For nearly all of those years, Rosalie’s presence followed us like a shadow. From the beginning, I heard of her constantly. She was gentle, obedient, sweet-natured, delicate—everything wolves found irresistible.
Always close to him.
Always needing him.
At first, I assumed she truly was his younger sister.
Later, I learned Lucian was an only child.
Then I wondered if she was a distant cousin.
She was neither.
After our coming-of-age ceremony, Lucian and I began handling pack duties together. Not long after, Rosalie moved into the central territory. Lucian explained her mother had entrusted her to him because she had been born weak and needed protection.
At first, I pitied her.
I truly did.
But pity slowly turned into humiliation.
Whenever Lucian and I trained together, Rosalie sent for him.
Whenever we shared a meal, Rosalie fell ill.
Whenever we stole one quiet night beneath the moon, Rosalie somehow needed him before dawn.
A dizzy spell.
A twisted ankle.
A fever.
A sleepless night.
The reasons changed. The ending never did.
The moment Rosalie called, Lucian went.
I lost count of how many times we argued.