Chapter 363
“These are artifacts of the Marshall bloodline, Azalea,” Gigi said, her voice ice-cold and sharp enough to draw blood. “They are symbols of the Luna’s authority. They are not trinkets for a Beta’s daughter to wear to a party to impress some boy.”
The silence that followed was painful. Azalea recoiled as if she had been slapped. The light died in her eyes, replaced by a familiar, crushing shame. She shrank back into her chair, muttering a quiet apology, her gaze dropping to her lap.
My heart ached for her. Gigi had accepted me because I was useful — because I was bound to Dallas. But Azalea? To Gigi, she would always be just a Beta’s offspring, unworthy of the family jewels.
“Now,” Gigi said, dismissing Azalea’s wounded expression with a wave of her hand as she turned back to me. “There is one final matter.” She tapped her cane on the floor. “The jewelry is the symbol. But the position requires structure.”
“Structure?” I asked, my hand instinctively going to the cool stone at my throat.
“A contract,” Gigi said smoothly. “The Luna’s Bloodline Accord. It is an ancient document — rarely invoked, but necessary given your unique condition. It outlines the protections of the line and the duties you will uphold.” She glanced at Azalea, then back to me.
“I will have Duncan Whitaker deliver it to you tomorrow morning,” Gigi stated, her eyes hard and unyielding. “Read it carefully. Sign it. This is a private matter between us, Adella. A foundation for the future.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She rose to her feet, signaling the end of the audience.
I touched the Moon’s Tear again. It felt heavier now. Gigi had given me the crown — but I had a feeling the contract was the chain that came with it.
The morning rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, blurring the skyline into a smear of charcoal and steel. Inside, the air was climate-controlled and scented with Dallas’s lingering cedar fragrance, but I couldn’t shake the chill that had settled in my bones since the night before.
I was waiting for the chain. Gigi had promised a contract — a “Bloodline Accord” — and every minute that ticked by felt like the tightening of a noose.
When the private elevator finally chimed, it wasn’t Duncan Whitaker who stepped out, but a silent Pack courier. He handed me a leather tube sealed with the Marshall crest in heavy crimson wax, bowed once, and vanished.
My hands trembled as I broke the seal. I pulled out the parchment, expecting restrictive clauses about heirs and public appearances. Instead, the header made my breath catch.
Deed of Transfer: The Moonpetal Scriptorium.
I stared at the words, my heart turning over with a traitorous flutter of excitement. The Scriptorium was a legend — a repository of the pack’s oldest history, closed for decades. Gigi was giving it to me. Not just access, but ownership. It was a kingdom of ink and paper, a place where my lack of a wolf wouldn’t matter, where my talent for restoration could reign supreme.
But as the initial rush faded, a cold realization washed over me.
Azalea.