Page 55

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

I’d cracked the door, peering in just far enough to see him sitting behind the huge desk that took up the majority of the room. Books lined the walls, and I was fairly sure most of the spines on them had never even been cracked. A large picture window was situated behind him, the golden glow of the morning’s rays filtering in, bathing my father in their light.

Jonathan Varenthrall was, like most Alphas, a large man. He had a powerful build with a broad chest, narrow waist, and long limbs. Even sitting behind his desk, he easily towered over my short frame.

The thirteen-inch height difference always felt imposing, but that day it felt like a direct threat as he sat reading, refusing to even acknowledge my presence in the room.

Objectively, my father was a good-looking man, but looks were meaningless. A strong jaw and tailored suit couldn’t mask the rotten core inside, and in the last few months, he’d let me see beneath the mask more and more often.

Then, the night he’d sent me to the basement, he’d ripped it off completely.

No. You will not think about that right now.

I squared my shoulders. There was nothing my father respected more than power, and with that in mind, I lifted my chin and took a step into the room.

“Idril.” A sneer pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I told Mara you were to meet me in the foyer in fifteen minutes. Is there a reason you’re not where you were told to be?”

I took a slow, deep breath, as the words I wanted to speak clawed at the back of my throat.

I could do this.

“Yes. Father, I—” I had to stop, swallow, then try again.

“I came to ask why we were going back to the Doctor’s. We were just there a few weeks ago.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“If there’s something wrong,” I continued, taking another small step toward his desk, “I want to know what it is.”

I so desperately wanted to meet his eyes. Just once, I wanted to feel the warmth and concern I always hoped my father felt for me.

But like always, I was disappointed. He placed the paper he was reading face down. I studied his expression, eyes flitting across his face, tracing every flicker of movement.

It was like I wasn’t even in the room.

“Am I sick?” The question came out more like a demand, and I instinctively cringed back, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands and working the soft, worn material between my fingers.

Finally, Father leaned back in his chair, placing his clasped hands on his stomach, and lifted his eyes to meet mine. The cruelty swimming there made me take another step back. There was nothing but open hostility. Disgust.

“No, Idril.” His lips twitched, like he was suppressing a smile, the anger morphing into condescension. “You are not sick.”

A breath rushed out of my lungs, and my shoulders slumped. I hadn’t realized just how deeply that fear had dug in its claws.

He waved a hand toward the chair across from him. “Sit down, daughter.”

I eyed him warily, but sat.

I felt like I was drowning in the overlarge chair. It was clearly built for an Alpha, the leather cold and stiff.

“We are going to Dr. Albertson’s because he needs more of your blood,” Father replied, as if it were obvious. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but I’d hate for your…” he frowned, flicking his fingers like he could just as easily flick away my designation, “Omega sensibilities to cause unnecessary anxiety. That would interfere with the process.”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry.

“I don’t understand,” I croaked. “What process? Why would he draw more blood if I’m not sick?”

He was out of his mind if he thought I was just going to let him take my blood without consent. Without explanation.

He leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin, and leveled me with a flat stare.