Chapter 8: The Enemy Within

The penthouse garden was a lie. Elena had thought it would be a sanctuary—a pocket of green in the heart of concrete and steel, where she could breathe without the weight of Damon's gaze or the echo of her father's threats. But now, standing among the carefully manicured hedges and the single white rosebush that seemed to bloom out of spite, she realized it was just another cage. A prettier one, perhaps, but still a cage. She had sent the message through Kael, trusting the Beta's quiet efficiency. A single line scrawled on a piece of paper: "Meet me in the garden. Midnight. Come alone." She hadn't signed it, but Lydia would know. Lydia always knew. The night air was cool against her skin, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and the distant hum of the city below. Elena's fingers were shoved deep into the pockets of her borrowed jacket—a thin thing Damon had left on the back of a chair, as if he expected her to stay. She hated that she wore it. She hated that it smelled like him, like cedar and smoke and something darker. Footsteps on the gravel path. Elena turned, her heart hammering against her ribs. Lydia emerged from the shadows, dressed in black, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looked like a younger, sharper version of their mother—the same high cheekbones, the same cruel twist to her lips. But where their mother's eyes had once held warmth, Lydia's were cold, calculating. "You're brave to call me here," Lydia said, stopping a few feet away. "Or stupid. I haven't decided which." "I need your help," Elena said, forcing her voice to stay steady. "Father used Mother to force my hand. He sent a note. He said if I didn't kill Damon by midnight, she would die." Lydia laughed. It was a brittle sound, like glass breaking. "You really don't know what happened after midnight." "Then help me. We can—" "Stop." Lydia held up a hand, and the gesture was so like their father that Elena felt a chill crawl up her spine. "You don't get to come here, playing the hero, after you let them sell you like a broodmare. You think I don't know what you did? You made a deal. You chose yourself." "I didn't have a choice!" Elena's voice cracked. "Father made me—" "Father made all of us. But I'm the one who stayed. I'm the one who kept Mother hidden and fed while you ran off to play prisoner in a billionaire's tower. And when your deadline ran out, I was the one standing close enough to hear him give the order." Elena stepped closer, her hands balling into fists. "Then tell me how to save her. Tell me what Father is planning. You owe me that much." Lydia's smile was slow, deliberate. "I owe you nothing. But I'll give you the truth, since you asked so nicely." She paused, letting the silence stretch. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the rosebush, and Elena felt the first drop of rain on her cheek. "Mother is gone," Lydia said. "That is what Father wanted me to believe after midnight, when you didn't deliver Damon's body." The words hit Elena like a physical blow. She staggered back, her breath catching in her throat. "What does that mean?" Lydia's voice flattened, but her hands curled at her sides. "He said the threat had failed. That if you wouldn't kill for her, she was useless leverage. Then he said she knew too much about the deal with the Crimson Fang and had her taken care of." She swallowed once, hard. "Before dawn, I found what he wanted me to find in the cellar. A body with Mother's face. Her hair. Her scent. But the old scar on her wrist was missing, and the blood smelled wrong—silver and roses, like ritual oil." Elena's vision blurred. The garden spun around her, the white rosebush a smear of color against the dark. She thought of her mother's hands—soft, always reaching out to smooth Elena's hair, to hold her face when she cried. Were those hands cold now, or had Marcus built a lie cruel enough to make both daughters mourn on command? "Why are you telling me this?" Elena whispered. "Because Father wanted me to wait until it would break you." Lydia tilted her head, studying her like a specimen, but her eyes were too bright. "And because I want you to know what you're fighting for. Or what you've already lost. You think you can destroy him? You can't. He has allies everywhere. The Crimson Fang, the Council, half the packs in the territory. You're just a girl with a grudge and a pretty face." Elena's grief turned to rage, hot and blinding. She didn't think. She moved. Her hand connected with Lydia's cheek, a sharp crack that echoed through the garden. Lydia stumbled, her hand flying to her face, her eyes wide with shock. "Don't you dare," Elena hissed, her voice low and trembling. "Don't you dare stand there and mock me. She was your mother too." Lydia straightened, a red mark blooming on her pale skin. For a heartbeat, something flickered in her eyes—pain, maybe, or regret. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "You're right," Lydia said softly. "She was. And I failed her. But I won't fail myself." She turned to leave, her heels crunching on the gravel. Elena grabbed her arm, spinning her back. "Where are you going? We're not done." "We are done. I've told you what you wanted to know. Now I have to protect myself." Lydia pulled free, her composure restored. "Father suspects I've been talking to you. If he finds out, I'm dead." "Then stay. Help me. We can take him together." Lydia laughed again, but this time there was no humor in it. "You still don't get it, do you? This isn't a game. Father has the Crimson Fang's backing. He has packs in his pocket. You have... what? A scarred alpha who bought you for a contract?" "I have nothing," Elena said, her voice hard. "But I'll find a way. I'll burn his world to the ground if I have to." "You'll never succeed," Lydia said, her lips curving into a smirk. "Father has allies everywhere. Every move you make, he'll know. Every step you take, he'll be three ahead." She turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the garden. Elena stood alone, the rain now falling harder, soaking through her jacket, mixing with the tears she refused to let fall. Her mother might be dead, or trapped inside a lie her father had built with blood and magic. And Lydia—her own sister—was too afraid to fight. Elena looked up at the penthouse, its lights blazing against the dark sky. Somewhere up there, Damon was waiting. The man who had bought her, who held her contract, who could destroy her with a word. But he was also the man who had let her tend his wounds. Who had looked at her with something other than contempt. She had no allies. No family. No one to trust. But she had her rage. And that would have to be enough. Elena walked back inside, the rain streaming down her face, her fists clenched at her sides. She would find a way. She would make her father pay. And she would start by learning everything Damon Blackwood knew about the Crimson Fang. Even if it meant becoming the very thing she hated.