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She tilted the empty glass in my direction, and I rose to retrieve the bottle of mountain wine from the mantel.
“Can you blame him?” I asked quietly, filling the glass. “After everything that happened?”
“Yes,” she said, without pausing to consider the question. “I do blame him for it—for everything.”
I pulled the bottle back, a frown pinching my brows.
“You can’t possibly—” I began, struggling for the right words. “Youbetrayed your mating vows, Mama.”
Her scoff was self-deprecating. “Did your Sire tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to,” I insisted. “It was all everyone spoke about foryears.”
Her laugh was devoid of humor. “Your father broke his vows, too, sweetheart. Time and again—with many different people in many different ways. Did people speak about him, too?”
I set the bottle down on a side table.
“You know there are different standards for a king, Mama,” I said quietly, unwilling to upset her even further. “It is not fair by any means, but a king can do no wrong.”
I studied her face as those words sank in. The lines on her cheeks seemed to have grown deeper overnight—the hollows under her eyes more prominent.
“None of his affairs caused political turmoil between two kingdoms,” I continued, intertwining my fingers as I awaited her response. “None of his affairs ruined our peace.”
“How cruel of you.” I waited for the lash of her tongue, but received nothing more than a defeated sigh. She sank further into the armchair, frail fingers gripping the crystal until her knuckles grew pale. “You are your sire’s daughter, after all.”
How is it cruel to reiterate the truth?
“If that is all, Mama, I have duties to attend to.”
I rose, offering her a formal bow.
“Olympia Summerstream isn’t the person you’re looking for.”
Her whispered statement caught my attention, and I glanced back at her, one hand still on the doorknob.
“What did you say?”
She turned the crystal glass in her hand, watching the wine swirl like a vortex.
“You heard me, sweetheart,” she said. “You have the wrong person.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I demanded. “What evidence do you have?”
“I don’t need evidence. I know the Summerstreams well enough,” Mama explained with a pinch of her brows. “Olympia is a replica of her father—not in looks, but in temperament.”
“That means nothing,” I interjected, crossing my arms.
Mama struggled to her feet, swaying slightly under the influence of the sweet wine. She set the glass down and swept across the room to the windows, drawing the curtains back.
Twin moons gazed down at us, large and imposing like the eyes of the Goddess herself.
“Wellington was a pacifist,” she began, and I had the hazy memory of a small omega with a generous mustache. “He was a peace lover and peacemakerwho believed violence was never justifiable. It was one of the things I loved most about him.”
Something shifted in my chest, ugly and unexpected. It reacted to the wistfulness in Mama’s eyes as she reminisced about her lover—a man who wasnotmy sire… A man she had deemed worthy enough to ruin peace between two kingdoms.
Bitterness spewed like poison, heating my blood.
Oblivious to my turmoil, her fingers caressed the scalloped edges of the lace curtains as a faraway look descended over her dark eyes.
