Chapter 8: Her Father's Sword

My father crossed the great hall without looking at anyone.

The pack leaders stepped out of his way.

He was nearly fifty now, and there was more grey in his hair than I remembered.

The scar on his jaw was the same, and so were his hands, rough and square, with the knuckles he cracked when he was thinking.

He climbed the three steps to the dais and stopped in front of my chair.

For a moment neither of us spoke.

"Ilsa," he said.

It came out cracked down the middle.

"Hi, Papa."

He went down on both knees on the stone, and he took my face in his hands.

He ran his thumbs along my bruised cheekbones, carefully, over the swelling that was already going down.

"Your nose," he said.

"It's mending, Papa."

"It's broken."

"Mending."

He laughed, and it broke apart halfway, and he put his forehead against mine.

I had not cried in the dungeon.

I had not cried when they broke my finger, my legs or my back.

Now the tears came down my face in a hot stream, and I couldn't stop them.

"Three years," he whispered.

"I searched every pack in the country. I kept your room exactly as it was."

"I know. I'm sorry. I couldn't come."

"Why couldn't you?"

I looked past his shoulder.

Roan stood at the edge of the dais with his hands at his sides.