Truth and Traitors

Fallon’s POV

His knock hits the bedroom door, loud and commanding. Before he even turns the handle, his heavy musky oak scent bleeds through the gap under the wood, flooding the space and warning me of his arrival.

"Fuck off!" I shout.

I grab the edge of the duvet and yank the bedsheet over my head, burying my face deep into the pillows. I want to make it clear that I do not want him anywhere near me. The door hinges creak. His heavy boots step into the room. I don't need to look to know his eyes are fixed on my hidden form.

It has been three agonizing days since Alpha Vander dragged me out of the forest and brought me back to this territory. He has kept me locked inside this bedroom. If he stays in the room, he watches my every breath from the armchair in the corner. If he has to leave, he takes a thick set of metal cuffs and locks my wrist to the heavy iron bed frame. The iron bars are thick and unforgiving. Whenever I pull against the restraints, the metal bites deeper into my skin, leaving raw, red marks around my wrist, a constant physical reminder that I am nothing more than a prisoner. There is no escaping him this time. He made sure of that.

We haven't discussed the horrors in the clearing. We haven't talked about the bloody moment he tore that feral Rogue's head off its shoulders just to save me. I still see the dark blood spraying across the tree trunks. I still hear the sickening crunch of the Rogue's spine snapping in Vander’s massive hands. The image of the severed head rolling in the dirt is branded into my brain.

Instead of addressing the monster he becomes, he gave me a clinical explanation detailing what a Rogue actually was. A banished wolf driven by primal madness. A dangerous reality my mother kept from me. She spent years telling me to look after myself, yet she never warned me about the actual nightmares lurking in the woods. Her silence left me ignorant, making me feel stupid and bringing me inches from a brutal death.

"Fallon Hayes," Vander scolds, breaking through my bitter thoughts. I hear him sigh from the foot of the bed. "You need to watch your language. Pretty girls shouldn’t swear."

I keep the sheet over my face. "Then you should wash your mouth out too," I retort. A childish comeback, but my defensive instincts refuse to shut down.

"Are you trying to call me a girl?" he asks.

"If the shoe fits!" I snap, my voice muffled by the thick blankets.

He lets out a low chuckle. I hear the floorboards creak as he shifts his weight. "Are you hungry?"

The simple question hits me like a punch to the gut. My stomach growls in betrayal, loud enough for his sharp ears to catch. I haven't eaten a proper, solid meal in almost a week. Before he caught me, I survived on meager scraps. Since arriving here, he only brought a few random snacks and glasses of tap water from the bathroom. My body aches for real sustenance. I lower the heavy duvet and nod my head. A smug smile spreads across his face.

"Come." Vander holds out his large, scarred hand toward me.

I stare at his palm, refusing his offer. I push myself off the mattress and stand up on my own two feet. I am wearing one of his giant black t-shirts. It hangs off my shoulders, the fabric carrying his intoxicating scent. His heavy, roaming gaze traces the bare skin of my legs. A flush of heat hits my cheeks, and I pull the hem of the shirt further down my thighs, trying to shield myself from his eyes.

"You look good in my clothes," he smirks.

"It’s not like I have anything else to wear, is it?!" I snap back, my tone dripping with venom.

Vander shrugs, unbothered by my hostility. "We can do something about that. All you had to do was ask. But are you always this short-tempered? If so, we are going to have to do something about that."

He turns his broad back to me and gestures toward the door. I follow him out of the room and step onto the vast landing of the grand pack house. The sheer size of the building is staggering. A wide hallway wraps around the upper level, lined with dark wood railings that overlook a massive open foyer. Large windows stretch from the floor to the high ceiling, pouring harsh natural light over the wide marble staircase leading to the ground floor.

The air in the pack house smells like pine, polish, and the lingering scent of dozens of unfamiliar wolves. It sets my teeth on edge. I feel exposed and vulnerable. This place is the exact opposite of the dark, dreary motel rooms and damp basements my mother and I spent our lives rotting in.

Walking through his pristine kingdom makes my chest tight. The suppressed anger I have choked down for three days boils over.

"I’m sure anybody would be angry after what you have done," I accuse, folding my arms tight across my chest. My bare feet pad softly against the cold marble floor.

"I didn't kill your mother," Vander states, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder.

"Maybe, maybe not, but you just happened to be there!" I push, my voice rising.

"Fallon…" he warns, a low rumble in his chest.

I ignore the dangerous edge in his tone. I need him to hear it. "You killed my dad. I watched you tear him apart! All because he was protecting me! You can't deny it. You killed him just like you killed that Rogue!"

Vander stops dead on the grand marble stairs. The air around us shifts, turning heavy and suffocating under his Alpha presence. He turns around slowly to face me. His intense cobalt eyes drop a shade darker, fixing me with a sharp, dangerous focus.

"The Rogue was going to kill you," he says quietly.

"So you aren't denying killing my dad then?" I challenge, gripping the wooden banister to keep my hands from shaking.

"Who told you that I killed your father?" he demands.

The unexpected question throws me off balance. For a split second, my mind scrambles. I see the same flashes of blood and teeth every night. Even lying in that bed, trapped in the same room with Vander, the nightmare haunts me. But I didn't learn it from a story. I lived it.

"No one told me," I snap, my voice cracking under the weight of the memories. "I saw it with my own eyes. I still hear my father screaming. I still see the blood pooling on the ground. You stood over him like a god demanding a sacrifice. Every fucking night, I have nightmares. The same horrific scene playing over and over since I was ten years old. You demanded him to hand me over like a prized possession. Like a piece of meat."

"To protect you, Fallon," Vander counters. He doesn't flinch. His voice remains steady.

"Don't bullshit me! I remember everything you said like it was yesterday. You are the one who caused those nightmares, and they are never going to go away!"

Vander shakes his head. He takes one slow step up the stairs toward me. "Yes, I killed your father. But it wasn’t entirely because of you."

I stare at him, feeling sick to my stomach. The cold confession hits me like a physical blow.

"You need to stop thinking of your dad as some kind of trophy dad," Vander continues, his tone hardening. "He was far from it. You don't know the truth about him."

"You’re lying," I whisper. My vision blurs. Hot, angry tears spill down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, refusing to cry in front of the monster who ruined my life.

"I have no reason to lie to you," he states, his gaze locked onto mine. "If I was planning on living an unfaithful life, yes. I might lie. But that’s not what I want."

My shoulders slump. I feel exhausted, drained by the lack of real answers about my past. "What do you want?" I ask quietly. The echoes of our argument fade into the massive foyer below.

Vander tilts his head. He studies my face, reading my defeat. "I want you by my side. Fallon, you were chosen for me. I can’t change that, and you cannot change that."

He takes another step closer. His massive frame towers over me, blocking out the light from the windows. A dark, daring smirk touches the corner of his mouth as he issues a direct challenge.

"But this seems to be difficult for you," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest. "So go ahead. Try and reject me."