Chapter 2 Ghosts and Expensive Suits

Cordelia's Pov

The enforcer waiting by the car was someone I recognised, which was both a blessing and a curse. Rupert Whitmore had been Lysander's beta back when I'd been foolish enough to think I belonged in their world.

He'd also been one of the few people who'd looked genuinely sorry during my very public humiliation.

"Delia," he said, straightening as I approached. His voice carried that careful neutrality that screamed 'this is awkward for everyone involved.'

"Rupert." I kept my tone equally neutral, though inside, my wolf was doing complicated gymnastics. Being around pack members again after five years of isolation was like stepping back into a coat that no longer fit properly. "Lovely weather we're having."

He glanced at the grey Scottish sky, currently threatening rain with the determination of a disgruntled deity. "Quite."

We stood there for a moment, two people who'd once known each other well enough to share inside jokes, now separated by years of carefully maintained distance. Rupert looked older, more worn around the edges.

There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, a tension in his shoulders that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

"How bad is it?" I asked, because dancing around the obvious seemed pointless.

His expression shifted, and for a moment, I saw past the professional facade to genuine worry. "Bad enough that the council overruled his objections to bringing you back."

That was interesting. So Lysander hadn't wanted me involved. Typical. The man who'd rejected me in front of half the supernatural community was apparently too proud to ask for help, even when his life depended on it.

"And what exactly makes you all think I can help?" I climbed into the passenger seat, noting that the car still smelled like expensive leather and pack authority. Some things never changed.

Rupert started the engine, and we began the winding drive back toward Ravenshollow.

The landscape rolled past, achingly familiar despite my best efforts to forget it, stone walls, sheep that looked perpetually judgmental, and in the distance, the spires of the estate where I'd once thought I'd spend my life.

"The pack healers are baffled," Rupert said, navigating a particularly aggressive curve. "Whatever's affecting him, it's not responding to conventional treatment. The bond you shared... even damaged, it might be enough."

"Might be." I stared out the window, watching my old life approach with all the enthusiasm of a dental procedure. "Hardly inspiring confidence."

"Delia..."

"It's fine." I cut him off before he could launch into whatever apology or explanation he'd been rehearsing.

"I'm here, aren't I? Despite every rational instinct screaming at me to barricade myself in my studio with enough tea and biscuits to wait out the apocalypse."

The silence stretched between us, filled with things neither of us wanted to address. Like the fact that I'd been in love with Lysander since we were teenagers. Like the fact that the mating bond had been so strong, so obvious, that the entire pack had assumed it was destiny.

Like the fact that he'd chosen pack politics over his supposedly fated mate, and I'd been naive enough to be surprised.

"He asks about you," Rupert said quietly as we turned through the familiar iron gates of Ravenshollow Estate.

My stomach did something complicated. "Does he now?"

"Not directly. But he... notices things. When your pottery shows up in the village shops. When tourists mention the eccentric artist living in the hills."

"Eccentric." I laughed, but it came out sharper than intended. "I prefer 'selectively social.'"

The estate came into view, and despite everything, I felt a pang of something that might have been homesickness. Ravenshollow had been in the Ashworth family for centuries, a sprawling Gothic revival manor that managed to be both imposing and oddly welcoming.

I'd spent countless hours here as a young woman, learning the intricacies of pack politics and dreaming of a future that had spectacularly failed to materialise.

Rupert parked in the circular drive, and I noticed the subtle signs of neglect that spoke of a pack under stress.

The gardens weren't quite as pristine as they once were, and there was a general air of things being maintained rather than lovingly tended.

"Before we go in," Rupert said, turning to face me properly. "You should know... he's not the same. The illness, whatever it is, it's changing him. Making him..." He struggled for the right word.

"More of an arse than usual?" I suggested helpfully.

"Desperate," he said seriously. "And that makes him dangerous."

I considered this as we walked toward the front door, our footsteps echoing on the ancient stone. A desperate Lysander was indeed a concerning prospect.

The man had been formidable enough when he'd been secure in his power. Backed into a corner, facing his own mortality... Well, that had the potential to be spectacularly unpleasant for everyone involved.

The front hall hadn't changed much. Still intimidatingly grand, still designed to make visitors feel small and significant simultaneously.

The portraits of previous Ashworth alphas looked down with their painted expressions of aristocratic superiority, and I wondered if any of them had been stupid enough to reject their fated mates for political expediency.

"Miss Blackthorne." The voice came from the top of the main staircase, crisp and disapproving. Margaret Ashworth, Lysander's mother and current pack matriarch, descended with the grace of someone who'd been practicing intimidation since birth.

"Mrs Ashworth." I inclined my head just enough to be polite, not enough to be deferential. Five years of independence had done wonders for my spine.

She looked me over with the sort of assessment usually reserved for livestock at market. "You look... rustic."

"Thank you," I said cheerfully. "I will try."

Her lips thinned, but before she could respond, a commotion erupted from somewhere inside the house. Shouting, the crash of something expensive hitting something solid, and underlying it all, a sound that made my wolf whimper.

It was a pain-filled, desperate, and undeniably familiar howl.

"Right then," I said, squaring my shoulders. "Let's go see what sort of mess you've all gotten yourselves into."