My father emerged cloaked in black. A massive wolf pelt hung from his shoulders, and a battle-scarred whip coiled at his hip like a living thing. His face was all hard lines, carved from years of rule, but his storm-gray eyes wavered when they landed on me.
“So,” he growled, “the prodigal daughter returns in rags.”
He growled low once. Ayla flinched. I didn't move.
“I won’t beg,” I said, my voice steady. “I won’t plead for scraps. But if you still call me daughter—let us in. Let her live.”
He stared at me for a long time. Then his gaze dropped to Ayla. “She’s yours?”
“And Damien’s.”
Something primal flashed in his eyes. He turned away, jaw clenched. “Break the bond. Sever every tie to that traitor, and you’ll have a place here again. As Selene Stormfang. Your daughter will carry our crest. But if even one thread remains between you and Nightfang...”
“I’ll burn the thread myself,” I said.
Alpha Gideon studied me, then gave a single nod. “Then shed that filth. Bathe. Dress in something worthy of your name. You will not stand before the elders looking like a rogue.”
I lifted my chin. “No.”
His brow arched. “You refuse?”