Page 17 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“Silas says madness touches my family line, but I’m not sure whether it’s madness or just a lack of whatever gives werewolves their humanity. Montague is a monster. Never doubt that. But he can decide—for reasons unfathomable to anyone—to be kind. He saved Nancy and protected her while she recovered, long before there was any … other relationship.”

“After she healed, she stayed with him.”

He nods. “As a sort of housekeeper, and then…” That helpless gesture again. “Whatever she is now. He cares for her, deeply, and she cares for him. Eventually, Julius and I came to accept that it was her choice. We also came to rely on and trust her. Aside from their personal relationship, she’s his caretaker and his guardian. She has no illusions about what he is, and so she ensures he stays there, in his little forest fiefdom.”

“Then you need to accept that she’s a rational adult who has made a choice, and as uncomfortable as it is, you cannot interfere.” I pause. “Or judge.”

“I know.”

We walk a little more, and then I say, softly, “He adores you.”

His hand tightens so much that I fear I’ve said the wrong thing, and my heart pounds. I want to offer comfort and support. My experience comforting and supporting friends feels inadequate. I was always there for Audrey when she butted heads with her father, who tried to steer her into a conventional life for a young woman. That had been a young woman dealing with a normal parent. Not someone dealing with a monstrous grandfather.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “If you don’t want to talk about it—”

“It started when I was a boy,” he whispers, almost too low for me to hear. “He would say—” A deep, shuddering breath. “He would say that I reminded him of himself. My father would take me aside and be very clear that I was not like Montague, at least not in the worst ways. He said that what my grandfather saw in me was strength and ambition, which Montague has. But my father also said that, in me, Montague sees things he lacks and wants.”

“Intelligence and the ability to lead and inspire others. Your grandfather looks at you and thinks he sees a younger version of himself, when what he really sees is a projection of what he believes himself to be.”

Bishop smiles at me. “I wish you could have met my father, Delia.” His voice catches. “He would have adored you. My father and my uncle were … more like Julius than me. Clever and charming and resourceful and good men, good wolves.”

“You’re all of that.”

His smile turns wry. “No one has ever accused me of being charming.”

“I think you are.”

He laughs softly. “You have an unusual taste in men, though I’m certainly not complaining. My point is that Julius and my uncle and my father weren’t what my grandfather wanted, and they paid that price.”

“I…” I swallow. “Nothing I say is a judgment, Bishop, but I do have questions.”

“Ask.”

“I was under the impression your uncle and father didn’t stay with him after they were grown.”

“They did leave. Escaped, more like. But…” His hand tightens. “You saw how Montague was with Julius. Dismisses and insults him but also needs him? He needed his sons, and as much as they would have loved to turn their backs on him, that was never … safe.”

“For them?”

“For them or for others. Mostly, their concern was for others. They did what Nancy does now. Looked after him but also restrained him. For my father and uncle, that came with a price, but…” He adjusts his grip on my hand. “When Montague’s attention turned on me, I discovered it gave me the power to distract him. Make him focus on me. Draw his attention from Julius, my father, my uncle.”

I think of the little boy who learned that lesson, and my heart cracks. “Oh, Bishop.”

“It was fine,” he says firmly. “I made a choice. No one knew I was doing it, and I would like to keep it that way. Any discomfort I felt being the focus of Montague’s attention was nothing compared to what the others endured.”

“All right.”

“What I need you to understand, Cordelia, is the fear that hangs over me all the time. I hate admitting it, because it’s not who I want to be, but I also need you to see the worst of me.”

When I open my mouth, he says, “No, please. I didn’t say that for you to console me. Just listen. Please.”

I nod silently.

“I grew up hearing how I was like Montague, and no matter what my father and uncle did to mitigate that, I felt it because I saw all the ways I am more like him than I am like my father and uncle and Julius. My ambition, my single-mindedness, my capacity for ruthlessness, it all mirrors my grandfather. I fear becoming Montague, as if what poisons him lurks deep in my soul, a rot waiting to take hold.”

“You fear that you inherited the worst of him, as well as the best.”

“Yes, and you can tell me I’m not like that. My father did. My uncle did. Julius does. But that only leads to another worry, one that eats away at me. The worry that I can’t be what I need to be—what I want to be—because of my fear.”