Iris


    My palms are sweaty as Ezra parks the car in front of the main entrance to my parents'' estate. I check my reflection in mypact mirror onest time-hair neatly brushed, light makeup simple but elegant dress. I look put together, but my insides feel like they''re on fire.


    We exit the car, and I help Miles out of his seat. He immediately grabs my hand, sensing my anxiety. He''s being remarkably calm, which I appreciate more than he could possibly know. Arthur takes my other hand and gives it a squeeze as we walk up the path.


    The front door opens before we reach it. Caleb steps out, grinning They''re waiting in the srium," he says, then adds in a whisper to me, "Mom hasn''t stopped crying all morting."


    The word "Mom" makes my throat tighten. I''ve never had a mom before. Not even an adoptive one. No one wanted the human" kids at the orphanage, Little did they know that I wasn''t one.


    Caleb leads us through the mansion, which is every bit as impressive as I remember. High ceilings, marble floors, artwork that probably costs more than my entire life savings. My focus narrows to the double doors at the end of a long hallway.


    The doors swing open to reveal a bright, airy greenhouse room filled with nts and bathed in natural light. And there they are -my parents-standing nervously in the center of the room.


    My mother, Maeve, is tall and elegant, with the same amber eyes as mine and the loveliest head of golden hair I''ve ever seen. My father, Francis, is distinguished and muscr, with salt-and-pepper hair, a perfect mustache, and a strong jawline. The perfect picture of werewolf nobility.


    They both freeze when they see me, and for a moment, we all just stare at each other in disbelief.


    Then my mother lets out a small sob and rushes forward, pulling me into her arms. "Iris," she whispers against my hair. "My baby girl."


    The dam breaks then, and suddenly I''m crying too, clinging to this woman who gave birth to me twenty-six years ago. I can''t speak, can''t think, can only feel the overwhelming sense that I''ve finally found where I belong.


    My father joins the embrace, his strong arms wrapping around both of us. "You look just like your mother," he says, and his words make it feel so much more real, as if my dream state has finally given way to bright, ring reality.


    We stand like that for what feels like an eternity, this tangle of limbs and tears and joy. It''s Miles who finally breaks the spell, tugging at my dress. "Mommy, why is everyone crying?"


    Iugh through my tears and pull back, wiping my eyes. "Because we''re happy, sweetie. These are your grandparents."


    My mother-I still can''t believe I have a mother-kneels down to Miles'' level. "Hello, Miles. I''m your grandmother, but you can call me Nana if you like."


    Miles shrinks away from her, avoiding her gaze. "Do you have any toys?"


    I bite my lip at Miles'' bluntness, but to my surprise and delight, my parents don''t bat an eye. “Yes. As a matter of fact,” my father says, “we have a whole yroom set up for you. Would you like to see it?"


    Miles'' eyes widen, and he looks at me as if for confirmation. I give him a nod, and he bashfully whispers, still staring at the floor, "Yes, please."


    "I''ll take him," Caleb offers. "Let you all get acquainted."


    As Caleb leads Miles away, my mother takes my hands in hers, studying my face. "You look so much like me at your age," she says. "Except for your nose."


    "My nose..." I whisper, touching it self-consciously.


    My father chuckles. "That''s apliment, darling." He taps his own nose. "The one trait you share with me-thank the Goddess you didn''t inherit any hing else from your brute of an old man. But a Willford nose is quite strong and distinctive. Powerful. And quite lovely on your beautiful face."


    I can''t help but blush at that. I''ve always thought my nose was strange and unseemly, but now that I''m witnessing my parents for the first time and seeing everything I''ve inherited from them, have a whole different perspective on my appearance.


    "Please, sit," my mother says, gesturing to a seating area by the windows. "We have so much to talk about."


    Arthur, who''s been hanging back, follows us to the couches. My father eyes him warily but extends a hand. “Alpha President,” he says formally.


    "Mr. Willford," Arthur replies.


    The tension between them is palpable. I wonder if they got along when Selina was in the picture. But then again, Selina is still their daughter, even if she wasn''t supposed to be. They''re probably wary after what happened. I can''t me them, but I do hope the bad feelings will ease over time.


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