Lycan's Prey by Jessica Hall

Chapter 90

Damian’s expression hardens, the lines of his face drawing into a map of skepticism. “You’re putting everyone at risk. This is exactly why you should never have let her come here. If she’s hiding something-”

“Then we will deal with it when we must.” I interrupt, firm, my anger at his words overriding his doubt. “But not before then. We owe her that much.”

“You owe her nothing! This is going to go bad. She could be anyone! Why can’t you see that? She is hiding something, Soren. And you are too bloody blinded by your feelings for the girl. You can’t see what is right in front of your face!”

“She has not tried to do anything; if she were planning to try something, she would have done it by now!” I snap.

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods stiffly. The gesture is one of compliance rather than agreement. “Very well. But remember, it’s your life and your son’s on the line too.”

As Damian exits, leaving behind a charged silence, I can’t help but feel the weight of his warning. But my gut tells me Bree’s secrets aren’t the kind that should cast her out into the cold- not yet, not without proof. And until then, I stand with him; she has done nothing wrong that should make me alarmed for the safety of anyone here.

The door clicks shut, the finality of its sound echoing through the empty hallway as I hear voices outside. Moving toward the window, I see Bree step out into the cool evening. I watch

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window, a gnawing unease

me. I hate that she insists on this–in her grandmother’s cellar, with its hidden Perspex dome and the illusion of freedom beneath the moon’s gaze. I

eyes on her when the shift took her. And so, against every protective urge screaming within me, I let her go. I settle back to

Bree, just silverware clinking against China. My parents exchange measured conversation over the roast, but their words are distant hums against the buzz of my own thoughts. Max, my little shadow, seems to sense the tension; his fork pushes around the peas on his plate more than it brings them to his mouth. His usual chatter is absent, and he keeps glancing at the empty chair where Bree would normally sit. Every so often, his eyes meet mine, filled with unspoken questions and a hint of worry.

His voice cuts through the polite veneer of dinner, small and somber. It’s a mirror of how he sounded last month when

his half–eaten meal and offer a soft smile. “I’ll come up soon to tuck you

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away from the

floor.

enough, and I excuse myself from the table with a feigned weariness that isn’t entirely an act. As I walk away, a heavy sense of unease settles over me, making each step feel like a struggle. My mind is a tangled web of worry and doubt. The weight of Damian’s words clings to me, amplifying my anxiety with every passing