Desire mixed genre collection

Cordelia's Pov

The pack's ancient library smelled of leather, dust, and centuries of accumulated secrets. I'd always loved this room, back when I'd had free rein of the estate.

Now, surrounded by towering shelves and the weight of supernatural history, I felt like an intruder rifling through someone else's diary.

"The curse manifested six months ago," Rupert explained, pulling down a leather-bound tome that looked older than the estate itself.

"Started with nightmares, then physical weakness, and now..."

"Now he's redecorating with his claws and looking like death's distant cousin," I finished, running my finger along the spine of a particularly ominous-looking grimoire.

"Any particular reason the family thinks this is curse-related rather than, say, a perfectly normal supernatural illness?"

Margaret Ashworth, who'd been lurking near the door like a disapproving gargoyle, stepped forward. "Because it's happened before."

That got my attention. "Come again?"

She moved to a glass case in the corner, withdrawing a portrait I'd never seen before. The man in the painting bore a striking resemblance to Lysander – same aristocratic features, same piercing green eyes, same air of commanding authority.

Except this ancestor looked haggard, desperate, with that same greyish pallor currently plaguing his descendant.

"Roderick Ashworth, 1847," Margaret said crisply. "Died at the age of thirty-two from what the family records describe as 'a wasting sickness that consumed his wolf spirit.'"

I studied the portrait more closely. There was something about the man's eyes, a wildness that reminded me uncomfortably of Lysander's current state.

"Let me guess – he also had episodes of violent furniture destruction?"

"Among other things." Rupert spread open the ancient tome, revealing pages of cramped handwriting and disturbing illustrations.

"According to this, Roderick became increasingly unstable as the curse progressed. Attacked pack members, couldn't maintain his human form consistently, and ultimately..."

"Ultimately?" I prompted, though I had a sinking feeling I already knew.

"Went completely feral and had to be put down by his own beta."

The room fell silent except for the ticking of an antique clock that had apparently been marking time since the dawn of civilisation.

I stared at the portrait, seeing not just a long-dead Ashworth but a possible future for the man I'd once loved.

"Cheerful," I said finally. "And you think this is the same curse?"

"The symptoms are identical," Margaret replied. "The timeline, the progression, even the way it affects the alpha's connection to his wolf.

The healers have confirmed it – this is the same curse that killed Roderick."

I closed the grimoire with more force than necessary. "Right. So we know what it is and what it does. The question is, who cast it and why?"

"That," said a new voice from the doorway, "is where things become interesting."

I turned to see an elderly woman I didn't recognise, though something about her felt familiar. She was small, bird-like, with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that seemed to see far more than should be possible.

"Delia, this is Cordelia Ravencrest," Rupert said. "The pack's senior seer."

"Another Cordelia," I muttered. "How delightfully confusing."

The old woman smiled, and it wasn't entirely reassuring. "I prefer Cordy, dear. Less formal, don't you think?"

She moved into the room with surprising grace for someone who had to be pushing ninety, heading straight for a section of shelves I'd never paid much attention to before.

Her fingers traced along the book spines with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was looking for.

"The curse," she said, withdrawing a slim volume bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin, "was cast by Moira Blackthorne in 1847."

My blood went cold. "Blackthorne."

"Your great-great-grandmother, to be precise." Cordy's eyes twinkled with what might have been amusement.

"Lovely woman, by all accounts. Right up until Roderick Ashworth rejected her as his mate in favour of a politically advantageous match."

The silence in the library was so complete I could hear my own heartbeat. Or possibly that was the sound of my entire understanding of the situation crumbling around my ears.

"You're telling me," I said slowly, "that my ancestor cursed the Ashworth bloodline because one of them rejected her?"

"Poetic justice, some might say," Margaret observed with acid sweetness.

I shot her a look that could have curdled milk. "And you've known this for how long?"

"We suspected," Rupert admitted. "But we weren't certain until Cordy confirmed it this morning."

"This morning." I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. "So you brought me here, knowing that my family is responsible for your precious alpha's condition, because...?"

"Because," Cordy said gently, "curses can be broken, dear. But they require specific conditions to be met."

She opened the skin-bound book, revealing pages covered in symbols that made my wolf instincts recoil. The text was written in what looked like a mixture of Latin and something far older, far darker.

"According to this," she continued, "the curse can only be broken by a Blackthorne descendant who freely chooses to heal the afflicted Ashworth."

"Freely chooses," I repeated. "Not coerced, not forced, not manipulated into it."

"Precisely."

I looked around the room, taking in their expectant faces. Margaret's barely concealed desperation. Rupert's careful neutrality. Cordy's knowing smile. And underlying it all, the weight of five years of hurt and anger and carefully rebuilt independence.

"So let me see if I understand this correctly," I said. "My ancestor cursed your bloodline because your ancestor was an arse to her.

Now you need me to break the curse by freely choosing to help the man who was an arse to me. And you thought this was a plan that would work?"

"It has to work," Margaret said, and for the first time, her composure cracked slightly. "He's my son."

Despite everything, despite the years of resentment and the cosmic irony of the situation, I felt something twist in my chest.

Because whatever Lysander had done to me, he was still the boy who'd taught me to howl at the moon and promised we'd rule the pack together.

"Right," I said, closing the book firmly. "Let's go fix your impossible son before he destroys any more antiques."