Of course. Randall is their father."
Before I could react, she sighed almost impatiently.
"I know you may find it hard to believe ," she murmured, "but here is the thing. Dennis’s mother is a full werewolf, just like Randall."
Instantly, goosebumps erupted along my arms.
The way she said it, like she was so certain, so clear, and so sane.
I suddenly didn’t want this conversation to go any further. I felt as if every additional word was a truth I would never be able to unlearn—and maybe I shouldn’t learn.
But sothing drove forward—a whisper of instinct, a whisper of dread.
"Are you not one?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Lady Oatrun turned to slowly, her expression becoming eerily serious. "Do I look like one?"
My breath caught in my throat, but just then—suddenly she burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained, as if the question itself were a joke only she understood.
I didn’t understand her— her patterns, her moods, her contradictions. She was drifting between clarity and madness, truth and confusion, affection and violence.
I tried to read her eyes to find sothing stable in them. But she looked away with a fleeting smile, then took my hand gently.
"You are perfect for my son." Her tone softened, almost tender.
Then, with a cold edge beneath the words, she added, "I don’t like that girl Wanda."
I swallowed. This woman was unreadable, unpredictable, and terrifying in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence.
There were things she knew that she shouldn’t. Things she forgot that she shouldn’t. And things she rembered with perfect clarity.
I sat there holding her hand, unsure if I had just uncovered a truth or stepped into a deeper lie.
Then, I asked, "Do you know Wanda?"
Lady Oatrun’s expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Recognition flickered, and her lips curled in a faint, displeased smile.
"Of course," she murmured. "I know Wanda far too well."
Then, she leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping against her knee in a slow, rhythmic pattern.
"Be careful of her," she said, her tone drifting between warning and indifference. "Whatever she does isn’t entirely her fault... but an enemy is still an enemy."
My brows pulled together. Her words made no sense, yet they struck sothing in —an uneasiness I couldn’t explain.
Then suddenly, she blinked and looked at as though seeing for the first ti. "What is your na?"
My heart sank. She had already forgotten.
"redith Carter," I answered softly.
Inside my mind, I wondered how she could lose a mory that quickly—re minutes after Draven told her my na.
Her illness felt like a maze with traps hidden behind every corner.
She stared at , studying . And then, sothing sharp flickered through her eyes. A sudden lucidity, aterrifying awareness.
Her voice dropped to a low whisper. "You’re not just a werewolf... are you?"
’Here we go again.’
Her gaze pierced straight through as if peeling back my skin and looking into the marrow beneath—into my soul. Into the part of I tried so hard to hide.
But no matter how she forgets things and repeats words, my pulse still spiked—not from fear of exposure but from the certainty that, in this mont, she truly saw .
Then her voice dropped into sothing soft, reverent, and chilling. "I can sll sothing ancient inside you."
My entire body went still. Ancient?
Her fingers brushed my hand—light, trembling—yet the weight of the words landed like a stone inside my chest.
Before I could speak, she continued:
"I lost my touch a long ti ago, so I can’t exactly tell what you are." Her gaze sharpened, clear, almost disturbingly lucid. "But I know you are ant to rule."
My heart pounded because suddenly—painfully—things started connecting.
Only two types of beings had ever sensed sothing different about :
Vampires, and her.
Never a werewolf, no matter how strong. No Alpha. Not even Draven, only vampires, could sense my difference—my mixed blood. My father’s side. My curse. My truth.
And now, Lady Oatrun.
The room suddenly felt colder and quieter. And just then, a single whispered thought slid into my mind, chilling more than her words:
’If she can sll sothing ancient inside ... then she isn’t fully werewolf. Not at all.’
And if she wasn’t fully werewolf then...
My breath caught painfully in my throat. Draven might not be a full werewolf either.
Half werewolf. Half sothing else. Sothing ancient as well, sothing vampiric.
The realization slamd into so violently I felt dizzy.
My heart throbbed—fear, sharp and bitter, coiled beneath my ribs. Not fear of him, but fear of what this truth ant. Of how deep this bloodline went. Of what kind of power slept inside Draven... power he didn’t even know he had.
And if he was part vampire, then our child—if we ever had one—
A tremor went through .
Lady Oatrun smiled faintly at , as if she had no idea she had just shattered the ground beneath my feet.
But a part of knew she knew exactly what she had said.
I was still frozen, still trying to steady my breath from everything Lady Oatrun had just revealed when she leaned in again, her voice turning low and strangely reverent.
"Protect my son."
My heart skipped. Her dark, unfocused yet piercing eyes held mine as she continued:
"He will be King one day, whether those council of fools like it or not. He will rule over them for a long ti."
A long ti?
My brows drew together. Every royal pack reigned for five years before the crown passed on. That was the law. The cycle. The balance.
So, what did she an by a long ti?
Before I could ask, she added sothing even stranger:
"I trust Randall won’t hurt my son, since he went the extra mile to make have him."
What?
I blinked.
What extra mile? What was she implying? What did Randall do?
My confusion tangled with rising dread. Nothing she was saying made sense, not fully, but every piece felt like a clue to sothing much bigger and much darker.
Just when I opened my mouth to ask, she smiled sweetly.
"Now, go." She said, giving a dismissive flick of her hand. "You can leave. I’m done with you for today. Visit often."
Her tone shifted so abruptly that it made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
I hesitated, and that was a mistake because the next second, her smile vanished. And her eyes snapped wide—feral, golden—like soone had lit a fla behind them.
"I SAID GO!"
The sudden roar hit like a shockwave. Her aura exploded outward—wild, unstable, dangerous, and before I could step back after standing, she shot to her feet.
Her hand slamd against the table so hard the vases rattled.
"Why are you still here?!" she scread, voice cracking with fury. "Do you want to trap too?! Like HIM?!"
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