Chapter 55: Withheld Ramifications
Veronique’s laugh was sharp, brittle. "Lilith Brooks may be a Marked Hybrid, but she is no Luna, Vladimir. She will never be."
I remained by the door, arms crossed. "Your opinion has been noted."
"It’s not opinion—it’s fact." She reached into her jacket and pulled out a folder, slapping it onto my desk. Photos spilled out. "Look at her. Really look at what you’re trying to make into a Luna."
I didn’t move to examine them, but my eyes tracked to the images. Surveillance photos from CCTV cameras around her campus. Lilith in the human realm—wearing a stained hoodie, curly hair oily around her face, holding what appeared to be a half-eaten sandwich that had seen better days. Another showed her in oversized sweatpants, hunched over a stack of papers in what looked like a dingy apartment, taken by a friend of hers.
"She lived like a beggar," Veronique said, voice sharp. "Ate like one. Dressed like she’d given up on life entirely. This is what you want standing beside you even for time?"
"What I want is irrelevant to you."
"A Luna—a *true* Luna—is the epitome of grace. Lithe ferocity. Strength wrapped in dignity." Veronique’s voice rose slightly. "She is clumsy. Unrefined. Has the posture of someone who’s spent her life apologizing for existing. The media will tear her apart the moment she’s presented. The packs will mock you. It will stain your rule, Vladimir."
I finally moved, walking past her to pour myself a drink. "Are we done?"
"No." She followed, desperation bleeding through her controlled facade. "Everyone expected you to choose someone *worthy*. Someone who understood this world, who was born to it. What does it say about you that you chose... *her*?"
I took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch. "It says I make decisions based on necessity, not perception."
"Necessity," she repeated, voice hollow. "Is that what you call this?"
"We’ve had this argument before, Veronique."
"This has nothing to do with—" She stopped herself, jaw clenching. "This isn’t about my feelings for you. Or your stubborn refusal to see that you love me back."
I raised an eyebrow.
"It’s about power," she continued, forcing her voice steady. "About what this decision does to your authority. You’re the High Alpha. Your mate reflects on your strength, your judgment. And you chose a traumatized hybrid who can barely hold herself together, who lived in squalor in the human realm, who has *zero* political value."
She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "The Concord must already questions your choices. Choosing her? It makes you look weak. Sentimental. Like you’re letting prophecy and marks dictate your decisions instead of strategy."
I set down my glass with deliberate care. "Your assessment has been noted. The door is behind you."
"Vladimir—"
"You challenged her to a duel." My voice dropped to something colder. "Either kill her in three weeks, or accept that she earned her place. But don’t stand in my room and pretend this is about politics when we both know what this is really about."
Veronique’s composure finally cracked. "I would have been perfect for you. I *am* perfect for you. I know this world, I know you, I’ve bled for your pack—"
"And you tried to kill her before she even had a chance."
The words hung between us like a blade.
"That’s why you lost your rank," I continued. "Not because I chose her over you. Because you let jealousy compromise your judgment. Exactly as you’re doing now."
Her hands curled into fists. "I will win that duel."
"Perhaps." I picked up the folder, glancing at the photos one more time before tossing it into the fireplace. The images curled and blackened in the flames. "But even if you do, Veronique, you still won’t have what you want."
The truth of that statement settled over her like a weight.
"Get out of my room," I said quietly. "And next time you want to break in, remember that I can smell you coming from a mile away."
She stood there a moment longer, something breaking in her eyes. Then she turned toward the door—and stopped.
"Have you been completely transparent with her?" Veronique’s voice was quiet now, dangerous. "About what the Luna Duel really means?"
I said nothing.
She turned back, and there was something almost pitying in her expression. "Did you tell her that injuries sustained during the trials don’t heal instantly? That they heal slowly, imperfectly? That if I take an eye, she’ll be half-blind for the rest of her life? If I sever a tendon, she’ll limp forever?"
My jaw tightened fractionally.
"No new limbs," Veronique continued, taking a step closer. "No new eyes. No new ears. No regeneration of anything vital. Did you tell her that? Or did you let her believe her wolf healing would save her from permanent damage?"
Silence.
"Did you tell her," she pressed, voice hardening, "that the reason you wear that thing—" She gestured at my cybernetic arm. "—is because of your Alpha Duel? That you lost your arm and it never grew back? That the best our healers could do was graft metal and magic onto what remained?"
My bionic fingers flexed involuntarily. The phantom pain flared beneath the plates and bolts.
Veronique’s eyes tracked the movement. "Did you tell her about the affliction that lurks beneath those bolts and screws? The price you’re still paying for that victory?"
"Enough."
"No." She stepped closer, and for the first time tonight, her anger had transformed into something else. Something sharper. "You’re sending her into that duel knowing she could be maimed for life. Knowing that even if she wins, she might lose pieces of herself that will never come back. And you didn’t tell her."
I met her gaze, my expression unchanged. "She accepted the challenge."
"She accepted it blind," Veronique shot back. "You calculated her survival rate down to the percentage, mapped out training protocols, analyzed every variable—but you didn’t tell her the cost of survival."
"The cost is irrelevant if she’s dead."
"Is it?" Veronique’s voice dropped. "Or are you just afraid that if she knew the truth, she’d refuse? That she’d choose Kustav over being your crippled Luna?"
The accusation hung in the air.
I walked to the window, looking out at the pre-dawn darkness. "Your concern for her wellbeing is noted. Dismissed."
"I don’t give a damn about her wellbeing," Veronique said coldly. "But I know you, Vladimir. You don’t make tactical errors. So either you didn’t think to tell her—which I don’t believe—or you deliberately withheld information that might have changed her decision."
I said nothing.
"Which is it?" she pressed.
I turned back to face her, my expression as impassive as stone. "She has three weeks to prepare. Whether she knows the full consequences now or discovers them in the arena makes no difference to the outcome."
"It makes a difference to consent. According to our reports she is a rising athlete in her pathetic town. You withholding information from her will render her useless. I will not be leaving her with legs, that’s for sure."
"She consented to the duel. The details are immaterial."
Veronique stared at me for a long moment. Then she laughed—a hollow, bitter sound. "You really are a cold bastard. I almost forgot."
She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the handle.
"When she finds out," Veronique said quietly, "and she will find out—she’s going to hate you even more than she already does. And unlike me, she won’t have years of history to cushion that hatred."
"Then she’ll have motivation to win without getting injured."
Veronique shook her head slowly. "You deserve each other. Both of you too damaged to see what you’re doing to yourselves."
She left, the door closing with finality.
I stood alone in my room, the photographs still burning in the fireplace, watching ash float upward like gray snow.
Veronique was right, of course. I hadn’t told Lilith about permanent injuries. Hadn’t mentioned that my arm was proof of what Luna and Alpha Duels could take from you.
Hadn’t told her that the magic keeping me alive was eating me from the inside out, that the cybernetic limb was as much containment as replacement.
But she didn’t need to know.
Twenty-five percent survival rate. That was the priority.
Everything else was irrelevant.
I flexed my bionic fingers, feeling the phantom ache of flesh that no longer existed.
Almost everything.