What do we call her? Aurora persisted, ignoring Darius's dismissive tone. Darius had to at least name his daughter. The baby was not hers to name. It was the last act of fatherhood she could ask of him.
Darius, haunted and barely sober, answered in a hoarse, offhand way. "Cressida," he said. "That's what Mariam wanted. Before..." His voice cracked, and he turned away; he didn't want them to see him cry.
So the name stuck. Cressida Black, daughter of a shattered warrior and a dead beauty, was raised under the protection and love of a Luna who believed no child should suffer for the sins or sorrows of their parents.
But Aurora didn't see a curse in her arms. She saw a blessing—fragile, abandoned, and in desperate need of love. She took the child home and placed her beside her own daughter, Zara. From that day forward, they were raised as sisters, sharing the same crib, the same lullabies, even the same breast. Aurora nursed them both, often cradling one on each arm, whispering the same dreams and hopes into their ears.
The two girls, so different in blood, grew like twin flames, one blond and the other red-haired: Zara with her mother's quiet grace and strong will, and Cressida with a wildness in her eyes and a storm in her heart. And while the world would one day know them as separate forces, to Aurora, they would always be her daughters.
Both of them.
A few months had passed since Mariam was laid to rest beneath the weeping willow at her husband's estate, where the earth still smelled of fresh loss and the air seemed to hold its breath. Her grave was marked with polished stone, inscribed with runes of peace and remembrance—but Darius Black had never returned to see it.
Instead, grief had hollowed him out and filled him with something far darker.
He drank—gods, did he drink. The scent of whiskey clung to him like a second skin, heavy and sour. He smoked from dawn until dusk, the bitter herbs curling around him like smoke from a dying fire. The Beta, once known for his fierce discipline and unwavering loyalty, had become a ghost in a warlord's body—haunting bars, crashing dens, and indulging in every fleeting, meaningless pleasure he could find. He slept with anything that moved, anything in a skirt and heels, anything with enough curves to drown in—never looking into their eyes, never speaking names.
And never once did he ask about his daughter.
Cressida might as well not have existed. Darius had cut her out like a scar too painful to bear, locking her away in a part of his soul he refused to confront. Aurora watched this with growing sorrow, holding the child close at night and whispering promises to her that her father could not.
"But one day, little one. One day, he'll remember who he was. And who you are."
But Christopher was not as hopeful.
He paced their chambers late into the night, frustration lining his every step. "He's not himself, Aurora," he muttered, pouring himself a drink he didn't really want. "The Darius I knew would never abandon his child. He would never treat women like toys. He would never half-ass his duties or show up late to council meetings reeking of smoke and sweat."
Aurora, cradling Zara in one arm and Cressida in the other, gave him a tired smile. "He's grieving," she said for what felt like the hundredth time. "You saw what losing Mariam did to him. He doesn't know how to mourn. So instead he's trying to drown the pain."
"He's going to drown us with it," Christopher snapped. "You should have seen him in training today. He nearly broke a recruit's collarbone—on purpose. He's too intense. He's using violence to cope, and the pack is starting to notice."
And it was true.
Darius's training sessions had turned into something closer to punishment than preparation. Recruits trembled when assigned to his rotation. His commands were brutal, his expectations unreasonable. He was relentless, a wolf on the edge of madness. When the full moon came, it was worse. He'd take off into the woods, shift into his monstrous black wolf, and hunt not for necessity—but for pleasure. He stalked his prey with a terrifying patience, letting them run, letting them believe they had a chance, before striking. And when he did, it wasn't quick. He made it slow. Personal. Cathartic.
He liked to hear them scream before they died.
"He's becoming very dangerous, Aurora," Christopher whispered one night, his voice barely audible over the steady rhythm of the rain tapping against the window. He sat beside her in their bed, head bowed, hands clenched in frustration. The girls were finally asleep, curled up together like pups seeking comfort in the dark.
Aurora turned toward him, concern etched into every line of her face. But she didn't speak. She didn't need to. The weight in Christopher's voice said enough.
"He's erratic," he continued. "Unpredictable. And the worst part? He genuinely believes he's some kind of savior to the rogues—gathering them like strays, talking about rehabilitation and second chances. Does that even make sense anymore?"
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply.
"I've tried, Aurora. I've tried to shield him, to explain away the things he says, the way he acts. But the Elders are growing restless. They're watching him closely now. And I don't know how much longer I can protect him before they decide to intervene."
Aurora reached for his hand, her touch soft but grounding. "He's broken, Christopher. He lost everything."
Christopher shook his head. "We all lost something. But we don't all turn ourselves into ticking time bombs."
He looked toward the sleeping girls, then back at her. "If he snaps... if he turns on anyone... it won't just be his ruin. It'll be ours too."
But Aurora, always the moon to Christopher's sun, reached over and gently touched his hand.
"He was broken," she said softly. "And broken things lash out. But sometimes, it's the love we show in those dark times that brings people back. I believe he'll return to us. Not today. Not tomorrow. But one day..."
Christopher sighed, looking over at the girls. One blonde and calm, the other with dark red hair and already fierce in her small way.
"I hope so," he muttered. "For all our sakes."
Without needing to be asked, she pulled her husband into her arms to comfort him. He was tense, his body heavy with grief and guilt, but in her embrace, he began to soften. Her fingers threaded through his hair, grounding him. The silence between them spoke louder than any words could.
But comfort turned quickly to passion.
His lips were on hers—wild, desperate, urgently seeking something only she could give. She responded with equal fervor, their connection crackling like fire in the dark. This wasn't the kind of night for soft whispers or slow caresses. She could feel it in the way he held her, the way his hands trembled as they moved over her skin like he was terrified of losing her too.
She welcomed him—mind, body, and soul.
A gasp left her lips as he slid into her aching core, stretching her with a familiar, comforting weight. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, drawing him closer, deeper. He groaned against her throat, the sound raw and guttural, as if being inside her was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
Their rhythm was fierce, almost punishing, yet grounded in something tender and unspoken. Each thrust carried all the things he couldn't say—the fear, the love, the need for her. Her nails dug into his back, not to hurt, but to hold on, to tell him she was there, that she wasn't leaving.
He buried his face in her neck, breath ragged. "Don't let go," he murmured.
"Never," she whispered back, meeting his thrusts with her own need, her own aching core.
And in that moment, they weren't just making love; they were completely in sync with each other. With a howl, Christopher was emptying his seed into her as they drifted to sleep in each other's arms.