As far as I was concerned, our sperm donor had stopped deserving the word father long before he died. He had chosen a psychotic woman over his children again and again, until eventually he made one choice too many and died for it.
Thank the Goddess.
Maybe that made me a terrible person, but I could live with that.
Owen and I had been raised in Greenwood.
We had grown up in a home where our mother kissed scraped knees and remembered every stupid thing we told her. Where our father pretended he hated family movie nights and then spent twenty minutes arguing over which movie we were watching. Where there had always been too much food on the table, too many people in the kitchen, too much noise, too much laughter.
Luna Aria Steele was my mother.
Alpha Alaric Biltmore was my father.
No o
