Chapter 136

Iris

I can’t sleep. It’s partly due to worry about Miles—his fever has gone down with the medicine my mother had on hand, but he’s still restless—and partly everything else that’s swirling around in my head.

Selina, the residency ending, Arthur, my wolf… it’s all too much to process while lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring up at an ornate ceiling that I hardly recognize.

After tossing and turning for what feels like hours, I finally slip out of bed, careful not to wake Arthur. He’s sprawled on his side, breathing deeply, one arm still extended toward where I was lying. Even in sleep, he reaches for me.

I pull on a robe that was hanging in the en-suite bathroom and slip into the hallway. The Willford estate is eerily quiet at night, but the moonlight streaming through the enormous windows is also beautiful. I’ve never had a chance to really explore this place, especially not at night.

The corridors seem endless, each one lined with priceless artwork and antique furniture. I run my fingers along the smooth wooden banister as I descend a grand staircase, trying to imagine growing up here.

Would I have slid down this banister as a child? Would I have hidden behind these heavy drapes during games of hide-and-seek with Caleb?

Instead, I grew up in a cramped orphanage with peeling paint and too few blankets, sharing a room with several other girls. The contrast is jarring. I had nothing, and now I have… all of this. Access to wealth, power, luxury beyond anything I could have imagined.

A strange, uncomfortable feeling settles in my stomach. Not quite guilt, but something adjacent to it. What did I do to deserve this life of privilege? Nothing except being born with the right blood.

I follow a dimly lit corridor that leads to what appears to be the east wing of the house. Eventually, I find myself at a set of glass doors that open onto a courtyard.

Stepping outside, I’m met with the soft sound of running water. The courtyard is a meticulously maintained garden with stone pathways winding between flowerbeds, statues, and small trees. In the center stands a large fountain—a woman pouring water from a jug, the marble gleaming white in the moonlight.

I approach the fountain, drawn to the peaceful sound of the trickling water. Looking down, I see my reflection rippling in the pool below. My face, distorted by the gentle movement of the water, looks back up at me.

Is this really me, I wonder? Iris Willford, daughter of one of the most powerful werewolf families in the country, and mate to the Alpha President?

Sometimes it still feels like I’m dreaming. Like I’ll wake up at any moment.

But I know it’s not true. This is my life now, no matter how strange it feels.

My mind begins to wander. Once my residency is over, what then? Move in with my parents and live the lavish life of a princess? Focus on being Arthur’s mate and the Luna of Ordan? Give up art completely?

The thought makes me sick. I can’t give up my art, but I also can’t leave behind this life that I’ve only just discovered. I never thought I would say this, but this life… suits me. Maybe it’s all the training, or maybe it’s just knowing that I finally have a real family, but still.

I feel like I’ve found my place, even if it all feels surreal.

“Can’t sleep?” a soft voice asks from behind me.

I turn to find my mother standing a few feet away, wrapped in an elegant dressing gown. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and it’s a lot longer than I thought it was, cascading down all the way to the small of her back.

“No,” I admit. “Too much on my mind.”

She nods understandingly and moves to sit on the edge of the fountain. After a moment of hesitation, I join her.

“I like to come here at night too,” she says, trailing her fingers through the water. “When I need to think, or when I’m just feeling overwhelmed.”

I study her face, struck by her words. She always seems so composed, so perfectly suited to her role. It’s hard to imagine her feeling overwhelmed or restless. She tilts her head as she looks up at me. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do after my residency ends,” I confess. “I love art, but it feels… I don’t know, pointless now. Like people will only care about it now because of who I am and not because they actually like it.”

“Perhaps people will only pay attention because of who you are now,” she says, which isn’t exactly reassuring. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“What?”

She turns to face me fully. “The role of a Luna isn’t just to stand beside the Alpha and look pretty, Iris. And the role of a wealthy heiress isn’t just to be… well, wealthy.” She chuckles. “You’ve got people paying attention to you now. You can use your medium to your advantage—find a way to do some good with your art now that you don’t have to worry about scrabbling your way to the top.”

Before I can answer, she goes on, “I know you care about children—your suggestion earlier for community service was brilliant. Putting Selina through that will not only be good for her as a person, but also for the children, and for your image. I could see you doing similar things with your art.”

I frown skeptically. “Sure, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She considers for a moment, then says, “If you want a suggestion, then I will say that arts education is being cut from schools all over the country, especially in poorer districts. Children who might have discovered a talent or passion for painting or music never get the chance. Children like you were, growing up in that orphanage. You could find a way to help them.”

The idea strikes a chord in me. I think about how art saved me during those difficult years—how a single art teacher who volunteered at the orphanage noticed my talent and encouraged it, even bringing me supplies when the orphanage couldn’t afford them.

“I’ll… I’ll consider my options,” I say, looking at her. “Thank you… Mom.” It still feels weird saying that. “I appreciate your advice. I’m not used to this. Any of this.”

My mother’s eyes glisten with unshed tears at the term, and she reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of my face. I instinctively lean into her hand, feeling a surge of emotion at the fact that I always yearned to have a mother’s touch. For a moment, we just sit like that, her hand cupping my face and both of our eyes misted over with tears.

“I spent years coaching Selina on these very matters,” she finally says, rising. “If you ever need insight or advice, I’m here.” She smiles. “I’ll always be here, Iris.”

After she leaves, I remain by the fountain, my mind racing and my eyes wet. As the tears fade and my thoughts slowly organize, I begin to truly consider my mother’s words. I begin to think that maybe she’s right. This doesn’t have to be the end of my authenticity as an artist. I just need to shift my reason for making art to something less focused on earning money to survive and more focused on helping others survive.

I pull out my phone and open the notes app, starting to jot down ideas for my final presentation at the residency exhibit. Instead of just displaying my art, I could use the opportunity to launch a charitable initiative.

Maybe something that combines my artwork with a cause—specifically, promoting arts education for underprivileged children.

I’m so absorbed in my notes that I don’t immediately notice the soft footsteps approaching. When I finally look up, I see an elderly woman standing a few yards away, watching me. She’s dressed in a simple gray dress—a servant, perhaps, although it’s strange for staff to be up at this hour.

Our eyes meet, and something in her expression makes me uneasy. She’s staring at me with an intensity that feels inappropriate, almost intrusive. For a moment, she seems frozen in place, then her eyes widen slightly as if in recognition or shock.

Before I can say anything, she turns and hurries away, leaving me confused.