"Turn the water off," I commanded.
Lyra twisted the brass knob. The rushing sound stopped instantly, leaving only the dull hum of the ceiling fan. Thick steam coated the vanity mirror, turning the large bathroom into a white, humid box.
"Julian is going to start pacing the halls if we don't hurry," Lyra said.
"Let him pace." I picked up a soft cotton cloth from the counter. "We have one hour until the ceremony. The cleansing comes first."
She sighed, leaning her elbows on the edge of the marble sink. "I do not understand why the High Priest needs me to be completely makeup-free. It feels humiliating."
"It represents purity," I explained, running the cloth under the warm faucet to dampen the fabric. "No masks. No hiding. Just you, presenting your true self to the pack."
"My true self has terrible skin."
"Your skin is flawless."
"You do not get it, Mom. The girls at the academy stare. If I walk out to the altar without my foundation, they will whisper."
"They will whisper anyway. You are Kael's daughter. They envy you."
"Adopted daughter," she corrected, just like she had in the bedroom earlier.
I ignored the jab this time. I pressed the warm, damp cloth against her right cheek. I wiped away the peach blush, the sharp contour lines, the heavy setting powder.
"Turn your head," I instructed.
She rotated her chin, exposing the left side of her face.
For a decade, a thick curtain of golden bangs had covered this side of her forehead. Even now, she reached up instinctively, trying to pull the wet strands down over her eye.
I caught her wrist. "Stop fidgeting."
"I am perfectly capable of washing my own face," she argued, tugging her arm back.
"I am your mother. This is my duty today."
I held her arm firmly, pinning it to her side. With my free hand, I brought the cloth to her left temple.
She tensed. Her jaw locked tight.
I scrubbed the fabric against her skin. The thick, waterproof concealer resisted the warm water. She always bought the expensive theatrical brand. The kind specifically designed to cover tattoos and severe burns.
"You are hurting me," she complained.
"I am barely pressing."
I rubbed harder. The beige pigment finally began to dissolve, staining the white cotton a dirty, muddy brown.
"Enough," Lyra snapped.
"Almost done."
I swiped the cloth one final time, clearing away the last stubborn layer of makeup.
The skin beneath was clean.
My hand stalled in mid-air.
The ventilation fan hummed overhead. A single drop of water fell from the faucet, pinging against the porcelain drain.
"Are we finished?" she asked.
Words failed me.
A solid block of ice formed in my stomach, radiating a freezing dread through my veins. The humid air in the bathroom suddenly felt impossibly thin.
I stared at her left temple.
There was no acne scar. There was no uneven, pitted tissue.
There was a mark.
Deep, vivid purple.
It curved perfectly, ending in two sharp, distinct points.
A crescent moon.
"Mom?" Lyra shifted her weight, unease creeping into her voice. "What is wrong with you?"
I traced the shape with my eyes. I knew every millimeter of that curve. I traced it on Kael's collarbone when he slept. I stared at it when he walked out of the shower. The undeniable, genetic brand of a pureblood Alpha from the Monroe bloodline.
"You..." The word cracked down the middle. I swallowed hard, forcing moisture into my dry throat. "You do not have a scar."
Lyra's eyes darted to the fogged mirror. She could not see her reflection, but she knew exactly what I was looking at.
Her shoulders shot up to her ears.
"It is just a birthmark," she said quickly.
"A birthmark."
"Yes. It looks ugly. That is why I cover it."
"Ugly?" I echoed.
A sharp, erratic laugh burst from my lips. It sounded like breaking glass.
Lyra took a step back, hitting the edge of the bathtub. "Stop laughing."
The sound bubbled up, toxic and bitter. Ten years. Ten years of buying her special makeup. Ten years of holding her hair back while she cried about her flawed skin. Ten years of trusting my husband.
"You cut your bangs when you were eight," I said, my voice dropping to a flat, deadened tone.
"I like bangs."
"You threw a screaming fit at the salon when the stylist tried to pin them back."
"I was a kid!"
"You refused to let the doctors examine your head after you fell off your bike at twelve. You fought the nurses."
"I was terrified of hospitals!"
"You spent three hours in the bathroom every morning locking the door."
"I need privacy!"
"You are a liar."
The bathroom fell dead silent.
Lyra stared at me, her blue eyes wide, her chest heaving rapidly.
I stepped toward her. I raised my hand.
She shrank back, raising her arms defensively. I did not strike her. I gently placed my index finger directly over the purple crescent.
Her skin was ice cold.
She went completely rigid. Every muscle in her body locked.
"This is a Monroe mark," I stated. I did not ask. I stated a fact.
"Lots of people have birthmarks," she deflected, her voice shaking.
"Not this one. This belongs to his bloodline."
"You are being crazy."
"Am I?" I pressed my finger harder against the mark. "He found you at the border. That is the story. An orphan. No family. No history."
"That is the truth!"
"Then why do you carry his genetic stamp on your face?"
"I do not know!" she shouted, swatting my hand away.
"You do know." I stepped closer, trapping her between my body and the marble counter. "You have been hiding it. For ten years, you have painted over it every single day. Why?"
"Because it is ugly!"
"Stop lying to me!" I screamed.
The volume of my own voice startled me, echoing violently off the tile walls.
Lyra clamped her mouth shut.
I stared at the girl I had raised. The girl I had loved like my own flesh and blood. The blue eyes. The golden hair. The exact same shade of blonde as my dead sister, Elena.
The emerald necklace resting on her collarbone.
The map hidden in Kael's desk.
The black shoe under her bed.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
Lyra looked at the floor.
"Look at me," I demanded.
She shook her head.
I grabbed her chin, forcing her face up. "Who are you to him?"
A tear spilled over her lower lash line, cutting a clear path down her damp cheek. Her expression shifted entirely. The frightened child vanished. Her jaw set tight. The vulnerability evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating hardness I had never seen in her before.
It was exactly the way Kael looked right before he destroyed an opponent.
She reached up. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist.
Her grip felt astonishingly strong. Bone-crushing. Not the grip of a human teenager. The fierce, unyielding grip of a wolf.
She ripped my hand away from her face.
She leaned in, bringing her mouth inches from my ear. The sweet, innocent tone she used downstairs was entirely gone.
"Uncle Kael said you couldn't see this," she whispered.
