CHAPTER 543: CONFESS TO ELIJAH

"Don’t turn back," Violet said quickly when Roman started to glance behind them.

Roman obeyed without a word, sliding his arm across her shoulders and making it look natural.

"There’s the banquet table," Griffin said, and they understood at once.

The three of them moved together in that direction. The table was already crowded since wolves always ate plenty, their higher metabolism demanding it. Some of the guests ahead noticed them and immediately stepped aside, smiling as they gave them space.

"No, you don’t have to—" Violet began bashfully. They were older, and had come first. She wasn’t even here for the food. But the sight of the richly prepared dishes, especially the glistening meats had her mouth watering before she could stop herself.

"Having two mates is a miracle," one elderly woman said warmly. "You’re goddess-blessed, child."

"Oh..." Violet blinked, intrigued. So having more than one mate came with privileges. Nice, she’d remember that next time.

She went ahead, choosing mostly meat dishes despite herself. Griffin and Roman noticed too because their plates ended up nearly identical.

"I think your wolf side is stronger," Griffin muttered under his breath once they were away from the crowd.

They chose a table tucked near the hedges, far from the center. Yet still, people’s eyes flickered toward them, heavy with curiosity and awe.

"You think so?" Violet asked surprised because she didn’t feel that way. Yes, her wolf stirred restlessly inside her, but there was also a vortex of magic whirling inside of her, untamed. And it was harder to control than the wolf. The wolf had its own mind, but the magic felt like a storm waiting to break with the wrong move.

"That should be the least of our problems right now. We’ve got a much bigger issue at hand," Roman said, his tone unusually grave.

For the jester of the group, the shift was unsettling.

Roman leaned closer, locking eyes with Griffin. "I think Elijah knows about Violet."

The breath left Violet’s lungs in a rush. Her gaze snapped to Roman, voice dropping low. "I thought I was the only one who noticed he was baiting me from the very start." She scratched at her head nervously. "I think I slipped enough to confirm his suspicion."

Griffin’s frown deepened. "You think he knows a piece of it, or the whole thing?"

Roman’s expression darkened. "I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s always known Angus was alive. The elders couldn’t have covered up his brother’s death and crowned him king without his blessing."

"And now he suspects Violet is his brother’s heir," Griffin added, the realization fitting together too cleanly.

Roman nodded, his voice hush but edged. "At the very least, he doesn’t know what Violet really is. He probably just suspects she’s an imp."

Since the emergence of interbreeding between werewolves and humans, different names have been used to separate the kinds of wolves that exist.

The purebloods were the de la crème of werewolf society — untainted lineage, possessing full traits and abilities. They stood as nobility among the packs, holding power and maintaining traditions.

Then came the half-bloods or hybrids — though there were uglier names for them, often racist. As the offspring of a human and a werewolf, they often carried mixed traits. Depending on which parent’s genetics are dominant, they might have limited transformation abilities or diluted werewolf strengths. They are often caught between both worlds, never fully accepted by either.

Next were the runts, the smaller, and weaker wolves, often born of bad luck, poor bloodlines, or even, anomalies in their nature. Even purebloods weren’t spared from birthing runts. They were still wolves, but lacking simply robust werewolf traits.

And then came the imps. Unlike runts, the insult of "imp" wasn’t tied to size or frailty, but to appearance. Imps were those werewolves who show more human-like qualities and fewer werewolf traits, regardless of their bloodline.

"He probably believes that’s why. Or..." Roman’s gaze sharpened. "He thinks she’s hiding her ability, which is worse."

Moments like this stunned Violet. Roman might sound foolish most of the time, but he was shrewd as hell and woe to anyone who underestimated him.

"So what do you suggest we do? Run?" Griffin asked.

"That’s exactly what he expects," Roman said, stroking his chin.

"Except that’s technically what we’re doing tomorrow," Violet reminded, thinking of their plan to find Alaric.

Griffin sighed, lifting a hand to ruffle his hair out of habit. His palm hit his buzzed scalp. Right. No hair. Damn.

"This is not going to be easy. I don’t even know if my mother would be able to help out. Not to mention, we’d be leaving Roman behind to take Elijah’s wrath." He said.

"Elijah won’t be able to do much," Roman murmured. "Not while we’re in transit, and even less on West Pack soil. But don’t fool yourselves, if he puts a hit out, it’ll be on you both first."

"What?!" Violet nearly choked. "That’s outrageous."

Roman scanned the room before leaning in. "Elijah likes control, and that includes being respected."

"Then why don’t I just confess?" Violet whispered. "Maybe he’ll understand. I’m his niece after all."

The look both men gave her hit like a slap.

"I’m just saying, it’s better than living on tenterhooks," she muttered.

"Micah’s his nephew, and he’s caged in Lunaris Academy," Griffin bit out.

"I’m a female. Winning over men’s hearts is kind of our specialty," Violet argued.

Roman scoffed. "Yeah? Tell me how Elijah explains his lovely niece to the entire werewolf community that believes Angus is dead."

"Oh, shit." Violet face-palmed. She hadn’t thought of that.

"Angus loves his throne," Griffin said. "We don’t even know how much Elijah knows. Until then, we will play along."

"Not to interrupt your scheming..." a new voice cut in. They looked up to see Micah.

He stopped at their table, not even a smile on his face. "But if you don’t mind, I’d like a dance with yours truly."

He didn’t say it, but everyone understood. He wanted to dance with his sister.