Chapter 120

Arthur

My parents’ house looks exactly the same as it always has. The driveway is perfectly maintained. The lawn is manicured within an inch of its life. Even the flowers that line the walkway seem to stand at attention, afraid to lean too far in any direction for fear of being cut away by my mother’s gardening shears.

I park my car and sit for a moment, gathering my thoughts. I still can’t believe I’m here to question my parents about attempted murder. The very thought is ludicrous. My father may be manipulative, conniving, and borderline ruthless in his political machinations, but murder?

That’s a line I never thought he’d cross.

Then again, I hardly even know my father. To me, he’s just the drill sergeant who raised me for his own political gain.

With a deep breath, I exit the car and make my way to the front door. Before I can even knock, it swings open to reveal my mother, looking as polished as ever in a cream-colored pantsuit and not a single silver hair out of place.

“Arthur,” she says. “What a lovely surprise.”

“Mother. Is Father home?”

“Of course. He’s in his study. Come in, I’ll make tea.”

I follow her inside, noting how absolutely nothing has changed since my last visit. The same austere furniture, the same beige walls, the same family portraits hanging in perfect symmetry along the hallway. My childhood home feels more like a museum than a place where anyone actually lives.

My father emerges from his study as we pass, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Arthur,” he says, looking mildly surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“I thought I’d stop by.” I keep my tone casual, watching his face carefully. Does he look guilty? Nervous? It’s impossible to tell. My father has always been a master at concealing his emotions. “After last night’s… excitement.”

Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “Yes, quite the unfortunate incident,” he says smoothly. “How is your mate faring?”

The way he says “mate” makes my teeth clench, like Iris is some sort of pet I’ve decided to keep around, but I try not to show my reaction.

“She’s recovering,” I say shortly. “The doctors kept her overnight for observation.”

“Good, good,” my father murmurs, already turning back toward his study. “Join me, won’t you? Your mother can bring the tea there.”

I hesitate before following him into the office. As a kid, he only ever called me in there when he wanted to punish me for stupid shit like running in the house or getting a B on a test. Then, as I got older, he only invited me in when he wanted to give me orders or lectures.

Finally, I follow him in and shut the door behind me.

“Sit.” He gestures to one of the leather armchairs across from his massive desk. I feel like a dog that’s being commanded.

I remain standing. “I’d rather not. This won’t take long.”

My father raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Even he knows that I’m the Alpha President now, not a kid to be bossed around. He sits in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. “What’s on your mind, son?”

“Last night,” I say bluntly. “Iris almost died.”

“Yes, allergies can be quite serious. It’s fortunate that Caleb Willford was there with medication.” His voice is clinical, as if we’re discussing a stranger’s minor inconvenience rather than my mate nearly dying in front of us.

“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” I press, watching him carefully. “That the one drink you recommended contained the very thing she’s deathly allergic to?”

My father’s expression doesn’t change. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Did you know Iris is allergic to kiwi?”

My father blinks at me. A long moment passes between us. From the hallway, I can hear the gentle clinking of china as my mother prepares the tea. I almost forgot how eerily quiet this house can be; no music, no laughter, not even the sound of birds chirping in the gardens, as if even the wildlife avoids this entire property.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my father finally says with a laugh. “How would I possibly know something like that?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

The door opens, and my mother enters with a silver tea tray. “Here we are,” she announces cheerfully. She sets the tray on a side table and begins pouring. “Leonard, darling, one sugar or two?”

“Two,” my father answers without taking his eyes off of me.

My mother hands him his cup, then turns to me with another cup. “Arthur?”

“No, thank you.”

She frowns. “But I’ve already poured it.”

“I said no.”

My mother’s frown deepens, but she sets the cup down and takes a seat in the other armchair. “What are you two discussing so seriously?”

“Arthur seems to think I deliberately poisoned his mate,” my father says lightly.

My mother’s eyes widen. “Arthur! What a horrible thing to accuse your father of.”

“Is it?” I ask, looking between them. “Because it seems awfully convenient that the one thing Iris is deathly allergic to just happened to be the main ingredient in a cocktail Father insisted she serve at her party.”

“It’s my favorite drink,” my father protests mildly. “I had no idea she was allergic to kiwi. Did you, Wendy?”

My mother shakes her head. “Of course not. How would we know something like that?”

I study them both. They seem genuinely confused by my accusation.

“Regardless,” my father continues, taking a sip of his tea, “I fail to see why you’re so upset about this. These things happen. Humans are fragile creatures.”

And there it is. Even if they didn’t deliberately poison Iris, they clearly don’t care that she nearly died.

“Fragile or not, she’s my mate,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “The mother of my son.”

My father waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. But honestly, Arthur, you could do so much better. There are plenty of suitable females who would make a proper Luna. This dalliance with a human has gone on long enough.”

“It’s not a dalliance,” I growl. “And it’s not going to end.”

“Oh, Arthur, be reasonable,” my mother interjects. “Think of Miles. Don’t you want him to have a chance at life? She’s only holding him back. His behavioral issues would go away in a heartbeat with the proper structure.”

I can’t help but laugh out loud with that. “Right. Maybe I should raise him with an iron fist like you two raised me.”

My mother simply shrugs. “Your father and I did what was necessary to ensure you didn’t run amok. And you turned out perfectly well, aside from this… one obsession you have.”

“Obsession? How many times do I have to say that Iris is my mate? You two are mates. You should know just how important that bond is.”

My father sets down his teacup with a clink. “A mate bond isn’t the be-all-end-all of a marriage. She’s a nobody, Arthur. A human ‘artist’ who can’t even stand up properly for photographs. She’ll drag your career through the mud.”

Goddess, how badly I want to tell them who Iris really is. A Willford. A werewolf. The thought still makes my head spin. But I can’t tell them yet.

“Well, regardless of what you think,” I say curtly, turning toward the door, “I’m the Alpha President, and Iris is my mate. You will both treat her with respect, or you will not be a part of our lives. It’s that simple.”

My father rises to his feet. “You would choose that human nobody over your own blood?”

“In a heartbeat,” I reply without hesitation.

With that, I pull open the door and stride down the hallway, past the perfect portraits and the perfect furniture in this perfect, hollow house. The front door closes behind me with a satisfying thud, and I take a deep breath of fresh air. My parents don’t deign to follow me.

As I make my way to my car, I can’t help but smile wryly at the thought of my father’s face when he discovers that his son’s “nobody human” mate is actually the long-lost Willford heir—a werewolf from one of the oldest, wealthiest families in the world.

It’s going to be quite the show.