u/Evening_Upstairs1936

The Don’s Deaf Wife Heard the Truth About His Betrayal

Chapter 1

Five years later, my hearing finally came back.The first thing I wanted to do was tell Leandro.

For five years, he had been my anchor—my husband, my refuge, the man who taught me to believe in love again.But before I could walk into the room and share the miracle with him, I heard his voice.

“Even now, I still love Isolde,” Leandro said, his tone heavy with regret. “I’m thinking of giving her Varconi Group—the legitimate front of the Varconi empire.”

Across from him, Soren, his consigliere, let out a low laugh.

“And what about your wife?” he asked. “If she ever finds out you only married her to keep her away from Rafael and make sure Isolde got her happy ending, it’ll destroy her.”

Leandro gave a soft, careless chuckle.

“I’m not worried,” he said. “She’s deaf. She can’t hear a word we say.”

I stopped breathing.

My fingers curled so tightly into my palms that my nails nearly broke the skin.

So this was the truth.

These five years of love, care and kindness—everything—had all been a lie? A carefully woven facade to ensure Isolde's happiness at my expense?

What was the point of staying in a life built on betrayal? There was none. I might as well disappear from his world forever.

***

As soon as the specialist confirmed that my hearing had fully recovered, I could hardly contain my excitement. My heart raced as I imagined hearing Leandro's voice—not the faint vibrations I had grown used to over the years. The thought alone was enough to quicken my pace as I rushed home, my breath coming in short, eager bursts.

The winter air was sharp and biting as the driver opened the car door for me. Snowflakes drifted lazily from a gray sky, dusting the garden path that led to the front door. My cheeks stung from the cold, but I barely noticed. All I could think about was the joy of sharing this miracle with the man I loved.

But as I approached the front door, the muffled sound of voices stopped me in my tracks. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. It wasn't unusual for Leandro to have guests, but something about the tone made me pause. I strained to listen, the unfamiliar clarity of sound both thrilling and unnerving.

"I thought after five years, I could move on," a deep male voice said. "But it turns out, I still love Isolde."

My breath hitched and I froze, my pulse pounding in my ears.

"You know," the voice continued, "I've been thinking of giving her Varconi Group, the clean face of the Varconi empire so she doesn't have to worry about money for the rest of her life."

I peeked through the narrow gap between the door and its frame. Leandro sat on the plush gray couch as if the room, the house, and everyone in it belonged to him. Even at home, the Don of the Varconi family carried danger like a second skin. Opposite him was Soren, his consigliere, who leaned back in his chair with an incredulous look. My stomach churned as I realized the voice had come from Leandro himself.

Soren frowned. As Leandro's consigliere, he had seen men killed for less foolish decisions. "If you give away Varconi Group, you'll just be an Don with no crown. What about your wife? She's the eldest daughter of the old Wycliffe bloodline—are you planning to make her live in hardship?"

Leandro leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the black signet ring of the Varconi family catching the light. His face was calm, almost merciless. "Back then, Isolde didn't choose me, so I couldn't take care of her as her husband. But I can still show her that I've always loved her, that I've never abandoned her. Giving her Varconi Group is the least I can do."

"And your wife?" Soren asked, exasperated. "What about Maris?"

Leandro's lips curved into a faint, dismissive smile. "I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to her. She told me she loves me and that she's willing to endure hardships with me. Her life might lose some of its polish, but it's not as if we'll be poor. She won't complain."

I felt the words like physical blows, each one slicing through my chest with cruel precision. My legs felt like they might give out beneath me, but I clung to the doorframe for support. The weight of betrayal pressed down on me, cold and unrelenting, like the snow accumulating around my feet.

Soren sighed, rubbing his temple. "You've completely lost your mind over Isolde. If your wife finds out that you married her not out of love, but to keep her away from Rafael and Isolde, she'll be heartbroken."

His words left me numb. The truth I had unknowingly lived beside for five years was more devastating than I could have imagined. My fingers gripped the edge of the door so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

Soren's voice faltered as he glanced toward the doorway and saw me standing there. His eyes widened in alarm and his words came out in a panicked stammer. "M-Maris, you're back?"

Leandro turned his head sharply, his gaze locking onto mine. For a moment, there was tension in his eyes—an instinctive flicker of guilt, quickly masked by a calm, almost indifferent expression.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he said coolly. "She is deaf. You could confess murder beside her and she would not hear a word."

His words twisted the knife already buried in my heart. Soren relaxed visibly, even chuckling nervously as he stood and offered me a small bow before signing a polite greeting.

Leandro rose from the couch and approached me, his steps measured, his expression warm and familiar. He reached for a shawl draped over a nearby chair and gently wrapped it around my shoulders. His fingers brushed against my skin, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine—not from the cold, but from the growing chasm between us.

He signed to me with a concerned look, "Cara, why did you go out in such cold weather wearing so little? You'll catch a cold."

At first, I had admired his effort to learn sign language, remembering the long hours he had spent with a tutor after we married. I thought he had done it out of love, a gesture to bridge the gap my disability had created. But now, every gesture, every kind word, felt like part of an elaborate performance, carefully crafted to hide the truth.

Chapter 2

Once, I had told Leandro not to push himself so hard to learn sign language. It was late at night and the warm glow of the lamp cast soft shadows across his face as he practiced, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"You don't need to do this," I had said, placing a hand over his. "I can adjust—I'm used to it."

But he only smiled, a gentle curve of his lips that softened the intensity of his expression. "All these years, you couldn't hear. You suffered so much pain and exclusion, yet you endured it all alone with no one to confide in. I don't want you to live like that. It hurts me. I want to be the first person who can truly communicate with you."

Those words had struck something deep within me, breaking the dam of emotions I had held back for years. Tears had streamed down my face as I realized he was the first person willing to make such an effort for me. Even Rafael, whose life I had saved, had never bothered to learn sign language. My parents, for whom I was simply a shadow to Isolde, hadn't even considered it.

But now, as I watched Leandro skillfully sign, I felt no warmth. Only a deep, stinging irony. His hands, which once brought me comfort, now mocked me with their fluid, graceful movements. He used the gentlest gestures to show his black Maybache for me, yet took advantage of my deafness to bare his heart to another woman—right in front of me, knowing I couldn't hear a thing.

He signed again, his face calm and attentive. "Cara, Isolde's birthday banquet is about to begin. We should head out now. If we're late, people will start gossiping."

His eyes sparkled—not with love for me, but with anticipation, as if the thought of seeing Isolde gave him renewed energy.

A dull ache spread through my chest, tightening with every second. I forced a small smile and pulled my hand back. "Then wait for me a moment. I'll go change my clothes," I said, keeping my voice steady, though my throat burned with suppressed tears.

I turned and hurried upstairs, each step heavier than the last. The moment I shut the bedroom door behind me, the composure I had clung to crumbled. My shoulders shook as tears spilled over, silent yet overwhelming.

When I finally managed to calm myself, I changed into a modest yet elegant gown and smoothed my hair. I didn't want to give Isolde or anyone else another reason to look down on me. On my way downstairs, something caught my attention—a faint crack of light spilling from Leandro's study.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough to tempt me. In five years of marriage, I had never once entered his study. Leandro had made it clear that he wanted a private space and I had respected that boundary, believing it was his way of separating work from home life.

But today, something compelled me to push the door open.

The moment I stepped inside, my heart plummeted.

The walls were nearly covered in photos of Isolde, an entire timeline of her life displayed with obsessive precision. From her childhood innocence to her poised adulthood, her every expression—smiling, crying, laughing—was captured and framed. The warmth that should have filled a study was replaced by the cold sterility of a shrine.

Not a single photo of me was there.

I stumbled forward, my legs shaky as I approached the desk. On its surface was a neatly arranged stack of love letters. My hands trembled as I picked up the topmost one. [To Isolde, my 99th love letter.]

Every word on the page dripped with devotion, declarations of a love so deep it left no room for anyone else. Beside the letters lay a document—a transfer contract for Varconi Group.

Varconi Group was the crown jewel of the Varconi family, a legitimate empire Leandro had used to launder the Varconi name into high society. Yet, here he was, ready to hand it over to Isolde, casting aside generations of effort for her sake.

It struck me that while Leandro spent countless hours in this study, it wasn't work that consumed him. It was her. The realization left me hollow, as though my very being had been erased, my existence reduced to a pawn in his plans for another woman.

By the time we arrived at the Wycliffe estate, I felt like a shadow of myself. The grand estate glowed under the golden lights of the chandeliers, the air filled with soft music and polite laughter.

The birthday girl, Isolde, stood at the center of attention, radiant in a custom gown that looked more like a coronation dress than evening wear. The shimmering fabric hugged her figure perfectly and her makeup enhanced her already striking features. She looked like a princess, every inch the beloved daughter of the Wycliffes.

My parents hovered around her, their faces glowing with pride and affection. Their hands brushed against hers often, as though they couldn't bear to lose her again. They had once treated me the same way, lavishing me with love and attention.

That was before. Before Isolde had returned.

Ten years ago, when she was found after being missing for so long, I thought we could finally rebuild our family. But her first words to me shattered that hope.

"Sis, what did I do wrong? Why did you let them kidnap me?"

Chapter 3

With just one sentence, Isolde had turned my world upside down.

Those words echoed through the room like a gunshot, shattering any trust my family had in me. Suddenly, I was no longer their daughter or sister but a villain, blamed for Isolde's abduction. My parents looked at me with eyes full of disgust, as if I were a curse they regretted ever bringing into the world. The warmth of their love disappeared overnight, replaced by cold indifference that seeped into every corner of my life.

Even now, years later, their resentment lingered in every glance, every word, every silence.

At the birthday banquet, Isolde noticed Leandro and me entering the grand hall and immediately walked over. Her gown, a cascade of glittering gold and silk, shimmered under the crystal chandeliers, making her the undeniable star of the evening.

Her bright smile was as dazzling as ever. "Sis, Leandro, you're finally here! I thought you weren't going to come."

Then, as though struck by a sudden realization, she placed a manicured hand over her lips and added, "Oh, I'm sorry, sis. I forgot you're deaf. I should be using sign language, but I don't know how... You wouldn't blame me for that, would you?"

Her words carried a saccharine sweetness, but her wide, innocent eyes betrayed a flicker of malice.

My mother, who had been standing close behind, crossed her arms and let out a harsh, derisive snort. "If it weren't for her, you wouldn't have been kidnapped in the first place. How could she possibly blame you? If anyone's to blame, it's her—for being deaf and bringing shame to the Wycliffes."

Her voice was sharp, slicing through me like a whip. My father didn't say anything, but his gaze bore into me with disdain so tangible I could feel it.

I lowered my eyes, my breath catching for a moment. It wasn't the first time they'd treated me like this. It wouldn't be the last. But the familiarity didn't dull the pain—it only made it worse.

Before I could muster a response, Leandro stepped forward, his usual calm demeanor unshaken. He placed a steadying hand on Isolde's shoulder and said warmly, "Maris isn't that petty. There's no need to apologize to her."

He then handed Isolde a small velvet box, his movements unhurried and deliberate, as though presenting a priceless treasure. "Isolde, this is for you."

Isolde's face lit up with a radiant smile as she accepted the gift. "Thank you, Leandro. You're always so thoughtful."

As she tilted her wrist to adjust the box, a flash of silver caught my eye. My heart stopped.

The bracelet.

Varconi Group' heirloom bracelet—a symbol of the family legacy and love. The one that Leandro had told me was lost years ago.

I had once asked him why he never gave it to me, back when we were newlyweds and I still believed in his affection. His expression had faltered for just a moment before he dismissed it. "It's just an old trinket. It doesn't mean anything. What matters is that my heart belongs to you."

Now, the truth stared back at me, glinting under the ballroom lights. The bracelet wasn't lost. It had never been meant for me. It was always hers.

A sharp, searing pain spread through my chest, like a blade carving through my heart. My hands trembled, but I forced myself to stay composed. I couldn't let them see how much it hurt.

"I need some air," I muttered and quickly stepped away, weaving through the crowd toward the backyard.

The garden outside was dimly lit, with the pool at its center shimmering under the moonlight and armed guards posted discreetly beneath the cypress trees. The cold night air prickled against my skin, but it was a relief compared to the suffocating tension inside.

I leaned against the railing by the pool, trying to steady my breathing. My reflection on the water's surface seemed like a stranger's—haunted, broken and utterly alone.

I didn't expect Isolde to follow me.

When she appeared, her expression was no longer sweet or apologetic. The facade she wore so well in public vanished, replaced by a sneer that twisted her delicate features.

"I really don't know how you have the audacity to come here," she hissed, her voice low but dripping with venom. "Can't you see that no one wants you here? Your thick skin is truly impressive."

The words stung, but I didn't respond. I kept my gaze fixed on the rippling water, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me react.

Her tone grew sharper. "You deaf freak, did you actually think Leandro married you because he loved you? He only did it to keep you from ruining my marriage with Rafael. The night of the wedding, he came to me and explained everything—he told me the one he truly loves is me."

She stepped closer, her perfume wafting in the air, cloying and suffocating. "Accept it. No one loves you. If I were you, I'd just kill myself already."

Every word was like a dagger, plunging deeper and deeper until it felt like my very soul was bleeding. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I fought the tears threatening to spill.

Seeing my silence, Isolde let out a cold laugh. "Still unwilling to let go of Leandro? Then let me help you out."

Before I could react, she flung herself into the pool, the sudden splash breaking the stillness of the night.

"Help!" she screamed, thrashing wildly in the water. "Someone help me!"

The echoes of her cries pierced the air while I stood frozen, not knowing what to do.

Chapter 4

Isolde's screams pierced through the garden, shattering the evening calm and drawing a crowd of startled guests to the poolside. The hum of chatter turned to gasps as they took in the scene.

Without hesitation, Leandro tore off his suit jacket--the one tailored to hide a holster--and leapt into the pool, the loud splash sending ripples across the water. He swam swiftly toward Isolde, his movements decisive and frantic.

When he reached her, he scooped her into his arms, cradling her protectively as he brought her to the edge of the pool. Water streamed from her soaking gown, pooling around them as she trembled against his chest.

"Isolde! Isolde, are you okay?" Leandro's voice was thick with concern, his hands gripping her shoulders as if to anchor her. His eyes darted over her face, searching for any sign of injury.

Isolde clung to him, shivering dramatically, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She cast a fleeting glance at me and the hurt in her gaze was unmistakable.

"Sis, if I did something to upset you, you could have just told me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why did you push me into the pool? You know I'm terrified of water..."

The crowd murmured in shocked disbelief and before I could open my mouth to defend myself, my mother stormed forward. Her face twisted in fury, her voice laced with venom.

"Maris, how dare you push Isolde into the pool!"

Her sudden shove caught me off guard. My feet slipped on the wet tiles and I stumbled backward.

The moment I hit the water, the icy cold enveloped me, stealing the breath from my lungs. Panic gripped me as I sank beneath the surface, water rushing into my mouth and nose. I kicked and flailed, but my movements were erratic, each one draining more of my energy.

I can't swim.

My chest burned as I struggled for air, the heavy weight of the water pressing down on me. Above the surface, muffled voices and laughter filtered through, but no one jumped in after me.

Through the ripples, I glimpsed my mother standing at the pool's edge, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Stop pretending, Maris," she scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "No one's going to fall for your act. You've been nothing but a curse on this family. Letting Isolde be kidnapped wasn't enough for you—now you're trying to hurt her again? I should never have brought you into this world!"

Each word felt like another weight pulling me further underwater.

My father stood beside her, his lips pressed into a tight line. He didn't bother to speak; his cold, condemning glare said it all.

I surfaced briefly, gasping and coughing, but the effort sapped what little strength I had left.

Through the blur of water and tears, my gaze landed on Leandro. My last shred of hope clung to him. Surely, he wouldn't let me drown. 'He knows I can't swim. He might not love me, but he isn't cruel enough to let me die... right?'

But Leandro didn't move.

He sat on the pool's edge with Isolde still in his arms, his expression hardening as he looked at me.

"Did you know Isolde is pregnant?" he spat, his voice filled with anger. "How could you do this to her? You could have killed her—and the baby!"

The accusation struck me like a slap. My throat tightened and I tried to plead, but the words were lost in my gasps for air.

Leandro's face darkened further. "Stay in the water tonight and think about what you've done."

With that, he stood and carried Isolde away, her damp hair clinging to his shoulder. She rested her head against him, casting me a final triumphant glance before they disappeared into the house.

The crowd slowly dispersed, their whispers carrying a mix of scorn, amusement, and the cruel excitement of high society watching a woman fall. My parents turned and followed without so much as a backward glance.

One by one, they all left.

As the cold seeped into my bones, an overwhelming sense of despair settled over me. My arms felt heavy, my legs weaker with every kick. 'I can't... I can't keep this up.'

The water closed over me again and this time I didn't have the strength to resurface. My lungs burned, my vision blurred and my thoughts grew hazy.

Just as darkness began to consume me, a sudden splash broke through the silence. A strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me upward with desperate urgency.

Who... was he?

***

When I opened my eyes, the stark white ceiling of a private clinic room greeted me. My body felt heavy, every breath a laborious effort.

I turned my head and was startled to see Leandro sitting beside the bed. His hair was disheveled and his shirt was wrinkled, as if he hadn't slept.

The moment our eyes met, his face lit up with relief.

He immediately began signing, his movements quick and full of emotion. "Cara, you're finally awake. I didn't mean to leave you behind last night. Rafael is away on a family business in Sicily and couldn't take care of Isolde. She's pregnant—I had to take her to the private clinic first... Please don't be mad, okay?"

His hands stilled briefly, his expression softening as he continued. "You know how important heirs are to the Varconi family. If something happened to Isolde's baby, they'd blame you. Even your parents wouldn't forgive you. I was only trying to protect you..."

He looked at me with such sincerity, as if expecting me to believe every word.

But I knew better now.

The ache in my chest was unbearable, but I forced myself to stay composed. I refused to let him see how deeply his words cut me.

I said nothing.

Leandro's smile faltered, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. He hesitated, then reached for my hand.

I didn't pull away, but I didn't respond either. Instead, I turned my gaze to the window, letting the silence stretch between us.

Chapter 5

Later that evening, I sat in the sterile quiet of my private clinic room, staring at the photo Isolde had sent me. It was a picture of Leandro, leaning over her private clinic bed, pen in hand, his expression tender and focused. The caption beneath it twisted the knife further: [Your husband is quite the romantic,] she had written. [He actually wrote me a hundred love letters. He stayed by my side all night and didn't even close his eyes. The house staff only told him you were waking up and that's when he finally left to see you.]

Her next message came almost immediately, each word dripping with calculated cruelty: [Maris, you'll never be able to surpass me. If you have any sense, you should just step aside.]

The pain in my chest was sharp and unrelenting, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break. My fingers hovered over the screen, trembling with restrained anger, but before I could type a reply, the door to my private clinic room creaked open.

A man in a crisp black suit entered, one of Leandro's lawyers--polished, silent, and more dangerous than most men with guns. He barely glanced in my direction before turning to Leandro, who stood near the window, his hands in his pockets.

"Don Leandro," the man began, his voice low and deferential. "As per your instructions, we have prepared everything for the family press conference. The transfer of Varconi Group to Mrs. Isolde Draven can proceed as planned. The board, the shell companies, and the offshore signatures are all ready."

My heart sank as the words registered. I turned my gaze to Leandro.

But Leandro's lips curled into a satisfied smile as he nodded. "Good," he said, his tone calm and measured. "If my wife asks about this, tell her Varconi Group collapsed under an old investigation and had to be dissolved."

He turned to me then, his expression shifting into one of feigned urgency. His hands moved swiftly, signing with exaggerated concern, "Cara, something urgent came up with the family. I have to handle it. Wait for me here."

For a moment, I simply stared at him, my mind reeling. His performance was flawless. If I hadn't regained my hearing, I might have believed every word. But now, the truth was as clear as the air in the room.

I nodded silently, watching as he left without a second glance. The door clicked shut behind him and the silence that followed felt suffocating.

I stared at the empty space where he had stood, my hands curling into fists. The realization hit me like a wave—there was nothing left to hold onto. No love, no trust, no future.

Rather than endure the humiliation of lingering in his world, I decided it was time to leave it entirely.

With a steady hand, I pulled a divorce agreement from my bag, the papers creased and worn from the hours I had spent deliberating. I placed it neatly on the bedside table, the stark white pages a symbol of my resolve.

Before leaving, I took out my phone and deleted every trace of them—Leandro, Isolde, even my parents. Each press of the delete button felt like a small release, a severing of ties that had only brought me pain.

***

At the family press conference, the ballroom buzzed with flashbulbs, whispers, and the low danger of men who knew too much. Leandro stood on the stage beside Isolde, a triumphant smile on his face. Cameras flashed and reporters and society columnists scribbled furiously as he announced that Varconi Group--the legitimate face of the Varconi underworld--would be transferred to her.

"This marks a new chapter for the Varconi family and its allies," Leandro declared, his voice steady and confident.

The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers echoing through the hall. Among them, my parents beamed with pride, clapping enthusiastically as they celebrated Isolde's success.

As the event concluded, Leandro offered to escort Isolde home himself. She clung to his arm, her smile radiant, but just as they reached the entrance, a familiar figure stepped into their path.

"Long time no see, Leandro," Lucien greeted, his tone light but pointed. "Taking your niece-in-law out again? Why didn't you bring your wife along? I wanted to ask her about her ears—whether she still has difficulties hearing."

Lucien's words hung in the air like a thunderclap. Leandro froze, his expression shifting from surprise to disbelief.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice low and strained. "Maris... she can hear now?"

Lucien blinked, confused by his reaction. "What's with that look? Her hearing recovered yesterday. Didn't she tell you?"

Chapter 1

The small glass vial felt surprisingly heavy in my palm, its weight far exceeding the few milliliters of clear liquid it contained. Through the private clinic's floor-to-ceiling windows, Seattle's skyline blurred into watercolor streaks as rain traced paths down the glass. The city looked as gray and lifeless as I felt inside. "Mrs. Wynter, please reconsider," Dr. Chen's voice cracked with desperation behind me. "There has to be another way. We could try experimental treatments, reach out to international contacts—" I turned from the window, meeting his wide, terrified eyes. The elderly doctor's hands trembled as he reached toward me, but I held up my free hand to stop him. "You just told me the Frostbite Syndrome has reached my heart," I said, my voice unnaturally calm. "You said the wolf toxin will kill me within weeks. And you also confirmed that there are only three vials of Moonlight Essence left in the world." Dr. Chen's face crumpled. "But your mate, Killian, he purchased one of those vials just yesterday. Surely he—" "He bought it for my stepsister Mira." The words tasted like ash in my mouth. "Not for his dying mate." The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken truths. Dr. Chen had been our family physician for over a decade. He'd delivered my son Aiden, treated Killian's injuries from pack challenges, and watched our seemingly perfect family grow. He knew exactly what kind of man my mate had become. I uncapped the vial with steady fingers. The liquid inside shimmered with an otherworldly luminescence—beautiful and deadly. Seventy-two hours. That's all this accelerant would give me. But it would also mask the symptoms of my disease, making my final days appear normal to everyone else. "Scarlett, don't—" Dr. Chen lunged forward, but I'd already tilted the vial to my lips. The liquid burned like liquid fire down my throat, and for a moment, my vision went white. When it cleared, Dr. Chen was staring at me in horror, his face pale as parchment. "Why?" he whispered. I set the empty vial on his desk with a soft clink. "Because no one would believe I'm actually sick anyway. They all think I'm just another attention-seeking Luna, playing victim to manipulate my Alpha." The words came out matter-of-factly, but each syllable carved a deeper wound in my chest. I pulled out a legal document I'd prepared before the appointment—a comprehensive non-disclosure agreement. "Sign this," I said, sliding it across his desk. "You cannot tell anyone about my condition. Not Killian, not my parents, not anyone." Dr. Chen's hands shook as he read the contract. "Scarlett, this is madness. Your family has a right to know—" "My family stopped caring about my rights six months ago." The memory hit me like a physical blow, transporting me back to a time when everything made sense. Six months ago, I was Scarlett Wynter, the self-made CEO of Wynter Rose, a luxury fashion house worth over a hundred million dollars. I'd built that empire from nothing—sketching designs in coffee shops while pregnant with Aiden, sewing samples in our tiny apartment while Killian worked double shifts at the pack security firm. Back then, Killian would come home exhausted but proud, wrapping his arms around me as I worked late into the night. "My brilliant mate," he'd whisper against my neck. "Building an empire one stitch at a time." We had everything. A penthouse overlooking Elliott Bay, a son who was the light of both our worlds, and a love that felt unbreakable. Killian was the Alpha heir to the Silver Moon Pack, and I was his chosen Luna—not assigned by politics or bloodlines, but selected by genuine love and respect. Then Mira came home. My mother's stepdaughter from her first marriage, the child who'd been sent to foster care when she was eight because my mother "wasn't ready to be a stepmother." Twenty-two years old, doe-eyed, and helpless in the most appealing way possible. "She's been through so much," my mother had pleaded when she announced Mira would be moving into the family estate. "We owe her this chance, Scarlett. You of all people should understand what it's like to need family support." But I hadn't needed support—I'd earned everything I had. Mira, however, needed everything. She needed clothes, so I shared my wardrobe. She needed job connections, so I introduced her to my network. She needed comfort after her "traumatic" foster care experience, so I opened my home and my heart. Slowly, insidiously, she began replacing me in my own life. "Scarlett's always so busy with work," she'd say with a delicate sigh when my parents invited us for dinner. "I wish I could be as driven, but I just value family time more." "Mira's right," Killian started saying. "You're becoming too focused on business. Aiden needs his mother present, not just financially providing." When had my ambition become a character flaw? When had my success become evidence of my failures as a mother and mate? The transformation was gradual but devastating. My parents began praising Mira's "gentle nature" while criticizing my "intensity." Killian started comparing us, always finding me lacking in warmth, in softness, in traditional feminine virtues that apparently mattered more than the empire I'd built for our family. Even Aiden, my precious six-year-old son, began preferring "Aunt Mira" who had time for tea parties and bedtime stories while Mommy was always "working on important stuff." Dr. Chen's signature scratching across the paper pulled me back to the present. His eyes were filled with tears as he looked up at me. "I pray you find peace, Scarlett," he said quietly. I tucked the signed agreement into my purse and headed for the door. "I already have. It just took dying to find it." The Seattle cold hit me like a slap as I stepped outside, but strangely, I felt warmer than I had in months. My phone buzzed insistently—seventeen unread messages, all from Mira. *"Hey! Can you send me the design files for the spring collection? I have some ideas! 💕"* *"Also, do you have the contact info for that photographer you used last month?"* *"Scarlett? Are you ignoring me? That's not very sisterly! 😢"* I scrolled through message after message, each one a small demand disguised as sweet sisterly bonding. The spring collection she wanted represented two years of my creative work. The photographer contact was an exclusive relationship I'd cultivated for five years. But what did any of that matter now? I slipped the phone back into my purse without responding and flagged down a taxi. As I settled into the worn leather seat, a strange sense of liberation washed over me. For the first time in months, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to give everyone exactly what they wanted. The taxi pulled away from the curb just as my phone buzzed again. This time it was Killian: *"Mira wants to wear that blue dress you designed to tonight's charity gala. Come home and help her alter it to fit."* I stared at the message, a bitter smile playing at my lips. The blue dress—my masterpiece, designed for my thirtieth birthday party that never happened because Killian had decided we needed to "scale back" our celebrations to be more "considerate" of Mira's feelings about not having fancy parties growing up. The dress had hung in my closet for months, unworn and forgotten, like so many other pieces of my life. I typed back: *"Of course. On my way home now."* As the taxi merged into traffic, I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. Seventy-two hours. Three days to be the perfect daughter, the perfect mate, the perfect sister. Three days to give them everything they'd ever wanted from me. And then I'd finally be free.

Chapter 2

The taxi pulled up to the familiar wrought-iron gates of my parents' Bellevue estate, and I felt my chest tighten—though whether from the accelerant coursing through my veins or the sight of home, I couldn't tell. The sprawling Tudor mansion looked exactly as it had when I was a child, all manicured hedges and pristine stonework, but now it felt like a mausoleum of everything I'd lost. I paid the driver and walked up the cobblestone path, my heels clicking against the stones in a rhythm that matched my steadying heartbeat. Through the massive bay windows, I could see the living room's warm golden glow, and the scene inside made my steps falter. Mira was sprawled across the cream leather sofa like a Renaissance painting, her honey-blonde hair cascading over the armrest as she watched something on the enormous flat screen. My mother, Victoria, sat perched on the sofa's edge, her perfectly manicured fingers working gentle circles into Mira's shoulders. And there was my father, Robert, sitting in his favorite wingback chair, methodically peeling grapes and placing them in a crystal bowl beside Mira's elbow. It was such a picture of domestic bliss, so tender and familial, that for a moment I forgot I was looking at my own family. When had they ever gathered around me like that? When had my mother ever massaged away my stress, or my father ever peeled fruit for me with such careful attention? I pushed open the front door—they never locked it during the day, a luxury of living in one of Seattle's most exclusive neighborhoods. The sound of my entrance cut through their comfortable chatter like a blade through silk. Three heads turned toward me in perfect synchronization, and I watched their expressions shift like a time-lapse of a flower wilting. Mira's dreamy smile vanished first, replaced by something wary and calculating. My mother's hands stilled on Mira's shoulders, her face hardening into the familiar mask of disappointment I'd grown so accustomed to seeing. My father's gentle expression closed off entirely, his jaw setting in that way that meant he was bracing for conflict. "What are you doing here?" Victoria's voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp as winter wind. She didn't bother standing, didn't offer the basic courtesy of a greeting. "I hope you've come to apologize to Mira for what happened last time." The accusation hung in the air between us. Last time. When I'd found Mira in my home office, my carefully organized design sketches scattered across the floor, some of them cut into ribbons with my fabric scissors. She'd claimed it was an accident, that she'd been "trying to help organize" and had "accidentally" knocked over my portfolio. But I'd seen the precision of those cuts, the deliberate destruction of months of work. When I'd confronted her, she'd burst into tears, running to my parents with stories of how cruel and accusatory I'd been. How I'd "screamed" at her and made her feel "unwelcome and unloved." By the time my parents finished lecturing me about family loyalty and giving Mira the benefit of the doubt, I'd almost started believing I was the villain in the story. But I hadn't come here to relitigate old wounds. I'd come to end this, once and for all. "I'm not here to argue," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I came to make an announcement." I reached into my purse and pulled out the leather portfolio I'd prepared that morning. Legal documents, all properly notarized and witnessed, transferring complete ownership of Wynter Rose to Mira Blackwood. Every share, every asset, every trademark I'd built from nothing. Mira's eyes widened slightly, though she tried to hide her interest behind a mask of confusion. "Scarlett, what—" "I'm giving you the company," I said simply, setting the portfolio on the coffee table between us. "All of it. Wynter Rose is yours now." The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway, counting down the seconds until my family processed what I'd just said. Victoria's mouth fell open slightly, her perfectly applied lipstick suddenly looking garish against her pale skin. Robert leaned forward in his chair, his forgotten grape rolling off his palm onto the Persian rug. "Is this some kind of joke?" Victoria asked, but her voice lacked its usual bite. There was something almost hungry in her expression now, the way she looked between me and the documents. Robert cleared his throat, his businessman instincts kicking in. "Scarlett, sweetheart, what's the catch? What do you want in return?" I almost laughed at the question. What did I want? I wanted my family to love me without conditions. I wanted my mate to choose me over my stepsister. I wanted my son to run to me with scraped knees instead of to Aunt Mira. I wanted to live past next week. But none of those things were for sale. "No catch," I said, pulling out a pen. "No conditions. It's a gift." Mira sat up straighter on the sofa, her performance of confusion slipping slightly. I caught the flash of triumph in her eyes before she quickly lowered her lashes. "Scarlett, I don't understand. Why would you—" "Because you're better suited for it," I said, signing my name with careful precision on the transfer documents. "You studied fashion management. You have fresh ideas. And most importantly, you have everyone's support." The words tasted like poison, but they weren't untrue. For months, I'd listened to my family praise Mira's "vision" for the company, her "innovative" suggestions that were often just rehashed versions of trends I'd dismissed years ago. I'd watched them nod along as she criticized my "outdated" business model and "rigid" creative process. Victoria's entire demeanor shifted as I signed the final document. The coldness melted from her face, replaced by something that might have been maternal warmth if I squinted hard enough. She stood up from the sofa and moved toward me, her movements suddenly graceful and welcoming. "Oh, Scarlett," she breathed, reaching out to take my hands in hers. The touch was foreign—when was the last time my mother had voluntarily touched me? "You've finally come to your senses. This is what's best for everyone." Her hands were warm and soft, and for a moment, I let myself imagine this was real affection instead of relief at getting what she'd wanted all along. "Mira has such a gift for understanding people," Victoria continued, her voice gentle in a way I hadn't heard since childhood. "She'll make the company more accessible, more relatable. You were always too... intense for the fashion world." Too intense. There it was again, that familiar refrain. My passion was intensity. My dedication was obsession. My success was somehow evidence of my failure as a woman. "You're right," I said, and meant it in ways she'd never understand. "Mira will be perfect." Robert had moved to examine the documents, his reading glasses perched on his nose as he scanned the legal language. "This is... comprehensive," he said, sounding almost impressed. "You've thought of everything." Of course I had. I'd spent the morning with my lawyers, ensuring every detail was airtight. No loopholes, no way to contest the transfer later. By the time anyone realized what had really happened, it would be far too late to undo. Mira finally stood up from the sofa, moving with that fluid grace that had always made me feel clumsy by comparison. She approached the coffee table slowly, as if the documents might bite her, but I could see the excitement thrumming beneath her careful composure. "I don't know what to say," she whispered, but her hands were already reaching for the pen I'd set down. "This is so generous of you, Scarlett. So... unexpected." She signed her name with a flourish, her handwriting all loops and curves where mine was sharp and efficient. Even our signatures told the story of who we were—or who everyone believed we were. As she finished the last document, Victoria clapped her hands together like a delighted child. "We should celebrate! Robert, open that bottle of champagne we've been saving. This calls for a toast." A toast. To my own corporate funeral, apparently. "That's very kind," I said, standing up and smoothing down my skirt, "but I should get going. Killian is expecting me home." It wasn't entirely true—Killian was expecting me to help Mira alter my dress, but he wasn't expecting me specifically. He probably wouldn't even notice if I sent a seamstress in my place. I gathered my purse and moved toward the door, feeling lighter with each step. Behind me, I could hear my family's excited chatter, their voices bright with possibility and relief. They were already planning Mira's future, discussing marketing strategies and brand repositioning as if I'd never existed. At the front door, I paused and looked back one last time. Mira was bent over the documents, adding her signature to the final page, her face glowing with satisfaction. But as I watched, she looked up and caught my eye across the room. For just a moment, her mask slipped completely. The gratitude, the surprise, the humble confusion—all of it fell away, leaving behind something cold and victorious. She mouthed two words at me, her lips moving in exaggerated slowness so there could be no mistake: *Thank you, loser.* I didn't react, didn't give her the satisfaction of knowing her words had landed. Instead, I simply turned and walked out, closing the door gently behind me. The moment the latch clicked into place, a searing pain exploded through my chest like lightning. I gasped and stumbled, my hand flying to my heart as I doubled over on the front steps. The accelerant was working faster than Dr. Chen had predicted, or maybe the emotional toll was speeding up the process. I pressed my back against the door, breathing hard as the pain slowly subsided to a manageable ache. Through the thick wood, I could hear champagne corks popping and laughter echoing through the halls of my childhood home. Seventy-one hours left. I pulled out my phone and called another taxi, my fingers surprisingly steady as I dialed. As I waited for the car to arrive, I looked up at the house one last time, memorizing the way the late afternoon light caught the diamond-paned windows. I'd given them everything they'd ever wanted from me. Now I just had to survive long enough to give the rest of it away.

Chapter 3

The taxi dropped me off at the familiar gates of our Bellevue home, and I stood there for a moment, gathering what little strength I had left. The accelerant had dulled the worst of the pain, but I could feel it lurking beneath the surface like a predator waiting to strike. As I approached the front door, the sound of laughter drifted through the evening air—warm, genuine laughter that I hadn't heard in our home for months. I paused with my key halfway to the lock, listening to the melody of piano notes dancing through the walls. When I pushed open the door, the scene before me felt like stepping into someone else's life. Killian sat at our black grand piano, his strong fingers moving gracefully across the keys while Aiden perched beside him on the bench, his small hands trying to mimic his father's movements. The coffee table was adorned with delicate pastries arranged on our finest china—tiny éclairs, perfectly piped cream puffs, and miniature tarts that looked like they belonged in a French patisserie window. "No, buddy, like this," Killian said softly, guiding Aiden's fingers to the correct keys. "Feel the music, don't just play the notes." I stood frozen in the doorway, my purse slipping from my numb fingers to land on the marble floor with a soft thud. In seven years of marriage, I had never—not once—seen Killian touch that piano. When we'd bought this house, he'd dismissed it as "pretentious furniture" and suggested we get rid of it. I'd kept it because it had belonged to my grandmother, but it had sat silent and untouched, gathering dust like so many other pieces of my past. And the pastries. My God, the pastries. They were exquisite, professional-quality creations that spoke of hours of careful preparation. When had my husband learned to bake? When had he developed the patience for such delicate work? In all our years together, the most elaborate thing I'd ever seen him make was scrambled eggs. "Daddy, you're so good at this!" Aiden giggled, his face bright with adoration. "Can you teach me the song about the princess next?" "Of course, little man. We'll make you a piano master." The tenderness in Killian's voice was like a knife twisting in my chest. When was the last time he'd spoken to me with such gentle affection? When was the last time he'd looked at me the way he was looking at our son—like he was the most precious thing in the world? They noticed me then, their heads turning in perfect synchronization. Aiden's smile faltered slightly, and Killian's expression shuttered closed like blinds slamming shut against sunlight. "Oh." Killian cleared his throat, his hands stilling on the keys. "You're home." The warmth that had filled the room moments before evaporated like morning mist, leaving behind the familiar chill that had become our normal. I watched my husband's face transform from the loving father I'd just witnessed into the distant stranger he'd become over these past months. "Hi, Mommy," Aiden said, but he didn't jump up to hug me like he used to. He stayed pressed against his father's side, suddenly shy in a way that broke my heart. "Hello, sweetheart," I managed, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "That sounded beautiful. I didn't know Daddy played piano." Killian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me anymore, Scarlett." The accusation hung in the air between us, sharp and cutting. As if my ignorance of his hidden talents was somehow my fault. As if I hadn't spent years trying to connect with him, only to be met with walls and deflection. "We need to talk," he said, standing up from the piano bench and straightening his shoulders in that way that meant he was preparing for battle. "About Mira." Of course. It always came back to Mira. Aiden looked between us with those wide, innocent eyes that missed nothing. At six years old, he was already learning to read the tension that crackled through our house like electricity before a storm. "Mira's condition is getting worse," Killian continued, his voice taking on that clinical tone he used when he wanted to sound reasonable and responsible. "The pack elders have consulted with specialists, and they believe her weakness syndrome requires... additional support." I said nothing, just waited for him to get to the point. The accelerant was making my heart race, or maybe it was the familiar dread of another conversation about how we all needed to sacrifice more for poor, fragile Mira. "They've recommended that I establish a temporary mental bond with her," Killian said, the words coming out in a rush like he was ripping off a bandage. "My Alpha strength could help stabilize her condition, give her the support she needs to recover." A temporary mental bond. The euphemistic language almost made me laugh. He was talking about the most intimate connection two wolves could share, a merging of minds and souls that was traditionally reserved for mates or the deepest family bonds. And he was presenting it like a medical prescription. "It's just for treatment purposes," he added quickly, as if that somehow made it better. "Purely therapeutic. The elders assured me it wouldn't affect our mate bond." Lies. All of it, lies wrapped in the language of duty and medical necessity. But I found I didn't have the energy to fight anymore. The old Scarlett would have raged, would have demanded to know why his sister-in-law's health was more important than his wife's feelings. But that Scarlett had died somewhere between the diagnosis and the accelerant. "Mommy!" Aiden suddenly piped up, scrambling off the piano bench to stand beside his father. "Mira Auntie is so sad and sick! She cried yesterday when she thought no one was looking. You should let Daddy help her!" I stared down at my son, this beautiful boy I'd carried for nine months and raised with every ounce of love in my body. Just a week ago, he'd whispered to me that "Mira Auntie ate your special chocolates from the blue box when you weren't home." He'd been my little ally then, my confidant who noticed when things went missing or when Mira's stories didn't quite add up. Now he was looking at me with something that felt dangerously close to accusation, as if I was the villain for not immediately agreeing to let his father bond with another woman. "Please, Mommy?" Aiden's voice was small and pleading. "She's so pretty when she's not crying." Pretty when she's not crying. Even my six-year-old had learned to measure women's worth by their decorative value and emotional availability. I looked at Killian, who was watching me with barely concealed anticipation. He wanted this. He wanted the excuse, the permission, the moral high ground that would let him do what he'd probably already decided to do anyway. The old me would have screamed. Would have thrown things and demanded explanations and fought tooth and nail for what was mine. But what was the point? I had seventy hours left to live, give or take. Why spend them in a war I'd already lost? "Okay," I said simply. Killian blinked, clearly caught off guard by my easy agreement. "Okay?" "Yes. Help Mira however you think is best." The relief that flooded his face was so obvious it was almost insulting. This was what he'd wanted all along—my blessing to betray our marriage vows in the name of family duty. "And Killian?" I added, my voice steady and calm. "I want to dissolve our mate bond." The silence that followed was deafening. Even Aiden seemed to sense the gravity of what I'd just said, his small face scrunching in confusion. "Scarlett," Killian said slowly, "that's... that's permanent. Once a mate bond is severed, it can never be restored." "I know." "Are you sure you want to—" "I'm sure." He studied my face for a long moment, searching for something I wasn't sure he'd ever find. Finally, he nodded. "If that's what you want." What I wanted. As if any of this was about what I wanted. That night, I moved my things to the guest room down the hall. The bed was smaller, the mattress firmer, but it felt like the first honest space I'd occupied in months. No more pretending to sleep beside a man who dreamed of someone else. No more lying awake listening to him murmur another woman's name in his sleep. I was drifting in and out of restless sleep when laughter pulled me back to consciousness. The digital clock glowed 3:17 AM, and the sound was coming from down the hall. From our bedroom. From what used to be our bedroom. Mira's laughter. Light and musical and satisfied in a way that made my skin crawl. I slipped out of bed and crept to my door, opening it just a crack to peer down the darkened hallway. The master bedroom door was slightly ajar, spilling a thin line of golden light across the hardwood floor. As I watched, the door opened wider, and Mira emerged wearing my silk pajama set—the ivory one with the delicate lace trim that I'd bought for my anniversary last year but never got to wear because Killian had forgotten the date entirely. She moved with languid satisfaction, her hair tousled and her lips curved in a smile that spoke of secrets and victories. When she noticed me standing in my doorway, her smile widened into something predatory. "Oh, Scarlett," she said, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry down the hall but soft enough to sound innocent if anyone else heard. "Can't sleep?" She paused in front of my door, close enough that I could smell Killian's cologne clinging to the silk that should have been mine. "Maybe I should ask Killian to make you some warm milk," she continued, her tone dripping with false concern. "Oh wait—he only does that for me now."

Chapter 4

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our dining room as I gathered my family around the mahogany table one last time. The accelerant had given me a restless night, my heart racing at irregular intervals, but I'd woken with crystal clarity about what needed to be done. Killian sat at the head of the table, his hair still damp from the shower, while Mira curled into the chair beside him like a contented cat. She wore one of my cashmere sweaters—the cream one I'd been looking for all week—and had the audacity to compliment me on my "generous closet" when I walked in. Victoria and Robert had arrived twenty minutes early, their faces bright with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Christmas morning. They knew something was coming, could sense the shift in the family dynamic like wolves scenting blood on the wind. "Thank you all for coming," I began, my voice steady despite the irregular flutter in my chest. "I have some additional arrangements I'd like to make." I placed a thick manila folder on the table, the legal documents inside representing the dismantling of everything I'd built over the past decade. Bank statements, investment portfolios, property deeds—all of it meticulously organized and ready for transfer. "Yesterday, I gave Mira the company," I continued, watching their faces carefully. "Today, I want to give her everything else." The silence that followed was different from yesterday's shocked quiet. This was the kind of stunned silence that preceded explosions. Killian leaned forward, his Alpha instincts clearly on high alert. "Scarlett, what are you talking about?" "My personal assets," I said, opening the folder and spreading the documents across the polished surface. "Bank accounts, investment funds, the vacation home in Aspen, the apartment in Manhattan, my grandmother's jewelry collection. I want it all transferred to Mira for... management purposes." Robert's businessman facade cracked completely. He grabbed the nearest document—a bank statement showing my personal account balance—and his face went pale. "Scarlett, this is... this is millions of dollars. You can't just give away your entire net worth." "Why not?" I asked, genuinely curious about his sudden concern for my financial welfare. "Yesterday you were thrilled when I gave away my company." "That's different," he sputtered, his reading glasses sliding down his nose as he frantically shuffled through the papers. "This is your personal security, your retirement, your—" "My choice," I finished firmly. Killian stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "Something's wrong. This isn't like you, Scarlett. Are you being blackmailed? Threatened? Did someone get to you?" The concern in his voice might have touched me once. Now it just felt like too little, too late. He was worried about external threats when the real danger had been sitting at our dinner table for months, wearing my clothes and sleeping in my bed. "I'm fine," I lied smoothly. "I've simply realized that family should come first. Isn't that what you've all been telling me?" Victoria, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke up. Her voice was warm with approval, the kind of maternal pride I'd craved my entire life. "Oh, Scarlett. You've finally developed a proper sense of family responsibility. I'm so proud of you." She reached across the table to squeeze my hand, her touch gentle and affectionate. "Mira has such a good head for finances. She'll take excellent care of everything, won't you, dear?" Mira had been suspiciously silent through the entire exchange, but now she stirred, putting on her performance of reluctant acceptance. "I... I don't know what to say. This is so generous, but I'm not sure I should—" "Of course you should," Victoria interrupted, her eyes practically glowing with satisfaction. "Scarlett clearly trusts your judgment. And with your condition requiring so much medical care, having access to proper resources will be essential." The way my mother said "your condition" made it sound like Mira was battling cancer instead of whatever mysterious weakness syndrome she claimed to have. But I noticed how quickly Mira's protests died away once Victoria gave her blessing. "Well," Mira said, her voice taking on that breathy quality she used when she wanted to sound overwhelmed, "if you really think it's best... I suppose I could help manage things. Temporarily, of course." Temporarily. Just like Killian's "temporary" mental bond. I called in the lawyers I'd arranged to have on standby. As they began preparing the transfer documents, I watched Mira carefully. Her performance of reluctance was flawless—the occasional protest, the worried glances at Killian, the way she kept insisting this was "too much responsibility." But I caught the tells. The way her fingers drummed impatiently against the table when the lawyers took too long to prepare a document. The sharp look she shot the lead attorney when he began explaining the reversibility clauses. The subtle way she kept checking her phone, as if she was expecting an important message. "Could we perhaps expedite this process?" Mira asked, her voice carefully casual. "I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, and I'd hate to keep them waiting." A doctor's appointment. Right. I thought about the bank records I'd discovered, the monthly transfers to Jason Cole that had been steadily increasing over the past six months. The most recent payment had been for fifty thousand dollars, made just three days ago. Who was Jason Cole, and why was my dying sister-in-law funneling money to him with such urgency? "Of course," the lawyer said, speeding up his explanations and skipping over several clauses that would have protected my interests. "We can have everything finalized within the hour." As Mira signed her name to document after document, I noticed the slight tremor in her hands. Not the weakness she claimed plagued her, but excitement. Anticipation. The same kind of nervous energy a gambler felt when the dice were in the air. When the last signature was complete, the lawyers packed up their briefcases and left us alone with the aftermath of what I'd just done. The family sat in stunned silence, processing the magnitude of the transfer. "Well," I said, standing up and smoothing down my skirt, "I think I'll get some air." I walked out to the balcony that overlooked our manicured gardens, leaving the door slightly ajar behind me. The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of the roses I'd planted when we first moved into this house. Everything looked exactly the same as it had yesterday, but somehow felt completely different. Behind me, I could hear my family's voices rising in animated conversation. Mira was already discussing her "vision" for restructuring my investment portfolio, her voice bright with newfound confidence. Victoria was praising her financial acumen, while Robert peppered her with questions about her plans. Killian's voice was quieter, more thoughtful, but I caught fragments of his responses. Agreement. Encouragement. Support for his sister-in-law's sudden windfall. Not once did anyone ask how I was feeling. Not once did anyone wonder if I might need emotional support after giving away everything I'd worked for. I had just made myself financially destitute, and my family was celebrating. My phone buzzed against my hip, and I pulled it out to check the message. Unknown number, but the words on the screen made my heart stop: *Scarlett, I just got back from overseas and heard your company changed hands? Are you okay? What happened?* I stared at the screen, my fingers trembling as I recognized the writing style. Layla. My college roommate, my former best friend, the only person who had ever warned me that something was "off" about Killian during our engagement. Layla, who had moved to London for work five years ago and had slowly drifted out of my life as Killian made it increasingly difficult for me to maintain friendships outside the pack. Layla, who had been the only person to ever look at my perfect life and ask, "But are you happy?" I took a shaky breath and dialed her number, my heart pounding as it rang once, twice— "Scarlett?" Her voice was exactly as I remembered it—warm, concerned, genuine. "Oh my God, I've been so worried. I heard through the grapevine that Wynter Rose was sold, and I couldn't believe it. What's going on?" I closed my eyes, feeling tears threaten for the first time in days. "Layla... can you come see me? I need... this might be the last time we can talk."

​

This year over the Christmas truce, my husband did something he'd never done before. He told me to step back from the Family's business, and arranged me a seven-day passage through Scandinavia. I thought the Don had finally learned to care. Then I overheard him talking to our son. "Papa, if you and Aunt Vivian get married, what happens to Mama?" Marco Falcone's voice was small, uncertain. "It's only a sham. A union on paper, nothing more." Lorenzo Falcone gave a soft little laugh. "Be a good boy, Marco. Keep it between us. Don't tell your mother, and I'll buy you that toy car you've been wanting." Something in my head went white. I stood there a long time, then turned and went down to stand in the cold of the estate courtyard for a while. If he wanted to make up for everything he'd lost when Vivian Costa was exiled, fine. Then I had the right to go after the dream I'd thrown away. This passage to Scandinavia, I wasn't coming back from.

Chapter 1

This year over the Christmas truce, my husband did something he'd never done before. He told me to step back from the Family's business, and arranged me a seven-day passage through Scandinavia.

I thought the Don had finally learned to care. Then I overheard him talking to our son.

"Papa, if you and Aunt Vivian get married, what happens to Mama?"

Marco Falcone's voice was small, uncertain.

"It's only a sham. A union on paper, nothing more."

Lorenzo Falcone gave a soft little laugh. "Be a good boy, Marco. Keep it between us. Don't tell your mother, and I'll buy you that toy car you've been wanting."

Something in my head went white. I stood there a long time, then turned and went down to stand in the cold of the estate courtyard for a while.

If he wanted to make up for everything he'd lost when Vivian Costa was exiled, fine.

Then I had the right to go after the dream I'd thrown away.

This passage to Scandinavia, I wasn't coming back from.

——

Once I'd cooled off, I went back upstairs and ran straight into Lorenzo in the hallway.

I looked at the flashy red suit he had on. "I thought you hated red," I said, puzzled.

"That was then, this is now. Red's the color this season. And I'm helping a friend try on his wedding suit, so I should dress for the occasion." Lorenzo reached for a fistful of excuses all at once.

But it hit me then. Vivian Costa loved red. And ever since she came back from exile, several red jackets had appeared in Lorenzo's closet. Red undershirts. Red socks.

So there had been signs all along.

"Trying on a wedding suit? Let me drive you," I said evenly.

"No, no need!" Lorenzo shook his head fast as a rattle. "What's a woman doing getting mixed up in men's business?"

"When I'm back, I'll bring presents for you and Marco."

He kissed my forehead, didn't wait to hear another word out of me, and hurried off, two of his soldiers falling into step behind him before the door had even closed.

My chest gave a sudden twist. I almost called out to him. In the end I just shook my head.

Everyone in the famiglia thought Lorenzo and I were the perfect couple in life, the sharpest partners across every sit-down.

He hadn't looked down on where I came from, the back streets of Brooklyn with nothing to my name. He'd married me without hesitation.

I worked nearly every day of the year, brokered the truces that pulled the Falcone Family back from ruin more than once when the books and the bodies were stacking up against us, and the made men gave me a name: the one who never sleeps.

Ten years side by side. We'd built more than a sweet son together. We'd rebuilt the name and the empire of the Falcones.

And only now did even I find out: Lorenzo had been carrying Vivian Costa in his heart the whole time.

I walked through the front door.

"Mama."

Marco rushed over and wrapped his arms tight around my legs. "No matter what, you'll never leave me and Papa, right?"

He'd sensed something. His small face was tight with fear.

My heart ached. I crouched down, smoothed his hair, and asked softly, "If one day Papa and I weren't together anymore, who would you want to stay with?"

Marco froze. Then he went completely silent, his eyes dropping to his own small hands, and they filled with tears.

"I'm sorry."

I held him close. "Let me go make you dinner."

He was only eight.

Two grown-ups' problems shouldn't be laid on a child, least of all in a house where everything carried a price.

We could have had the staff cook, like every other house in the Family. But Marco and Lorenzo both loved the food I made with my own hands.

I knew everything they couldn't eat and everything they liked, and tonight I made Marco's favorite, scrambled eggs with tomatoes and meatballs.

I made egg pancakes too.

When Marco saw the food on the table, he suddenly started to cry. He looked up at me. "Mama."

"You already know about Aunt Vivian and Papa getting married, don't you?"

"Papa told me it's only a sham marriage, just on paper. Mama, please don't be angry, okay? Papa loves you."

I let out a quiet sigh and gathered him into my arms.

I know.

His little head couldn't hold all those twists and turns, the way men in this world said one thing and meant another. He just believed Lorenzo, the way children do, and wanted his mama and papa not to split up.

Moan a name on our Claiming night, and my Lycan King throws me off the bed like I'm nothing.I could barely stand. My wolf was whimpering inside me, aching from his coldness. I dragged myself to his den every day, begging to see him. His guards turned me away each time.

He didn't send me back to the Vale Pack. Didn't take my title. He just stopped looking at me. Wouldn't even let my scent touch his.

I walked around wearing the crown of a Luna, but every wolf in the kingdom knew I was a fake. An imposter. A hostage Omega he'd plucked from a border pack and dressed up like a queen.

Then, just when I thought my wolf would die from the loneliness, he threw me a birthday feast. All the wolves in the kingdom came. The hall was packed with wolves howling and drinking.

And for one stupid, desperate moment, I thought maybe—maybe he was calling me back.

But he sat through the feast like a stone. Didn't speak to me. Didn't meet my eyes. Didn't even acknowledge my scent. Then he got up and disappeared into the night.

I searched every corner of the royal grounds for him. Every trail, every den, every shadow. Nothing.

When I finally pushed open the door to my room, I caught their scents .

Raven's familiar pine and honey smell—the she-wolf who'd been my sister since we were pups—laced with something else. Something intimate. Then his. Damian's scent hit me next—all smoked leather and amber and the sharp bite of a Lycan on the hunt. All over my bed. All over her.

I stood in the doorway, frozen, as severe abdominal pain struck me and the sounds hit me. Soft moans. Breathless whispers. The creak of my mattress.

I didn't leave. I just stood there and listened. Listened to him claim another she-wolf where I used to sleep. I waited until their breathing slowed, until the last whisper faded.

Then Raven's nose twitched. Her head turned toward the door. Our eyes met in the dark.

Raven gasped. She scrambled off the bed, grabbing for her clothe，sher dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Her hands were shaking.

“Selene… it's not what you think!”

She ran to me and grabbed my wrists. Her palms were hot. And her skin still carried his scent—that deep, smoky smell of the Lycan King. It made my wolf whimper inside me.

"I rode back from the border today," she said, her voice cracking. "I brought you gifts from the northern packs. I wanted to surprise you for your birthday. But I couldn't find you anywhere. They said you were at the hall."

Her eyes were red. She was crying, stumbling over her words.

"I was about to leave when he showed up. He was drunk. He grabbed me and wouldn't let go. And then…"

She couldn't finish.

But I knew better.

Damian didn't get drunk. Damian didn't get drunk. He'd survived too much as a king to ever let his guard down.

Tonight he'd had two glasses of wine.

He wasn't drunk. He wanted this.

"Enough, Raven. Stop explaining."

Damian sat up slowly. He pulled on his shirt but didn't bother to tie it. His chest was still bare, marked with old battle scars.

He walked over and pulled her behind him, like I was the threat.

"I forced her," he said. "And since you saw it, Selene, I'm done pretending."

Pretending what?

I waited. My heart was already ripping in half.

"When I was young, the only she-wolf I ever wanted was Raven."

His voice was calm. Each word cut me open.

"Before she left for the border war, she begged me to protect you. Said you wouldn't survive in this pack without me. That your wolf was too weak, too broken. So I took you in. I made you my Luna. Not because I loved you. Because she asked me to."

His lips kept moving, and more words came out.

"Three years. Every kiss, every promise, every night I spent in your bed—it was all for her. Now she's back, and I can't keep lying to myself. Blame me. Not her."

I thought he'd lifted me up—a hostage Omega from the Vale Pack, a nobody, and made me his Luna because he'd fallen for me. Because the Moon Goddess had chosen me for him.

Three years. Three years of waking up next to him, and I never saw the cracks.

Turns out my best friend just asked him to take care of me.

Raven was sobbing into her hands. Damian wrapped his arms around her, shielding her. Like I was the one who had done something wrong.

My chest felt like it was caving in.

Who was I supposed to hate?

Damian? He was cruel. But he was cruel because he loved someone else.

Raven? She was just trying to keep me alive in this place. She didn't know any better. She thought she was helping.

I couldn't hate either of them.

I hated myself. For being so stupid. For getting in the way of their perfect love story.

"I… understand," I whispered.

"Good. The Luna's quarters are closest to my den. Raven should have it. Your new quarters aren't ready yet. Take the guest room tonight. Move tomorrow."

"Yes."

I said it quietly. I held myself together until the door closed behind me.

Then I fell apart. The tears came, and I couldn't stop them.

"That was too cruel!" I heard Raven's muffled cry from inside. "If her parents, Alpha Aldric and Luna Isolde—ever find out how you've treated her…"

Damian's cold laugh cut through the wood.

"She's nothing. Her pack is a border village with no warriors. They sent her here to survive. If I killed her tonight, they'd just send another daughter. What could they do?"

A sharp pain ripped through my wolf. I swallowed the whimper.

The next morning, Damian issued an Alpha decree to the whole Darkmoon Pack.

Raven was now his Chosen one. The highest rank below a True Luna.

And I became nothing. Less than nothing.

chapter2

The servants in this kingdom have the sharpest tongues. The moment I fell from favor, they turned on me like a pack of starving coyotes.

"Look at her now. She's lower than a stray dog."

""Did you see the Lycan King? He gave Raven the moonstone. Every treasure in the pack lands at her feet.And Selene? They say she doesn't even have enough firewood to keep warm."

"That worthless Omega from the Vale Pack. She actually thought she deserved to warm the King's bed for three years? Please. From now on, she gets the scraps， whatever we feel like throwing at her. Let's see how long that weak little wolf lasts before she crawls back to her border pack."

They're right. I don't even have the right to be angry anymore.

Then I hear it—a crack of bone, followed by screams.

I push open the door. Raven is standing there, her fist still raised. The servants who were just talking are on their knees, bleeding from their mouths, begging. One of them has his arm bent the wrong way.

Her eyes are blazing. She's furious.

"Your Luna moved out of her quarters, but she's still the King's chosen," she snarls. "And you worthless mutts dare to insult her? Drag them to the dungeon. Break their legs. Now."

Same old Raven. Always fighting my battles.

"Selene, I'm so sorry." She turns to me, her face softening. "I didn't know they were treating you like this. I won't let anyone hurt you. I promise."

That afternoon, the servants are dead. Damian ordered them beaten to death in the pack dungeon.

He didn't kill them for me. He killed them for her. To show her that anyone who upsets her dies.

Raven is stubborn. She feels guilty, so she's determined to get me back in Damian's favor. She doesn't mind sharing him. She actually thinks we can be like sisters again, like when we were pups.

She drags me everywhere with them.

When Damian takes her to the training grounds, she insists I come along.

When they go to the lake, she practically pulls me into the boat.

But every time, it's like a knife in my chest.

A wildcat springs from the trees. Damian doesn't think—he just throws himself over Raven, wrapping her so tight in his cloak she can barely breathe.

I get knocked to the ground. My palms bleed on the broken stones.

The boat rocks on the water. His hand shoots out—and grabs Raven's wrist. Not mine.

I just stand there like a ghost, watching them stare into each other's eyes after every near miss. Watching them love each other like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And the more I watch, the more I remember.

When I was locked in that dark cell, burning with fever, I thought I was going to die. Damian kicked the door open. He carried me out in his arms.

He stayed by my bed for three days straight, barely sleeping, feeding me medicine with his own hands and wiping the sweat off my face.

The day he became Lycan King, he chose me. He told everyone I was his Luna. Back then, I thought it was love. Now I know it was just part of the act.

He looked at me and said, "Selene, from now on, I'm your home."

I thought I was special.

Now I know. He was just doing his job. Raven's job.

Every single time, he looks right through me like I'm not even there, then reaches for her instead. He always chooses her.

And finally, I understand. He never loved me. Not once.

A thousand nights in his bed. A thousand mornings waking up next to him. I gave him everything. And it never made him feel even a flicker of what he feels for her.

The despair is eating me alive.

Raven is at the front of the boat, pointing at something in the water. Damian is smiling at her like she's the moon and the stars.

I'm standing behind them. The world starts spinning.

My body can't take any more.

I fall into the cold water.

As I sink, I hear him scream my name.

Just let me die. Maybe then I can go home.

chapter3

But I didn't die.

I woke up to the familiar ceiling of my room. The same cracks in the wood, the same stale air.

Raven was the only one by my bed again. She'd been crying，her eyes were still swollen. The moment she saw me wake up, she reached for a bowl of medicine.

“You're awake,” she breathed. “The healer said your wolf is exhausted, and your heart is broken. That's why you passed out and fell into the lake.”

She blew on the spoon carefully, like I was a pup.

“Drink this. I watched the pack kitchen brew it for two hours.”

I'd heard that line so many times before.

Back when I first came to the kingdom,I was the daughter of the Vale Pack's alpha and Luna, spoiled and loud and bright, a she-wolf who laughed too much and never backed down from a fight.

When the servants here mocked me or tried to push me around, I gave it right back. I even threw punches.

Raven's father was a Beta, one of the pack's top generals. She'd been training to fight with her bare hands since she could walk.She hated bullies, and she stepped in every time, chasing off those cowards with nothing but her bare hands and her sharp tongue.

We used to share stolen sweets in the corner of the kingdom and swear we'd be sisters forever by the moon lake.

But then I grew up. And I finally understood what it meant to be a hostage.

I could never go home. My life and my parents' lives, depended on the Lycan King's mood.

So I stopped fighting. I swallowed my anger. I made myself small. And slowly, all that swallowed poison ate away at my body until I was always sick.

Raven, though. She never dimmed. She went north with her father, learning to fight in her wolf form across the open plains.

I never blamed her for giving Damian to me. She didn't understand how cruel this pack could be. She thought if she left me with the most powerful wolf in the entire werewolf world, I'd be safe. She was trying to help.

But that help turned into a blade in my chest.

In this three-way story, I was the one who didn't belong.

And I couldn't hate anyone for it.

I couldn't hate Damian for lying, because I was the one who fell for it.

I couldn't hate Raven for giving him to me, because she was never anything but honest.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Just tired.”

I turned my back to her and pretended to sleep. The pillow got wet under my cheek.

After that day, I started avoiding them both. When Raven came to see me, I said I was sick. When Damian sent gifts, I stacked them in the corner and never touched them.

I dragged a cushion to the Moon Goddess shrine and spent my days there on my knees, tracing runes onto old stones and begging the Goddess to cut the feelings out of my chest and keep my birth pack safe.

That was where I kept running into Elder Elara.

The first time I met her, she was still the Luna of the old King. She hated me from the start. I thought it was because I was a hostage from a weak border pack.

But lately, her looks had changed. Complicated. Almost sad.

One day, I was kneeling in the shrine, carving the same prayer over and over. My hands were shaking from hunger and exhaustion. I hadn't eaten in days.

Elder Elara walked up to me. For the first time ever, she didn't scold me for making a mess of the shrine. She just stood there and spoke.

" Stella."

She used my real name. The one from my birth pack.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself. You're wasting away."

She paused, then added, "Love too deep, and your spirit will weep. Hold too tight, and you'll lose the fight. Some things were never meant to be yours."

I looked up, confused. Was she warning me not to fight Raven for Damian? But I'd already backed down to nothing.

I still didn't understand why she'd changed toward me. Just like I never understood why she hated me in the first place.

The shrine smelled of old incense and cold stone. I tried to stand and bow to her, but the world tipped sideways.

“Elder—”

For the first time, I saw fear in her eyes. She caught me before I hit the ground and pulled me into her arms.

It was warm. Almost like being held by my own mother.

chapter4

“You're two months pregnant,” Elder Elara says when I woke up, her voice flat.

My hand goes to my stomach.

There's a pup inside me?

Damian's pup.

I should be happy.

But the happiness doesn't even get a chance. Panic hits first.

This pup picked the worst possible time to show up.

What would it even be? A bargaining chip to win him back? A thorn in the middle of his perfect love story with Raven?

If Damian finds out, would he be excited? Or would he just see it as a problem?

I'm not willing to find out.

“Elder Elara,” I whisper. “Please. Don't tell anyone. Keep this secret.”

She stops turning the runestones over in her fingers. Her old eyes lock on mine. A long pause. Then she sighs.

“I raised pup of my own too.”

Another pause.

“Fine. Stay here in my quarters. I'll take care of you.”

However, I never thought I'd run into Raven here.

I'm walking to give Elder Elara some carved runes when I hear that laugh. That familiar laugh.

“Here, try one,” Raven says. “I made 'em. Selene used to love these. She acts like she's all claws and fangs, but underneath she's just soft fur. She just learned to growl first and never show her belly. And now she's got no one. So… maybe go easy on her, yeah?”

Elder Elara chuckles. “You're the King's favourate now. Instead of hanging around him, you're here begging me to be nice to her?”

I freeze in the doorway. The runes in my hands feel like they're bending.

So that's why the Elder started being nice to me. It wasn't a change of heart. It was Raven. Working behind my back. Again.

Why does she have to be this good to me? So good that I can't even feel jealous.

The Elder likes her. Damian loves her. Someday she'll be the real queen of this kingdom.

I never wanted to compete with her.

But this，being saved by her kindness without asking for it，it twists something in my chest. It hurts.

“Selene? Why are you just standing there?”

Raven sees me. She runs over and grabs my hand.

“You look terrible. Stop carving runes. The healer said you need to move around. Come on, I'll show you the back rooms of the Elder's lodge. There's all kinds of old stuff back there.”

Elder Elara waves us off with a smile.

Raven knows this place better than I do. She pulls me through the old stone hallways, deeper into the lodge, until we reach a small room at the very end.

She goes straight to a wooden chest in the corner and opens it.

“These are all Damian's things from when he was little,” she says. “The Elder kept everything.”

She digs through the chest, pulling stuff out like a kid showing off treasures.

“Look, he made this carving when he was seven. It's so ugly. And this one…”

I listen in silence. Most of Damian's past, I wasn't part of. His childhood seems to belong only to Raven.

I glance into the chest without really caring—and then I stop.

A rolled-up painting, half open.

It shows a pup running across an open field, laughing. His eyes are warm, his face soft. He looks exactly like the pup who sneaked past the border guards to bring me firewood and found his way into my room at night just to make me smile.

The name signed at the bottom: Dae.

Dae. That's the nickname Damian told me to call him when we were younger.

“He used to be so happy before he was declared king.,” I hear myself say.“What happened to him? Why did he get so merciless?”

Raven leans over to look at the painting. Her smile disappears. She shakes her head.

“Selene, that's not Damian.”

I blink. “What?”

“That's his younger brother. Darius. He died years ago.”

I stare at her. “But the name. Dae. That's Damian's nickname, isn't it?”

Raven frowns like I just said something crazy. “No. Damian's nickname is Dee. It's always been Dee. Are you okay?”

My blood runs cold.

Dee.

Not Dae.

Suddenly, I remember that night.

Damian was wild in bed, out of control. I was half-conscious, moaning his name. And in a daze, I whispered, “Dae.”

He went completely still. His eyes filled with something I couldn't read—fear? Rage?

Then he shoved me off the bed. Hard. I hit the floor, and he walked out without looking back.

After that, he started sleeping somewhere else. And when Raven came back to the kingdom, he cut me off completely.

I thought it was just his temper.

Now I know. He wasn't angry that I said the wrong name.

He was terrified that I'd finally figured out the truth.

“How did his brother die?” I grab Raven's sleeve. My hands are shaking.

“You're hurting me,” she says, pulling back. But she answers. “It was during the autumn pack run, years ago. He went over the cliffs. They never found his body.”

The pack run . The same year Damian was named the next Lycan King.

A terrible thought sinks into my chest, and I shove past Raven, sprinting out of the room.

“Luna Selene, you can’t go in there. The King is in a meeting.”

💘💘She never chose him. He never loved her.

For eight years, she kept his pack running, delivered their pups, and asked for nothing.

Now he's found his real mate — and it's time to throw her away.

Just like they did the day she was born.

*****

Bella stood in the shower in the Luna's suite, allowing the warm water to wash over her.

She was pleasantly exhausted. Parker had left — off to a mating ball in another state. She had four days to herself.

She was his Luna. Had been for eight years. But she was bound to him not by her choice — chosen for him by her own Alpha and Luna, just to get rid of her. And she knew it.

She was the youngest child of her father. Unwanted. Shunned. An illicit child not born of his Mate bond — and that was why she was hated by the Luna in her home pack. This alliance mating, forced on her at just nineteen years of age, was her father's Luna's way of getting rid of her once and for all.

Parker came to her bed every few nights — more often when her heat hit — and he stayed only until he'd satisfied the raw, burning needs of the mate bond. Sometimes he spent hours tasting her, touching her, losing himself in the primal instinct between them.

During her heats, he didn't leave her side at all. Those seven days were always brutal, intoxicating, overwhelming.

Afterward?

He vanished the moment he sensed her heat fade, never sparing a word.

Eight years of this rhythm.

Eight years of being a mate in name, a Luna in title, and nothing more.

He didn't love her. She didn't love him.

She had been given to him to stop a war between their two packs. Marked and Mated. Taken as his Chosen Luna — with full view of rejecting her one day down the line.

She didn't actually mean anything to him.

Parker was gone, and Bella dressed for the day and headed downstairs for breakfast — just in time to watch him and his unit cross the foyer and head out the front door.

He nodded to her. No goodbye. He never said goodbye.

She had been sent here against her will. But she had found, over eight years, that she fitted in better inside this pack than she ever had in her own.

She had learned how to be a Luna. She had studied with the pack's doctor. And now she was a fully registered doctor herself — specializing in the delivery of pups, using her Luna Calm to help distressed she-wolves through labor.

Though what the really crazy thing was, was that six months after she went into heat herself, there was always an explosion of pups within the pack.

She hadn't lost a single pup or she-wolf in eight years.

It was a life she had built entirely on her own. Not for him. For them.

...

There was one clause in their mating alliance Bella never forgot.

All pups she had while still bonded to Parker were to be given to him. When he found his Goddess-Gifted Mate and rejected her, she would have to leave them behind. They were his heirs. She had no rights to them.

She'd seen him sometimes, in the weeks after her heat — watching her, listening for the heartbeat of a pup. He wanted an heir. And she, being Alpha-blooded like he was, their pup would be a pure-blooded heir for this pack.

He'd brought it up again just this morning, still knotted to her, looking down at her with his blue eyes soft in a way she rarely saw.

"An heir would be nice, don't you think, Belladonna."

He was the only one who ever called her by her full name. She was certain he did it to remind himself she was only his Chosen Mate.

"I guess it would," she'd answered. It was all she ever said on the subject.

She'd only said no once. His rage had filtered through the entire pack for over a week — wolves walking on eggshells, orders snapped at everyone. She'd never said it again. Not for him. For the pack.

Parker was due home today around lunchtime. Bella had been living inside the pack hospital for four straight days — she'd delivered seventeen pups, slept on the couch in her office, barely left. She was exhausted in a way that went all the way to the bone.

She was sitting at her desk, fighting off sleep, when her phone buzzed.

A text from Parker: [I'll be home in a few hours.]

Bella frowned down at it. He had never done that before. Not once in eight years.

She shook it off. He probably just wanted intimacy when he got back. It had been four days. Well — it wasn't going to be like that today. She was too tired. He'd have to understand.

She set an alarm, crashed on the office couch, and woke two hours later still exhausted but functional. She pulled herself back to her desk and got to work documenting all seventeen births, attaching baby pictures to each file. She smiled at every single one.

She did love babies. Always had. Her mother had died in childbirth. Her grandmother — a nurse in her home pack — had raised her. She'd started working in the pack hospital at sixteen, dropped out of school to escape the bullying from her half-siblings, and never looked back. Her father hadn't cared. She wasn't a legitimate heir. She didn't matter.

But here, in this pack, she had built something real.

A sharp pain shot through her left arm — like a knife dragged up from wrist to shoulder. It lasted only a few seconds. She rubbed it, shook it off.

Odd. She'd never felt anything like that before.

...

It was midday when Bella felt him cross back into the pack. His mind-link came almost instantly.

"Belladonna, meet me in the foyer."

He cut the link before she could reply.

She was already in the foyer, watching some of the pack's children play a board game. She helped the youngest one with his turn. They all smiled up at her. She smiled back.

Then Parker walked in.

And there was a woman walking next to him.

Tall. Stilettos clicking loudly on the tiled floor. She looked more than annoyed — she looked like someone who had already decided she owned the place.

Bella stood, as was expected of her when he returned.

The woman looked directly at her. Anger flashed in her eyes — raw and immediate. She took a full step closer to Parker and reached out to curl her hand around his forearm.

Parker frowned and brushed it away. "I've explained this to you, Carina. No touching at this time."

More anger rolled off the she-wolf in waves.

And Bella understood immediately.

Parker had found his Goddess-Gifted Mate at the mating ball. He wanted to claim her. But he couldn't — not until he'd rejected Bella first. It was part of their mating alliance.

"Axel, please take Carina to get some lunch." Parker motioned his Delta forward, then turned his eyes back to Bella.

"Belladonna, my office please," he said casually, and turned and walked that way himself.

She watched Carina being led away — the woman who would take everything Bella had spent eight years building. The pack. The hospital. The life.

"Yes, Parker," she answered simply.

She knew exactly what this was.

It was time for him to reject her. So he could go and claim his actual mate.

She followed him down the hall, her steps steady, her face calm.

Eight years.

Seventeen pups delivered in four days. Hundreds more over the years. A pack that smiled when they saw her coming. Children who climbed into the seat beside her at breakfast just to share their news.

And now she was walking toward an office where a man who had never once said goodbye to her was about to say the one word that ended everything.

She had known this day was coming since she was nineteen years old.

She just hadn't known it would feel like this.

The sharp pain in her arm flared again — brief, searing, gone.

She pressed her hand to it without breaking stride and kept walking...

Chapter 1

To get revenge for my stepsister, my brother rigged the mate lottery at my mating ceremony - made sure I'd pull the "cripple."

The whole ballroom went crazy. Laughing. Howling. Pointing.

I just stood there. Face burning. Couldn't move.

My brother grabbed my shoulder, voice all fake-worried:

"Don't blame me, okay? You shoved Millie into the pool last time. Made her look bad. So yeah, I messed with the draw. Thought it'd cheer her up."

"She's just a pup, you know? Real sweet. Stop being such a bitch to her."

Then he leaned in closer, dropped his voice like he was doing me this huge favor:

"Relax, it's just for show. You're Dad's golden girl - the Alpha's daughter. No way we'd actually make you mate some old cripple."

Old cripple.

I looked at the male in the wheelchair. Dark suit. Cold eyes.

That "old cripple"? He's the wolf even the Alpha King stands up for.

My brother just handed me the best card in the deck.

Thanks for the upgrade, bro.

...

His words hit me like a hammer.

I couldn't move. Felt like someone nailed my feet to the floor, blood turning to ice in my veins.

Whispers grew around me, louder and louder.

My brother Nelson cleared his throat real loud: "Anna's hand slipped. That doesn't count. We're redoing this."

Then he looked straight at George Hopkins.

George.

The male I grew up with. The one I was dying to pull today.

I looked up before I could stop myself.

He was leaning against a pillar in his Alpha dress uniform - dark jacket stretched tight across his shoulders, pack ribbons lined up on his chest. That gaze low and unreadable.

Damn, he looked good.

Our eyes met. Maybe a second.

Then his face just froze over.

He stood up straight and said, loud enough everyone could hear:

"The mate lottery's supposed to be fair. Can't just redo it 'cause you don't like what you got."

"What, the Alpha's daughter gets a do-over now?"

I feel like I'm gonna throw up.

I'm squeezing my dress so tight my hands are shaking.

Voices jump in:

"He's right! You can't just redo the whole thing!"

"Wait, isn't Alpha Lawrence the one always talking about honor and promises? So what, he's backing out?"

Nelson's face goes red. Jabbing his finger at George:

"Are you SERIOUS right now?! You two grew up together! You straight-up TOLD her you'd claim her someday!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Some jerk in the back actually starts laughing:

"Dude, come on. George's got a new female."

"Yeah, someone saw him yesterday at the jewelers with the Alpha's other daughter. Bought her like three bags of stuff."

"I heard his pack had to drag his ass here today. He didn't even wanna show up."

Oh.

So that's how it is.

I dropped my eyes, forced the tears back, and took a breath.

Then walked straight up and grabbed the mic.

My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room:

"Who said it doesn't count?"

"I pulled this ticket. That's how it works. This mating? I'm doing it."

Nelson whipped around: "Anna, are you outta your mind?!"

"You're the Alpha's daughter! You can't actually mate some old cripple!"

I turned to look at him. My eyes were burning.

He used to protect me. Used to stand between me and anything that could hurt me.

Now? Just 'cause Millie said, "She pushed me in the pool," he threw me under the bus in front of everyone at my own mating ceremony.

I smile. But it's not a real smile.

"Nelson. This is what you wanted, right?"

"I'm mating an old male. Millie gets what she wants. You happy now?"

Nelson froze. His eyebrows pulled together. "You're still mad at Millie? YOU started this! What she did today was - "

I didn't even let him finish. Just turned around and walked down the stairs.

The crowd split like water, making a path.

I could feel their eyes on me - curious, pitying. Felt like needles.

When I passed George, he stopped me.

His voice had that annoying "I know better" tone:

"Anna. You don't gotta mate some male like that just to piss me off."

He stepped closer, softened his voice like he actually cared:

"We grew up together. You're like a sister to me... I'll help you find someone good later. Someone who actually fits your wolf."

I turned back. Smiled like I was looking at trash.

"A sister?"

George's face went pale. Guilt flashed in his eyes.

I locked eyes with him, and my voice came out ice-cold:

"George. You could've just told me you're done with me. I would've been fine with that. At least that's honest."

His face went white. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then he just looked away.

I'm done talking.

Just walked right past him toward the male in the wheelchair over in the corner.

Chapter 2

Dead silence.

Nelson was leaning way over that second-floor railing like he was about to fall:

"Anna! What the HELL are you doing?! Stop being such a brat!"

George stood frozen, jaw locked, looking like he wanted to punch something.

Everyone was staring at me.

I leaned down. Looked right at the male in the wheelchair - half his face covered by a silver mask.

His hands were all messed up - scars everywhere. A thin blanket covered his legs.

"Will you be my mate?"

The male's throat moved. His visible eye lit up like fire.

His voice was steady when he answered:

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Then I'll be your mate."

Nelson started coming down those stairs fast, but George grabbed him.

"Don't. You go over there, she wins."

"What're you talking about?"

George laughed, but it wasn't a real laugh. He was watching me the whole time:

"She's just throwing a tantrum. No way she'd actually mate a cripple..."

I could hear them talking behind me.

Didn't turn around.

Just stuck my hand out to the male in the wheelchair.

His hand felt rough. And warm. He grabbed mine and didn't let go.

Nelson, George, and I grew up together on the pack territory. Inseparable.

Until three years ago.

I went to visit George at the border patrol. Got kidnapped by rogues. Lost contact with everyone.

My parents were wrecked. The pack house went silent. No laughter. No warmth.

Then Millie showed up.

She was some distant cousin on my mom's side. Looked kinda like me - same eyes, same smile.

After her parents died in a car crash, my parents took her in.

Millie was bubbly, sweet-talked everyone. Within days, she had the whole pack house wrapped around her finger.

The pack house came alive again. Because of her.

Eventually, it felt like everyone forgot I even existed.

Six months ago, I escaped from rogue territory. Barely made it. Took me forever to get back to the pack.

I thought I'd get a warm welcome.

Instead, they acted like I was some stranger. Didn't want Millie to feel weird about me being back.

The night I came back, I overheard my mom comforting Millie:

"Honey, you're always gonna be our favorite. That's not changing."

"Your sister's been through some stuff. Her wolf's harder now. Not soft and sweet like you."

I just stood there in the hallway.

Still holding this little charm my mom gave me before everything happened.

Chapter 3

News spread fast: Alpha's daughter mating a crippled old wolf.

When I got back to the pack house, my parents and brother were sitting in the living room, talking.

Soon as Nelson stopped talking, my dad slammed his hand down:

"This is nuts! She's making the whole pack look like complete idiots!"

My mom was messing with some jewelry on the table, wouldn't even look up:

"Don't yell at her when she gets back. You'll just make it worse."

"She's doing this because Nelson embarrassed her, that's all. She doesn't know this male's name. Doesn't know his pack. Nothing. You think she's really gonna mate him and never talk to us again?"

Millie was sitting there crying:

"Mom... this is my fault. Nelson was just trying to help me, and now Anna's doing this."

My mom grabbed a tissue, handed it over:

"Honey, no. Don't do that to yourself. Your sister's been back for months, and we've been walking on eggshells around her the whole time. You've been so good about it."

"You made one joke. That's it. It's nothing."

My dad nodded:

"Millie, don't feel bad. Your sister's just throwing a fit. She's not actually gonna ruin her life mating some loser like that."

My mom picked up a jade bracelet, put it on Millie's wrist:

"Here, sweetie, take whatever you want. Before your sister comes back and tries to grab it all..."

She stopped.

Saw me standing in the doorway.

The bracelet dropped.

Everyone just froze.

Before, my wolf would've snapped. Started snarling. Demanded they explain themselves.

Asked my mom why she treated me like a thief. Asked my dad and brother why they only cared about Millie.

But I was done.

And honestly? I didn't expect shit from them anymore.

Under their stares, I just turned around and went upstairs.

Three days later, I met the male at a quiet café in town.

Rain was tapping on the windows. I was stirring my latte, totally zoned out, until I heard wheelchair wheels stop right at my table.

I looked up. And froze.

That night at the ceremony, he'd been sitting in the dark. I didn't get a good look.

Now, in the daylight, the half of his face not covered by the mask was sharp, good-looking - strong jaw, intense eyes.

"Miss Lawrence. Don't recognize me?"

His voice had this smile in it. Smooth as hell.

Today he had on a crisp white shirt, perfectly pressed. The silver mask caught the light. His eyes were sharp. Amber.

Something in my wolf stirred. Just for a second.

I stared, caught off guard.

He looked right back at me.

I cleared my throat, trying to sound normal:

"What's your name?"

"Killian Blackwood."

He rolled up to the table like it was nothing, poured himself some water. Simple move, but he did it with this... confidence. Like he owned the place.

I pushed down whatever I was feeling. Pulled a bank card from my bag and slid it across:

"Two weeks from now, you show up at the Lawrence pack house. This should cover it."

Killian looked at the card. Didn't touch it. Looked at me instead:

"Miss Lawrence. You sure you wanna mate a male like me? A... cripple?"

My hand tightened. I lifted my chin:

"What, scared the Alpha's family's gonna crush you?"

He laughed, quiet. Pushed the card back, gentle but firm.

"What's that mean?" I frowned.

"I don't take a female's money."

He looked right at me, voice flat, no arguing:

"Wait for me. Two weeks. I'll come get you. And I'll do it right."

I froze.

Thought about everything back at the pack house - the coldness, the bullshit. My eyes started burning.

I took a breath. My voice came out steady: "If you can... please hurry."

Killian's hand stopped. His throat moved.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Serious: "I will."

Chapter 1

Alpha Archer's POV

Hell. Colt is getting under my skin. That greedy asshole has come at my pack three times this month alone, all because he’s got his sights set on our gem mines. I’ll give him this—he’s persistent. But I’m not the kind of bastard who hands over what belongs to him, and Stonecrest Pack—every acre, every stone, every mine shaft—is mine.

“Nox,” I send through the mind-link, “are the borders locked down?”

Lennox is my Beta, but that title barely covers it. He’s been at my side since we were kids—scraped knees, first shifts, growing into the roles we carry now. He reads me without me having to explain, because he’s watched me become who I am.

“Yeah, Alpha. Borders are secured,” he answers. “Patrols reported Colt rushed in with forty warriors. We only had three guards on patrol in that stretch, so a few fence lines got torn up. I’ve already put in orders for replacement materials. Should be here by morning.”

With Colt hitting us this often, the damage stacks up fast. Lucky for Stonecrest, we can afford to fix what gets broken. And unlucky for us, that’s exactly why Colt keeps trying—our wealth, our mines, our leverage.

“Keep feeding me updates,” I tell him. “Triple patrols tonight and keep them heavy all week. I want everything reinforced before we even think about easing off.”

“Already handled,” Nox replies, amusement curling in his voice. “Patrols will be tighter than a she-wolf’s first time.”

I can practically see the grin he’s wearing.

Then he adds, “So… you still going out with Cordelia tonight?”

My jaw tightens. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Cordelia is a problem I didn’t ask for. For five years she’s been circling the Luna position like it’s a prize she can wear down with enough persistence. I’m not interested. Not even remotely. She isn’t my fated mate.

And yeah—at thirty, after twelve years as Alpha, I’ve been looking for my mate for a long time. That doesn’t mean I’ve lived like a monk. A man has needs, and I’ve had women who understood what it was: a release, an hour, no strings, no repeats. I’m careful, too. I’m not letting anyone trap me with a claim of bonding or a kid that isn’t mine.

Mama raised me to have manners, but I’d rather chew glass than touch Cordelia. She’s trouble wrapped in delusion. The only reason she’s still in my orbit is because I promised my late father’s Beta—on his deathbed—that I’d look out for his daughter. Somewhere along the line, she twisted “look out for her” into “make her Luna.” Not happening. The only woman who’ll ever stand at my side is my fated mate.

Nox’s voice turns even more smug. “She’s telling people you’ve got a date planned. Dinner, a show—the whole thing. You trying to give her a private show, Alpha?”

My temper flares. “Do I need to introduce my fist to your face, Nox? I haven’t planned a damn thing with that lunatic, and I’m not going to. I need to figure out how to keep her busy and away from me before I snap and kill her. She’s irritating as fuck.”

“Sounds like she wants to play ‘pin the she-wolf on the Alpha,’” he says, and now he’s close enough that I hear the laughter he’s holding back. “Want me to have an omega pull your suit?”

I bare my teeth in a grin that isn’t friendly. “You want to run patrols for the next week? Lydia would probably love a quiet floor while I work you into the ground.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “So that’s a no on the suit. Understood.” His voice softens with satisfaction. “If you’ll excuse me, my beautiful mate is waiting, and she’s begging to be teased by her devoted mate.”

I huff a laugh despite myself. “Get out of here, Nox. Tell Lydia I said hi.”

He jogs ahead, light and unburdened, while I follow at a steady pace toward the pack house. I’m glad he found his mate early. I am.

But envy still sinks its claws in.

He has someone waiting for him at night. My Gamma does too—both of them tucked away on their floors, wrapped up in the comfort of a bond I haven’t been given. Me? I walk into an empty suite. Some nights I don’t even stay there. I’ll shift and hunt until exhaustion drags me under, just to avoid staring at that bed and feeling the silence crowd in.

Inside the pack house, the sound hits my ears like claws on a chalkboard.

I stop, close my eyes for half a second, and internally curse. Not again.

Cordelia is coming toward me like she owns the hallway, swaying as if she has curves to sway. She’s all angles and bones—honestly, does she ever eat? She seems to think she’s seductive, but it’s like watching a scrawny teenage boy try to flirt.

“Hello, Alpha,” she purrs, laying it on thick.

I don’t respond fast enough for her liking, so she presses forward. “I was thinking we could go out tonight. You and me. Dinner?” She steps closer, attempting to roll her hips.

“Cordelia,” I let out a long breath. “How many ways do I need to say this? We aren’t going anywhere together. I just got done fighting Colt. I’m filthy, I’m tired, and I’m going to shower and sleep. If you want to go out, go enjoy yourself—alone.”

I turn to leave.

“I could come with you,” she calls after me, voice turning husky. “Help you clean up, Alpha.”

My patience frays to a thread. I look back, letting the edge into my tone. “For fuck’s sake. Cordelia—whatever fantasy you’re building, it’s not real. This is not happening. I have no interest in you. I’m not playing hard to get. I don’t secretly want you. I’m not ‘sending signals.’ I’m being very clear. Have a good evening.”

Harsh, maybe. But I’ve repeated myself so many times that soft words feel pointless.

I don’t stop until I reach my suite.

In the en-suite bathroom, I peel off my ruined clothes and step into the shower. I twist the handle and let the water run cold at first, waiting for the heat to chase it through. The chill slaps my skin, then warmth follows, and I scrub down until the grime and sweat are sliding away.

And like always, my mind drifts.

Where is she? What does my mate look like?

I hope she’s curvy. I like a woman with softness and weight—something real to hold. I’m built big: six-five, two-eighty, solid muscle. A tiny woman might snap under me. I’d rather have a mate with meat on her bones. The bone is for the wolf; the meat is for the man.

And I don’t just want a body. I want a person.

I want her to have a life that’s hers—interests, passions, things she cares about when I’m not in the room. I’d love to share those things with her, but I don’t want a Luna who needs me as her only entertainment. I want us to come home and trade stories, both of us lit up by our own days. I want her comfortable enough around me to be fully herself.

Sass wouldn’t hurt either.

A Luna can be soft and still stand her ground. She can be warm and sharp, gentle and unafraid. That kind of balance—strength with tenderness—that’s what I picture.

I tip my head back, eyes closed, letting the water rinse away the last of the soap. When I’m done, I shut it off, towel dry, and head into my walk-in closet.

Half of it has been waiting.

I’ve kept that space open for my fated mate from the beginning, and the omegas make sure it stays spotless—clean, dust-free, ready for the day I finally bring her home.

Then I climb into my oversized bed.

Alone. Again.

My gaze drifts to the empty side beside me, and the ache returns—sharp and familiar—because I don’t know if I’ll ever meet her.

I close my eyes anyway, and I let the night take me, restless and wanting.

Chapter 2

Raven's POV

A day off is almost mythical for me, so I’m up early, grinning like an idiot while I stack brisket onto bread. It’s leftovers from the batch I smoked earlier this week—my favorite kind of “fancy.” I love doing my own meat, even if my family acts like it’s tacky, like smoke and salt somehow stain their precious reputation.

As the Beta’s daughter, I can eat. I can also fight. Dad trains me in private, and I’ve earned every bruise and callus. What I’m not allowed to do is step onto the training grounds with everyone else, because the sight of me is inconvenient.

I don’t fit what they want the pack to see.

Other she-wolves are sleek and pretty—soft in the right places, toned in the right ways. I’m chubby. Five-nine, one-eighty, and clearly not the delicate little picture they like to hang on their walls. It doesn’t bother me the way it bothers them. I work out, and I love food. Both matter. If I didn’t inherit whatever magic gene keeps wolves effortlessly sculpted, then fine. Maybe there’s a reason I’m built like this, and nobody’s clever enough to know it yet.

But my body isn’t the real problem.

The real reason I stay hidden is because I’m proof my father made a mess.

I’m his secret that isn’t supposed to have a voice. The former beta of Stormfang Pack had a child outside the “proper” story, and my existence threatens the version of him he prefers the world to believe. His name matters more than my childhood ever did.

Rowena never paid that price.

My half-sister got the life pups are supposed to get—classes, friends, trips, laughter that carried down hallways instead of being swallowed behind closed doors. Dad didn’t send me to school. He gave me basics himself: reading, writing, enough math to function. Then he handed me books and told me to teach myself the rest.

Today, though, I’m choosing something for me.

I want my guitar. I want quiet. I want a picnic where nobody calls my name just to remind me I’m useful.

And Runa—my wolf—needs air.

I don’t let her run the way she deserves. Appearances come first in this house, and a free, wild wolf doesn’t match the polished mask my family wears. It’s depressing, but I’ve learned how to survive it: keep your head down, smile when you’re told, pretend it doesn’t hurt until you can breathe again.

I load my backpack—brisket sandwiches, salted caramel brownies, strawberries, and a few water bottles—then slip out toward the woods.

Runa presses against my thoughts, eager and bright. She wants the lake.

I give in immediately. The day is too beautiful to argue with—sun in the leaves, clean wind, the promise of food and peace.

“Damn right,” Runa snickers, delighted. Days like this are rare. We get one day a month. The rest of the time it’s chores, meals, scrubbing, training—work that starts in the morning and doesn’t end until late.

Jade makes sure of it.

My stepmother has never liked me. Before my father, Harlan, found his fated mate, he had been with my mother. My mother died giving birth to me, and Dad brought me home because he wasn’t going to abandon an infant.

Love wasn’t the reason.

Responsibility was.

When I was two, he met Jade—his fated mate. She wanted me gone. Dad refused, not because he cherished me, but because he believed the burden was his to carry.

Then Rowena was born, and the difference between “wanted” and “kept” became unmistakable.

Rowena was adored.

I was tolerated.

Jade took Dad’s guilt and shaped it into a cage for me. She made it clear I wasn’t welcome, but she also made it clear her mate was obligated, so she would “allow” me to remain—up in the attic, out of sight, doing the work of omegas. On top of that, I was assigned to Rowena like a personal servant, expected to appear the second she snapped her fingers.

By the time I was ten, my bedroom had been repurposed into Rowena’s walk-in closet.

Not a metaphor. An actual closet.

Dad spent thousands to have it custom designed. My belongings were dumped into boxes and hauled upstairs, and the attic became mine by default.

If anyone saw me, Dad called me his ward.

Not his daughter.

A ward didn’t require pride. A ward didn’t deserve the same privileges. A ward could be explained away.

Over the years, Rowena learned the lesson Jade taught her: I wasn’t family—I was staff. Jade’s cruelty never needed creativity. She insulted me, mocked me, found little ways to grind me down and then acted surprised when I didn’t sparkle.

Rowena copied her.

When I was younger, I used to beg the moon goddess to take me somewhere else. Nothing changed. So I changed. I got quiet. I disappeared when I could. I made myself small in a house that already wanted me invisible.

Dad still trained me every morning, always away from other eyes, because he didn’t want anyone seeing the chubby, illegitimate daughter he pretended not to have. I pushed for one mercy—one day each month to rest, to breathe, to exist without orders.

He finally agreed.

Jade hated it.

I treasured it.

And that’s how I end up here: beside the lake, alone, eating lunch, guitar across my lap, fingers moving over strings while the world stays quiet long enough for me to remember what peace feels like.

Then Runa stiffens.

‘Raven… I don’t think we’re alone.’

The shift in her tone makes my skin prickle. I stop playing and set the guitar down gently, listening.

‘Do you smell danger, Rue?’ I scan the trees, the shoreline, the shadows where sunlight can’t quite reach.

And then a scent slams into me—clean and sharp, like fresh-cut grass and cedar.

It’s so good it almost makes me dizzy.

I turn toward it.

Alpha Colt stands there.

Runa surges forward like a shout. “MATE!”

My heart jumps so hard it hurts. A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. Excitement sparks through me, bright and unreal.

My fated mate.

The moon goddess chose Alpha Colt for me.

I’ve heard Rowena gush about him—how handsome he is, how kind he acts, how everyone likes him. She keeps pictures of him in her room, like she’s been practicing devotion in advance. She’s been chasing his attention for ages, but she doesn’t turn eighteen until next week.

I’m twenty-three.

And because I’m rarely allowed out, and because my single day off is usually spent alone, I’ve never found my mate.

The pictures hadn’t prepared me. Up close, Colt is unfairly attractive.

I remember what I’ve read in old books Dad gave me, and what I’ve overheard from omegas who have mates: fated mates are the moon goddess’ will, two halves of the same soul. We’re meant to fit, to balance, to love without conditions.

I believed it was possible, even if I’d never had it.

Dad may not want me, but I’ve seen the way he looks at Jade—like the world narrows down to her and nothing else matters. That kind of devotion exists.

When I was a kid, I used to imagine someone looking at me like that.

Cherished.

Wanted.

I’d stopped expecting it.

So when Alpha Colt is the one standing in front of me, fate feels almost like a joke that finally decided to be kind.

I take a step toward him.

And the expression on his face turns my excitement cold.

He isn’t smiling. He isn’t surprised in a good way. His mouth twists as if he’s tasting something bitter.

Disgust.

Anger.

Maybe both.

‘Runa… are you sure?’ I ask inside my head, dread creeping in. ‘He doesn’t look happy to see us.’

‘Yes!’ she yips insistently. ‘He’s ours. Go, Raven. I want our mate!’

I start forward again.

“Stop.” Colt’s voice cuts through the air. “This has to be wrong. I could never be mated to someone like… you.”

It’s like my hope takes flight and gets shot down in the same second.

Runa lets out a sound of pure grief, a wail that shakes through my bones.

My eyes burn.

“Someone like me?” My voice comes out thin.

He looks me over without hiding it, as if he’s inspecting something defective.

“Yes. Look at you. No Alpha wants a Luna who looks like that. You’re not refined. Your clothes are worn. And you’re not attractive.” His lip curls. “Maybe if you lost weight you’d be… passable. The moon goddess made a mistake. There’s no way I’m accepting you. What’s your name?”

“Raven Larkin,” I say.

I already know what happens next. Everyone says rejection is rare.

They also say it destroys you.

My lips tremble. Tears sting, threatening to spill, and I force myself to stand still—bracing for the blow I can see coming.

Colt’s eyes are hard. “Let’s finish this. I have things to do. I need a strong and beautiful Luna at my side.” He draws himself up like he’s delivering an order. “I, Alpha Colt Norwood of the Stormfang Pack, reject you, Raven Larkin, as my mate and Luna.”

Pain detonates in my chest.

It feels like something reaches inside me and tears everything open, scooping me hollow. It’s the worst agony I’ve ever known, and it doesn’t stop at my skin—it rips through Runa too.

She howls, frantic, shattered.

But I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me break.

I lock my body in place and force my face into stillness, even as my heart feels like it’s being carved out.

The sooner it’s done, the sooner Runa and I can crawl somewhere private and survive it.

“I, Raven Larkin, accept your rejection.”

The words land like a final execution.

Colt jerks and clamps a hand to his chest, breathing hard as the bond snaps back against him. He stands there for a couple of minutes, fighting for control, and then he straightens.

I still haven’t moved.

Not yet. Not until I’m alone.

His gaze sharpens. “You won’t tell anyone about this. Do you understand?”

I can’t find enough strength for a real answer. I nod.

“Good.” His voice turns colder. “I can’t have people knowing I was mated to a she-wolf like you.”

Then he turns and walks away.

I make it back to the spot by the lake like I’m walking through deep water. I sit beside my guitar.

And then whatever was holding me together gives out.

I clutch my chest and sob until my throat aches, until the sunlight shifts and the hours blur. Runa, weakened by the rejection, retreats to the back of my mind. She still speaks to me, but her voice is dim now—like she’s far away, curled up and hurting.

I’ve never felt so alone.

Fated mates are supposed to love each other. No matter what.

He was supposed to protect me. To cherish me.

Instead, I have never felt more unwanted in my life.

Chapter 3

Raven's POV

Two months. That’s how long it has been since the rejection.

The first week nearly crushed me. Rowena was about to turn eighteen, and everything for her celebration landed on my shoulders—hemming the dress, planning the dinner, baking the cake, dressing the house up, all of it. None of it could wait.

The day Alpha Colt rejected me, I barely made it back. He walked away like I was nothing and didn’t even look over his shoulder. I had trudged more than two miles while still weak, all the way to the attic room that passes for mine. Once the door shut, I cried until my chest hurt, then slept far past my usual time.

My father saw how wrecked I looked. He didn’t ask why—I doubt he cared—but for once he didn’t force training on me. He told me to sleep until chores needed doing.

That morning, I had gotten three extra hours, and even then my bones felt hollow when I dragged myself downstairs to the kitchen.

Since then, the only “break” I’ve had was hiding alone in the attic. Rowena turned eighteen, got her wolf, basked in everyone’s praise, and I stayed where nobody had to remember I existed. The one thing she didn’t get that night was her fated mate.

When she does find him, he won’t turn her away. He’ll want her. He’ll treat her like she’s precious.

And that’s the sick joke—she looks down on everyone, acts like the pack is lucky to breathe near her, and people still scramble to earn her approval. I’ve stopped trying to understand it. I just… endure her.

I’ve also stopped expecting anything good for myself. Second-chance mates are rare, at least from what I’ve read, and I’m never allowed out where I could meet anyone anyway. Even if the moon goddess felt generous, how would she deliver that kindness to someone kept out of sight?

At least Alpha Colt didn’t attend Rowena’s birthday. I didn’t have to stand in the same room with him while I was still bleeding inside.

The rejection—and the very real chance that I’ll never have a mate—has been sitting on my chest for weeks. Runa has been returning little by little. As the ache dulled, she started reaching for me again, talking more. She’s quieter now, though. Less sharp. I can’t blame her.

I’m quieter too.

Something in me went out that day. Anything decent I’ve ever been given has been snatched away sooner or later. Maybe I should’ve known my mate wouldn’t want me either. With women like Rowena and the other beautiful she-wolves in the pack—women who are all, I’m sure, prettier than I am—who would choose a frumpy, soft, chubby girl?

I shove the spiral of thoughts aside and head downstairs.

The moment I step into the room, my stepmother is already staring at me, too bright-eyed, too eager. Her smile is wide, but it doesn’t reach anything warm.

“Raven! Finally,” she says, voice dripping with false cheer that turns into a sneer midway through. “I was about to come hunt you down.” She looks at me like I’ve ruined her breakfast just by existing.

I let out a slow breath. “What do you need, Jade?”

“We’re having an honored guest for dinner,” she announces. “Alpha Colt has decided he’s taking a chosen mate. He intends to dine with women he considers suitable to be his Luna.” Her eyes sharpen. “He’ll be here tonight—for Rowena. So I need a flawless dinner. Exceptional, Raven.”

The floor tilts.

My vision swims, and for a second it feels like the walls are sliding sideways. “Alpha Colt… here? Tonight?”

A chosen mate.

My fated mate. The one who rejected me. Coming to my father’s home to sit across from Rowena and decide if she’s worthy.

Not me.

I didn’t think anything could grind more salt into the wound than what I’ve already lived through, but apparently it can. I wonder, hazily, if the moon goddess enjoys watching me break.

Jade is suddenly too close. “RAVEN! Are you listening?”

Her shout yanks me back.

“Yes,” I manage, swallowing hard. “Yes, Jade. I’m sorry. I’ll prepare something special.” I keep my voice steady while I cage the tears.

“You will,” she says, satisfied. “And when everything is ready to be served, you’ll disappear. I’m not having you tainting this family with your presence.” Her lip curls. “Go out the back. Don’t come back until midnight. Alpha Colt deserves time alone with Rowena.”

Right on cue, Rowena drifts in, having caught the end. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all week.

“If it were my choice,” she says, eyes gleaming, “you’d be gone for good. Alpha Colt is going to fall for me. When I become his Luna, I’ll make sure you’re banished. I’m not letting you smear my name.” Her smile turns ugly. “The fat bastard beta’s mistake.”

Fat barely lands.

Bastard does.

It burns, but I keep my face smooth. My eyes have dimmed over the last two months, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

“At least I won’t be the one he settles for,” I say evenly. “He’s choosing because he won’t wait for his fated mate. He’ll pick a chosen mate instead.” My throat tightens, but I push through. “Does that feel like being treasured, Rowena?”

Her expression twists, sharp and sudden, like she’s forgotten how to control it. The distortion is almost comical.

“At least I’ll be mated and marked,” she spits. “If it isn’t Alpha Colt, it’ll be someone with status. What about you, Raven? You’re a fat bastard. Your own family won’t even claim you—they just see a stain. That’s all you’ll ever be. A servant in your father’s house. My servant.”

“ENOUGH!”

My father storms in, anger rolling off him. For a heartbeat, I let myself hope he’s heard what she said—heard the word bastard, heard the contempt.

I’m wrong.

“RAVEN!” he bellows, glaring at me like I started this. “For once, can you stop provoking your sister?”

I stare at him, stunned. I’m the one being shredded, and he’s defending her.

He keeps going. “Alpha Colt is coming tonight to meet with us and get to know Rowena. This is an opportunity for our family. Now go—start cleaning, start dinner. Move.”

“Our family,” I echo quietly.

Not mine.

“You mean your family,” I say, my voice calm in a way that surprises even me. “I’ve never been wanted here. Not even by you.”

Then I turn and walk to the kitchen before the tears can spill—before they can keep throwing words at me until I crack in front of them.

Hours disappear into work.

By the time I’m nearing the end, everything has to be timed perfectly. Alpha Colt is meant to arrive at six. When I check the clock again, it’s close to five.

The turducken in the oven is nearly finished. I’ve planned the sides carefully: maple-balsamic roasted Brussels sprouts, and mushroom risotto finished with white truffle oil. Bread rolls are cooling, still smelling like butter.

For dessert, I made a French apple tart, plus homemade vanilla bean ice cream and caramel syrup for the top.

I’m not allowed to eat any of it, no matter how much of my day I poured into making it. So I hand the omegas detailed instructions—how to plate the main course, how to arrange the tart, how to drizzle the caramel. I set coffee and tea up as well, not knowing which Alpha Colt will want but refusing to be caught unprepared.

Then I start assembling my own food for later. If I’m forced out all evening, I need something, or I won’t eat at all today.

I put together pork shoulder sandwiches, toss in chips, peanut butter crackers, fruit, chocolate chip cookies, and several bottles of water. My backpack gets heavier with each item. I add a blanket, a jacket, a flashlight, and a book.

Rowena saunters into the kitchen while I’m doing a final check.

“Why are you still here?” she snaps. “Leave. What if Alpha Colt shows up early? Goddess, Raven—can you get any dumber?”

I keep my tone level. “I’m making sure everything is ready. You, of all people, should be grateful for the work I did for you today.” I meet her stare without blinking. “And now that it is ready, I’m going. Trust me—I don’t want to be here either.”

I turn away from her and face the omegas as I sling my backpack onto my shoulder. “Any questions before I go?”

One of them shakes her head. “No, Ms. Raven. We’ve got it. Thank you for making all of this. None of us could cook like this.”

“You’re welcome,” I tell them. “Good luck tonight. Good night.”

I walk out without a word for Rowena, Jade, or the man I’m supposed to call my father.

They’ve made it clear they don’t want me.

So I leave.

Chapter 4

Raven's POV

I keep walking, letting the trees swallow up the distance between me and the house, and my mind insists on replaying every choice like I ever had a real chance. But I haven’t. Not since I was born. The day my father took me in and found his fated mate, my path was already set, and there was never a version of my life where I came out on top.

I’ve accepted that.

All I’m asking for now is one mercy: that Alpha Colt picks anyone—anyone—except Rowena for his Luna. If Rowena becomes Luna, she can toss me out like trash. I have nowhere to go. And I don’t think I would last as a rogue.

Runa is still simmering, wounded and furious in a way that makes my chest ache.

‘We were meant to be his mate,’ she snaps. ‘The Moon Goddess doesn’t get it wrong, Raven. If he rejected us, he spit on her. She’ll make him pay.’

‘I’m not arguing with you,’ I answer, voice tight. ‘I just… what does that mean for us?’

‘It means she hasn’t forgotten.’ Runa’s tone turns hard with certainty. ‘We wait and see what she’s set in motion.’

The forest opens into our usual clearing. Dusk is settling fast, the last light thinning between branches, and I don’t stay out in the middle like a target. Instead, I sink back into the treeline where shadows can hide me.

I’ve fought rogues before. Tonight I’m tired, alone, and I don’t want to be noticed.

‘Runa,’ I murmur, ‘after we eat… want to run? I know it’s been a while with everything going on, but we could use it.’

Her excitement hits instantly. ‘Yes. Please. We only get one day off a month, and we haven’t gone out in two months. I need to burn this off.’

Guilt twists in me. ‘I’m sorry. I know this is hell for you too.’

‘Don’t you dare apologize,’ she bites back. ‘Colt did this. He didn’t deserve us. And thank the goddess he’s not our mate anymore. That would have ended badly.’

I eat some of what I brought and save the rest. Runa might share my soft edges, but she’s quick—faster than most pack wolves I’ve watched—and she burns through energy like kindling. Fast legs, fast hunger.

Behind a thick trunk, I tug my clothes off, shivering at the cold bite in the air. I fold everything neatly into my backpack, then pull a shift.

Runa lands on four paws, scoops the bag up, and bolts deeper into the trees.

Wind rakes through our fur. The ground pounds under us. For the first time in months, it feels like we can breathe. Like we aren’t ruined. Like we’re… normal.

An hour passes and Runa still wants more. I let myself loosen, let myself stop calculating the future for a few precious minutes.

Bliss.

And then—nothing.

Runa freezes so abruptly it snaps me back like a leash.

‘Runa? What—what is it? Did we cross the border?’

My nose flares.

Salted citrus. Driftwood.

Oh, no.

Runa whimpers. Her head drops; her ears flatten. Fear rolls through her, thick and sharp, and then she says the one word I never expected to hear from her again.

‘Mate,’ she whispers.

Panic floods me. ‘We’re leaving. Now. We are not surviving another rejection.’

Runa pivots—ready to run—when a voice cracks through the trees.

“MATE! STOP WHERE YOU ARE!”

Damn it.

That voice is rich, commanding—an Alpha voice. Of course it is. Why is it always an Alpha? Why me?

This is going to hurt. I can already feel it.

“Please don’t go,” he calls, the edge turning unexpectedly soft. “I might be a feared Alpha… but not to you. Never you.”

Sincere. Convincing.

Except he hasn’t seen me yet.

I’m still in wolf form, and Runa is beautiful—black fur with auburn undertones, emerald eyes like mine. He can want that. He can imagine something impressive.

Once he sees the rest of us? That’ll vanish.

We huff, the same thought shared between us.

‘Let’s get it over with,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe we can get him to wait until after we eat. At least then we won’t be weak when it happens.’

Runa goes quiet, nerves buzzing.

I shift back with my spine still angled away from him. For a second I think I hear him inhale sharply.

My shoulders sag anyway. My chin dips.

Barely audible, I say, “Could you… give me a moment to get dressed before we talk?”

“Of course, mate.” His tone is steady, almost warm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He sounds—excited. Like he’s smiling.

It won’t last.

I pull my clothes on quickly, sling the backpack over my shoulder, and draw in a long breath.

‘It’s okay,’ I tell Runa. ‘We can do this. We’re going to be fine.’

I step out from behind the tree and face him.

And my breath catches.

Goddess.

He’s unreal. Broad shoulders, hard muscle, that effortless confidence that fills the space around him. His hair is a shade lighter than chestnut, and his eyes—crystal blue—are the brightest thing in the dimming forest. Sun-kissed caramel skin, the kind that says he lives outside and works with his hands. Rugged, dangerous, beautiful.

Alpha Colt doesn’t even compare.

My body reacts before my brain can catch up, my core tightening with an ache I hate myself for.

‘That’s not the only reason we’re reacting,’ Runa says suddenly, shoving my focus downward—right to the unmistakable bulge straining his shorts.

I almost choke.

Somehow, her sass has crawled back out of hiding, and the relief of it is startling.

‘Don’t celebrate yet, Rue,’ I warn. ‘Men that perfect don’t keep mates like us. Let’s just get through this.’

Runa’s confidence falters. She whimpers inside my head because she understands exactly what I’m bracing for.

He’s staring at me like he’s trying to memorize me, like it’s indecent how openly he’s looking.

Self-consciousness stabs. I wrap my arms around myself and drop my gaze.

“Would you mind waiting a few minutes?” I ask quietly. “My wolf has been running for over an hour. She burns energy faster than most. We just… want to eat first. Have some strength before you reject us.”

His expression turns incredulous. “Reject you? Why the hell would I do that, mate?”

I swallow. “I know I’m not Luna material. And I’m not beautiful. You don’t have to pretend, Alpha.”

I can’t look at him. I can’t watch it happen.

He steps closer anyway—careful, deliberate—and lifts my chin with a finger until I’m forced to meet his eyes.

The contact sends a sharp jolt through me, straight to my core.

Then he speaks, voice low and edged with certainty. “First, I don’t know who convinced you you aren’t beautiful, but they lied. You are fucking gorgeous—do you hear me? The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, darling. Second… you’re my mate. That makes you my Luna. Anyone who challenges it can forfeit their life.”

One: that southern drawl.

Goddess, it does something to me.

Two: his eyes aren’t slipping. I don’t see deception there. I see conviction.

‘Runa,’ I ask carefully, ‘is he lying?’

The Moon Goddess gave her a gift for sniffing out dishonesty. If anyone can read the truth, it’s her.

‘He’s telling the truth,’ she answers at once. Then, without missing a beat: ‘Also his accent is hot, and have you seen his body? Yummy.’

I roll my eyes inside my skull. ‘Focus.’

‘Oh, I’m focused,’ she purrs, practically wiggling invisible eyebrows.

I shove her aside and look back at him. “So… Alpha. What are you doing all the way out here in Stormfang?”

One eyebrow lifts, and somehow even that is unfairly attractive. “Darling,” he says, “you’re in Stonecrest territory.”

My stomach drops. “We’re in Stonecrest?”

Of course we are. Runa always runs too far when she finally gets free.

Then it clicks.

“You said Alpha,” I breathe. “Stonecrest… you’re the Alpha. You’re—” My voice climbs with each word. “Alpha Archer?”

Panic sparks hot. ‘Runa. That’s the cruelest Alpha in the entire southwestern region. That’s him. He’s our mate?’

Runa flips in my mind like she’s sunning herself, fear already evaporating. ‘Yes, Raven. And he wants us. How lucky are we?’ She’s practically purring like a minx.

He smirks, clearly entertained. “Where exactly did you think you were, little mate?”

“Stormfang,” I answer, swallowing hard. “My pack.”

The amusement drains from his face in an instant, replaced by something cold. “You’re from Stormfang,” he says slowly. “Alpha Colt is your Alpha?”

Why should that matter?

“Yes,” I admit. “Unfortunately… in more ways than one.” I clamp down on the bitterness before it spills.

Alpha Archer is already proving to be everything Colt never was—at least to my face.

He studies me like he’s making a decision. “What’s your name, darling?”

“Raven Larkin.” I force the next words out. “Did you change your mind when you found out where I’m from? Are you going to reject me because I’m Stormfang?”

When Colt asked my name, it was right before he crushed me.

So I can’t stop waiting for the same blade.

Archer’s gaze sharpens. “You’re expecting me to reject you any second,” he says, voice quieter now. “Why, Raven? What happened to you?”

I exhale, long and tired. Fine. Rip it open. The sooner he knows, the sooner he can feel relieved it isn’t just him.

“You aren’t my first mate,” I say. “I met my mate two months ago. The second he saw me… he rejected me.”

His eyes darken, a storm gathering behind the blue.

He looks upset—angry, even.

At me?

Then he speaks, and the words hit like something I’ve never been allowed to have.

“First,” he says, “I’m glad he rejected you. Because now you’re mine, and I’m not just happy—I’m damn ecstatic that you’re mine. Second, whoever that first mate was, he was a dumbass not to recognize what he had. His loss. My gain, sweetheart.” His jaw tightens. “Was he in Stormfang?”

I just stare.

‘Raven,’ Runa sighs dreamily, ‘I told you. He wants us. I can’t wait to meet his wolf. I bet he’s as sexy as Archer.’

She’s already gone—head over heels, no hesitation, no caution.

Ecstatic.

No one has ever used that word with me in the same sentence.

“Yes,” I manage. “He’s Stormfang.” My throat tightens. “And… he’s the one who told me I wasn’t Luna material.”

Archer looks down, shaking his head slowly, hands settling on his hips like he has no idea what he’s doing to my concentration.

Then he glances back up with a sharp, almost dangerous smile. “Why would he say you aren’t Luna material?” A beat. “Was your mate Alpha Colt?”

He chuckles like it’s absurd.

I stare at the ground, shame crawling up my neck, and answer in a voice so small it barely exists.

“Yes.”

When I lift my eyes again, rage is pouring off Alpha Archer’s aura in waves.

Chapter 1

The tea tray was warm against my palms, and the baby kicked once, low and soft, like a small fist knocking from the inside.

"Easy," I whispered, one hand drifting to the curve under my sweater. "I'm going. I'm going."

The Burke house was too big for the sound of one person climbing stairs. Marble underfoot, a chandelier overhead that Sylas's mother had picked out a decade before I ever set foot in this place. I'd lived here three years. It still didn't feel like mine. Nothing in it did.

Ophelia had left an hour ago. I could still smell her perfume on the banister — that sharp white-floral thing she wore like a flag planted in enemy territory. She always touched the railing on her way out. Always. As if to remind me whose house this used to be.

Ayden had been crying behind his door since she'd gone. Not the loud kind. The quiet, theatrical kind, just loud enough to travel.

So here I was. Chamomile. Honey. The little ginger cookies he pretended he didn't like. Six months pregnant and climbing toward a fourteen-year-old boy who had spent the morning telling his mother, through the open door, that I was "that woman."

I didn't blame him. I kept telling myself that. He was a child. Ophelia had filled his head the way you fill a glass — slowly, deliberately, until it spilled.

My back ached. The tray was heavier than it should have been. I shifted it to balance the weight off my hip, and the baby kicked again, harder this time, like a question.

*I know,* I thought. *I know, sweetheart. One more flight.*

I reached the landing.

Ayden's door swung open before I could knock.

He came out fast — too fast — and for a half-second I thought he was running to me, the way he used to when he was small enough to forget he was supposed to hate me. I started to smile. I started to say his name.

Then his hands hit my chest.

It wasn't a slap. It wasn't a flail. It was a push — two flat palms, shoulder height, with his whole body behind them. The kind of push you plant your feet for.

The tray went first. I heard the china before I felt the fall — that high bright shatter, porcelain breaking against marble in a sound like a bell. Then the world tilted, and I was weightless, and my hands were reaching for nothing, and the only thought in my head was *not the baby not the baby not the baby—*

I hit the third step with my hip. The seventh with my shoulder. Somewhere in between, I bit my tongue, and the taste of copper bloomed in my mouth like a warning I had heard too late.

I stopped at the bottom.

The ceiling was very far away. The chandelier swung — no, it didn't, I was the one swinging, my vision rocking like a boat — and somewhere up at the top of the stairs there was a small dark figure standing very still.

Ayden.

Looking down.

I waited for him to scream. To cry. To run for help. That's what a frightened child does. That's what Ophelia would coach later, in the hospital, with her hand pressed to her chest like a martyr.

He didn't scream.

He stood there, framed by the landing light, and his face was perfectly empty. Not panicked. Not sorry. Just — calculating. Like a boy doing math in his head. Like a boy waiting to see whether the thing on the floor was going to move again.

My hand drifted to my belly.

It was warm.

Then it was wet.

---

They wouldn't let me sit up.

The hospital lights were the color of dishwater. Someone had put an IV in the back of my left hand, and the tape pulled at my skin every time I breathed. The doctor had a kind face. That was the worst part. He had a kind face and he sat down beside the bed instead of standing, and I knew before he opened his mouth.

"Mrs. Burke," he said. Very softly. "I'm so sorry."

I didn't cry. I remember being surprised about that. I had expected crying to be the easy part.

Instead I just nodded, once, and turned my face toward the window, where the blinds were half-shut against a flat gray afternoon. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang and rang and no one answered it.

Sylas arrived forty-three minutes later. I counted. I had nothing else to do.

He didn't take off his coat.

That's the detail I keep coming back to. He stood at the foot of the bed in his black wool overcoat, snow still melting on the shoulders, and he didn't take it off. As if he wasn't planning to stay.

Behind him: Ayden. Behind Ayden: Ophelia, with one hand pressed flat to her collarbone like she was holding her own heart in.

"Dad—" Ayden's voice cracked beautifully. He had practiced. I could hear it. "I didn't — she was bringing tea and I — I got scared, I thought she was mad at me, and I — I tried to grab her arm, I swear, I tried to catch her—"

His shoulders shook on cue. Ophelia's hand slid from her chest to the back of his neck. Her thumb stroked once, slow, a small invisible *good boy*.

Sylas listened.

He listened the whole way through, the way he listens in board meetings — head slightly tilted, eyes fixed somewhere just past the speaker's left ear. When Ayden finished, Sylas exhaled through his nose. A short, controlled sound.

Then, finally, he turned to me.

His eyes did not go to my face. They went to the blanket over my stomach, and away again, fast, the way you flinch from a stove.

"Olive."

Low. Even. The voice he used for things he had already decided.

"Stop blaming a frightened child."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"He is fourteen years old," Sylas said. "He is grieving too. You are the adult in this house. I need you to know your place."

*Know your place.*

The words landed like three small stones dropped, one after another, into a very deep well. I waited for the splash. It never came.

He did not touch my hand. He did not ask where it hurt. He did not look at the bruise blooming purple along my jaw or the gauze taped low across my abdomen. He simply turned, put his hand on Ayden's shoulder, and walked the boy out of the room.

Ophelia lingered a heartbeat longer in the doorway. Long enough to meet my eyes. Long enough to let the corner of her mouth lift, just barely, like a curtain twitching.

Then she was gone too.

I turned my face to the wall.

The wallpaper was beige with a thin silver stripe. I counted the stripes. I got to forty-seven before I stopped, because something inside me had quietly, completely, gone out — like a pilot light I hadn't realized was still burning until the cold rushed in to fill the place where it had been.

I did not cry.

I did not argue.

I did not, in any way that mattered, exist in that room anymore.

---

Three nights later I sat at the kitchen table at midnight with my diary open in front of me.

The house was asleep. Sylas in the east wing. Ayden in the room at the top of the stairs I would never climb again. The kettle ticked softly on the stove behind me, cooling. My tea had gone lukewarm. The bruise along my hip was the color of a thunderstorm.

I uncapped the pen.

I held it over the page for a long time. Long enough that a single drop of ink bloomed on the paper like a small black flower, and I watched it spread, and I did not move to stop it.

Then, in my own careful handwriting — the handwriting of a girl who had been writing in this book since she was seventeen years old and stupid in love with a boy who walked past her in a library — I wrote three words.

*I am done.*

I looked at them.

I underlined them, once.

Then I closed the diary, set the pen beside it, lifted my cup, and finished my tea in the dark. The clock on the microwave ticked over to 12:47.

By 12:48, I had begun, in absolute silence, to plan.



Chapter 2

The dining room was too bright. Every surface gleamed under the chandelier like a stage set—Sylas at the head of the table, carving a roast with the precision of a surgeon; Ayden beside him, shoulders hunched in that practiced slump of wounded adolescence; and me, at the opposite end, where the light hit the crystal and fractured it into tiny rainbows. Two weeks had passed since the hospital. Two weeks since I'd stopped bleeding. Two weeks since I'd written those three words in my diary and started planning in the dark.

I watched Ayden's fork move around his plate, pushing food into small, meaningless patterns. He'd been doing it for ten minutes. The pattern changed when he spoke.

'And then Mr. Jennings said I was disrupting the whole class,' he was saying to Sylas, his voice pitched just high enough to carry the right note of injustice. 'Just because I asked a simple question about the assignment. He's always picking on me. Always. It's like he's got it out for me.'

Sylas made a sympathetic sound—that low, distracted hum he used when he was dividing his attention between his son and the quarterly reports on his phone. I set down my water glass and looked at Ayden's fork, still making those nervous loops on his plate.

'That's not what happened,' I said quietly.

The fork stopped.

I met Ayden's eyes across the table. 'Mrs. Peterson called this afternoon. She said you stood up in the middle of Mr. Jennings' lecture and accused him of sleeping with a parent. In front of the entire class. You were suspended for three days, not sent home early. She wanted to make sure we knew, since you told us you had a stomachache.'

The silence stretched like a wire pulled tight. I could hear the grandfather clock in the hall ticking. Somewhere in the kitchen, a dish towel fell.

'Dad—' Ayden's voice cracked, but not in the practiced way. This crack was real, sharp with panic. 'She's lying. She's always—'

'Your teacher left a voicemail,' I continued, my voice steady. 'She said this is the third time this month you've disrupted class with false accusations. She's concerned about your mental health. She suggested we consider therapy.'

Ayden's face went white, then flushed red, then white again. He looked at Sylas, who had finally set down his phone and was staring at me with something that might have been surprise.

'I didn't—' Ayden started, but I was already standing, already walking toward the kitchen with my empty water glass. Behind me, I heard his chair scrape against the floor.

'Dad, she's making this up! She's trying to get rid of me! She's always—'

I heard the crash before I registered what it was. Glass breaking. Something liquid hitting the floor. Then a searing, chemical burn across my left forearm, and I was gasping, stumbling back from the kitchen counter where I'd been about to fill my glass.

The pain came in waves—first cold, then hot, then a white-hot agony that made my vision blur. I looked down at my arm. My sweater sleeve was eaten away in places, and underneath, my skin was already turning an angry red. The smell hit me next: sharp, acrid, like bleach mixed with something far worse. It was burning through the flesh.

'What did you do?' My voice sounded distant, like it was coming from somewhere else. 'Ayden, what did you—'

He stood frozen by the counter, an empty glass beaker in his hand. His eyes were huge, vacant with shock. Behind him, Sylas was rising from his chair, moving toward us with the careful control of a man who did not want to make things worse.

I grabbed a dish towel from the counter and pressed it to my arm. The fabric hissed where the chemical soaked through. I walked, carefully, to the sink and turned on the cold water, holding my arm under the stream. The relief was immediate but incomplete. The burn was deep.

'What happened?' Sylas asked. He was looking at Ayden's white face, not at my arm.

'She—she was lying!' Ayden's voice was shaking. 'She was trying to get me in trouble! I just—I didn't mean—'

'He threw cleaning solution at me,' I said, my arm still under the water. 'The industrial kind from under the sink. The kind with the warning label. The kind we keep locked up because it can cause permanent damage. He threw it at me, Sylas. He aimed.'

Sylas's jaw tightened. He was still looking at Ayden, who had started to cry—real tears this time, the kind that came when you realized you'd gone too far.

'For God's sake, Olive,' Sylas said finally. 'Can you hear yourself? He's a child. He's upset. You need to stop escalating these situations. He didn't mean—'

'He meant it.' My voice cut through his like a blade. 'He knew exactly what he was doing. He's been doing exactly what he's been taught to do. And you're still defending him. You're still choosing—'

'Don't.' Sylas's voice was sharp now. 'Don't make this about—just... take care of your arm. We'll talk about this later. Ayden, go to your room. Now.'

I turned off the water and looked down at my arm. The burn was already blistering. In the reflection of the stainless steel sink, I could see Sylas's face—tight, controlled, angry at me. Always angry at me.

I picked up my phone from the counter and walked past him toward the front door.

'Where are you going?' he asked.

'To the hospital,' I said. 'Since no one in this house seems capable of calling an ambulance.'

The door closed behind me with a soft, final click.



Chapter 3

The scandal broke on a Tuesday.

I was in the kitchen when my phone lit up with the first alert. I didn't touch it. I just stood there in my robe with my coffee going cold and watched the notifications stack up one by one, each headline a little louder than the last. By eight o'clock, Ophelia Kennedy's name was everywhere — the affairs, the fraud, the money funneled through shell accounts that Renata Voss had helped her construct and then, with breathtaking speed, helped dismantle the moment the press came knocking.

By eight-fifteen, Sylas was in his study with the door shut.

I poured out my cold coffee, rinsed the cup, and set it on the rack to dry.

Then I went upstairs, opened the drawer beside my bed, and took out the manila envelope I had been keeping there for eleven days.

I held it for a moment. It was thin. Surprising, how thin. Ten years, and it came down to a few sheets of paper in a plain envelope with a lawyer's return address in the corner.

I tucked it under my arm and went downstairs.

---

His study smelled like him — cedar, old paper, that specific cold quality of a room where the windows are never opened. He was at his desk with his phone in one hand and his free hand pressed flat against his forehead, and he did not look up when I came in.

Four monitors. Two open laptops. A half-eaten piece of toast going stiff on a saucer. This was the room he lived in. I had stood in the doorway of this room a hundred times over three years and he had never once turned his chair to face me all the way.

I crossed to the desk and set the envelope down on the only clear corner. He still didn't look up.

'I need your signature on some administrative paperwork,' I said. 'When you have a moment.'

His eyes moved from the phone to the envelope and back to the phone. His hand was already reaching.

'Leave it,' he said. 'I'll get to it.'

'It has a deadline,' I said. 'Today.'

A short exhale — the sound he made when he considered something an interruption. He picked up the envelope, pulled out the papers without opening the flap all the way, flipped to the last page. His pen was already in his hand. He signed in the place I had marked with a small penciled arrow, the way his assistant prepared contracts for him, and he slid the papers back in the envelope and pushed it toward me without reading a single line.

I picked it up.

'Thank you,' I said.

He was already back on his phone.

I walked out and pulled the study door shut behind me, softly, the way you close a door in a house where someone is sleeping.

---

The morning of the flight I woke before my alarm.

The apartment was quiet. My one carry-on bag sat by the door, packed for three days ago. Sylas had not come home the night before — or if he had, he hadn't come to this side of the house. It was hard to tell the difference anymore.

I put on my coat. I picked up my bag. I checked the kitchen counter one more time to make sure I had left nothing behind accidentally — and then I reached into my coat pocket and touched the spine of my diary, just to confirm it was there.

It was.

I picked up my keys. I put them back down. I wouldn't need them.

Then I left.

---

The terminal was ordinary. That was the part I kept noticing — how ordinary all of it was. Families with too much luggage. A toddler dragging a stuffed giraffe across the floor. Coffee carts and news kiosks and the flat, recycled smell of an airport at six in the morning.

I stood at the gate desk and asked the woman behind the counter to move me to the afternoon departure.

She typed without looking up. 'Four hours out. Is that all right?'

'That's fine,' I said.

I found a bathroom. It was one of those single-occupancy ones at the end of a terminal corridor, the kind with the heavy door and the small ventilation fan that runs constantly. I locked the door and stood at the sink and looked at myself in the mirror for a long time.

The woman in the mirror looked back at me. She had my face. She had the bruise still yellowing along her jaw, faded enough now that you'd only notice it in the right light. She had my coat, my bag over her shoulder, my diary in her pocket.

She looked tired.

She looked like someone who had been holding something very heavy for a very long time and had finally, quietly, set it down.

I took out my phone. I cancelled the afternoon ticket. I booked a car to Los Angeles — a long drive, two days, through the desert. I watched the confirmation come through and I didn't feel anything in particular except a low, clean sense of the ground solidifying under my feet.

I took the diary out of my coat pocket.

I had planned to keep it. I had carried it this far. But standing in that small bathroom with the fan running and the world outside continuing without me, I understood, finally, what it was. It was ten years of waiting for someone to read it. Proof, written in my own hand, that I had existed in that house. That I had loved, and been silent, and hurt, and kept going anyway.

Sylas would find it eventually. He'd move the stack of books on the kitchen counter — the ones I'd buried it under — and there it would be. He'd read it or he wouldn't. That was no longer something I needed to manage.

I put it back in my pocket. I'd leave it where it belonged.

I unlocked the bathroom door and walked back into the terminal and out through the exit to the arrivals lane, where a black car was already pulling to the curb.

---

I was somewhere in Nevada when the news broke.

The driver had the radio on low — a country station, something soft and forgettable — and I was watching the desert slide past the window, all that flat burnt gold and the occasional dark shape of a mesa against the sky. Biscuit's adoption paperwork was folded in my lap. I had already filled in my new Los Angeles address.

The driver changed the station and a news alert came through, that specific serious tone that means something has happened. I heard the words — Rocky Mountains, no survivors, manifest — and I heard my own name, and I sat very still and listened to the rest of it.

Then I turned my face back to the window.

The desert went on. The sky was enormous out here, wide and pale and indifferent in the way that only very large things can be indifferent. A hawk was circling something I couldn't see.

I breathed in.

I breathed out.

I did not turn on the news. I did not call anyone. There was no one to call — not yet, not from this side of things.

I just watched the landscape change, and kept breathing, and let the miles accumulate between me and everything I had survived.

Outside the window, the desert was vast and quiet and completely, mercifully, mine.

Chapter 1

My name is Ariana Larson. Beta Female of the Silverfang Pack, the youngest in our recorded history. Daughter of Margaret Larson, former Luna, and the late Alpha she still grieves. I am twenty-two years old, and for three of those years I have loved Kellan Thomas with the full, stupid devotion of a fated mate.

I thought that was the most important thing about me.

I was wrong.

It was past midnight when I came in from patrol. The pack house was quiet, the way it always gets after the second shift settles. My boots were wet from the trail. My shoulders ached from a long run along the eastern ridge. All I wanted was a glass of water and the cool dark of my own room.

I did not get either.

The kitchen light was on. A soft yellow square spilling into the hall. I heard the fridge open, then the small clink of a glass on the counter. Emelia. Of course it was Emelia. She kept night hours like a cat, drifting through our halls in borrowed slippers and one of my mother's old silk robes.

I stepped into the doorway and stopped.

She had her back half-turned, pouring water from the filter pitcher. The robe slid off one shoulder. And there, against her collarbone, hanging from a thin silver chain, was my grandmother's moonstone pendant.

My wolf went still inside me. Not tense. Not snarling. Still. Like an animal that has just realized the trap is already closed.

I know that stone. I have known it since I was a child. My grandmother used to let me hold it on her lap during pack ceremonies. The luminescence is wrong on a fake — too even, too cold. The real ones glow from the inside, like there's a small moon trapped under the surface. The weight is wrong too. Heavier than it should be for the size. A Luna heirloom always is.

This was real.

This was ours.

Emelia turned, saw me, and smiled the way she always smiled at me. Soft. Grateful. A little shy.

"Ari. You're back late."

"Long patrol," I said.

My voice was even. I did not look at the pendant. I did not look at her hand when it drifted up and touched it, the way a woman touches a piece of jewelry she has already decided belongs to her.

"Your mom said I could borrow it," she said, soft, casual. As if the moonstone Luna pendant of the Larson bloodline were a cardigan.

"It looks nice on you," I said.

I got my glass of water. I drank it slowly. I told her goodnight. I climbed the stairs without rushing, walked down the hall past Kellan's door without slowing, shut my own door behind me, and locked it.

Then I sat on the floor and pulled my journal out from under the loose board beneath my bed.

I have kept this journal since I was eight. It is not a diary. There is nothing tender in it. Dates. Observations. Patterns. Names. The handwriting at the front is round and childish; the handwriting at the back is the small, square print I use now. I flipped past three years of entries and laid them open across the rug.

Kellan, three weeks last spring — said training, did not show on the Ironridge roster.

Kellan, six days in August — said training, no roster entry.

Emelia arrived March of last year. Mom said she felt called to help. Mom mentioned a vision. Mom mentioned a healer I did not know.

Mom, last month, in the garden — "I've been helping the children with a few expenses. Don't worry, sweet girl."

I had circled that one. I had not pushed.

I got up, walked to my desk, opened my laptop, and logged into the Larson family pack fund.

It took me twenty minutes to stop being able to breathe.

Three thousand at a boutique in Seattle. Eight hundred at another. Personal transfers to an account I did not recognize, every month, like a salary. Recurring payments to a healer I had never been introduced to. Line after line of small bleeding cuts that, stacked together, came to nearly forty thousand dollars over eighteen months.

Forty thousand dollars of my bloodline's wealth, walking around our pack house in a silk robe with my grandmother's moon at its throat.

I did not cry. I want to be honest about that. I sat there with my hand on the trackpad and felt my wolf sink down into the deep place she goes when she is preparing to kill something, and I froze every account.

Every one. Checking, savings, the trust feeder, the discretionary line my mother used. Locked, with a single keystroke. No notice. No explanation.

Then the mind-link came.

Kellan's voice, warm as bathwater. "Hey, baby. You up? I just felt something off. You okay?"

Three years ago that voice would have melted me down to the bone. I closed my eyes and felt the bond pull, the cedar-and-rain memory of it, and I let myself feel it for exactly one breath.

Then I answered, perfectly even. "Long patrol. Headed to bed. Goodnight."

"Love you," he sent.

I did not answer that one.

I wrote down the time. 12:47 a.m. I wrote down the words. I closed the journal.

Then I went up to the roof.

The night was cold and high and full of moon. I climbed out my window the way I had since I was fourteen, sat on the ridge tile above my own bedroom, and let my wolf rise up under my skin until my throat hurt with her.

I let her howl once. Just once.

It was not a battle sound. It was not a warning. It was the sound a she-wolf makes when she finally understands that the mate the Moon Goddess gave her has been eating her alive for three years and smiling about it. It went up into the dark and broke off, and I pressed my hand against my mouth and did not let a second one come.

Then I went back inside and got to work.

I did not sleep. By four in the morning I had a contact name from a Beta in another territory: Declan Marsh. Rogue tracker. No pack loyalty, no political angle, took payment in cash, delivered files on a flash drive and never spoke of a job again. I sent him a message from my personal account, the one Kellan had never seen, the one I had quietly opened in my own name the year I made Beta.

I gave him two names. Emelia Harrison. Kellan Thomas. I gave him one week.

He answered in eleven minutes. Understood.

The sun came up gray over the eastern ridge. I stood at my window and watched it, and I built my face for the day.

Dawn training. Beta briefing. Breakfast.

Kellan came down the stairs in a soft gray Henley, sleep still in his hair, and crossed the kitchen like a man who lived here. He kissed the top of my head. His hand settled warm on my shoulder. He smelled like cedar and rain and something underneath I had never let myself name.

"Morning, gorgeous," he said.

He held my eyes a second too long. He always did. I had written about it in my journal eighteen months ago and then made myself stop noticing.

I smiled up at him. Soft. Easy. The smile of a mate who has noticed nothing.

"Morning," I said, and passed him the coffee.

Across the table, my mother poured juice for Emelia. The moonstone was tucked under her sweater now. I could still feel exactly where it hung.

One week, I thought. Eat your breakfast, Kellan. Lean into my hair. Tell me you love me through the mind-link tonight.

You have one week left in this house.

You just don't know it yet.



Chapter 2

Declan Marsh did not waste words.

The flash drive arrived in a plain envelope slipped under my office door on the sixth day. No note. No name on the outside. Just the drive, matte black, the size of my thumbnail. I had been expecting it. I had still been hoping, in some small, stupid corner of myself, that it would not come.

I locked my office door. Drew the blinds. Sat down.

The files opened clean and fast. Photographs first. Dozens of them, timestamped and geolocated with the kind of precision that leaves no room for argument. Kellan and Emelia outside a coffee shop in Bellingham, his arm around her shoulders, her face turned up to his. Kellan and Emelia in the parking lot of the Ironridge training facility — the facility where I had been told he was working, grinding, building himself into the warrior I believed in. Her hand in his jacket pocket. His mouth against her hair. Dates I recognized. Dates I had written in my journal as absences I had quietly excused.

I went through every photograph. I did not skip a single one.

Then the financial documents. Declan had been thorough. The pack healer — Elder Croft, the file named him, operating without a single legitimate certification — had received four separate payments over fourteen months, each one drawn from the diverted Larson discretionary line. The payments corresponded exactly to the dates my mother had mentioned her visions. The dates she had told me, with such gentle certainty, that the Moon Goddess had confirmed Emelia's story. That the girl was exactly who she said she was. That we were meant to help her.

I sat with that for a long moment.

Kellan had paid a fraudulent healer to manufacture my mother's faith. He had taken her grief and her love and her Luna instincts — the instincts that had guided this pack for years — and he had bought them. Fourteen hundred dollars a session to make my mother believe she was hearing the Moon Goddess when she was hearing a con.

My hands were on the desk. I watched them shake. Just once, just briefly, a fine tremor that moved through my fingers and stopped.

I let it stop.

I closed the folder.

I pulled my journal from the desk drawer and opened it to a clean page. At the top I wrote the date. Below it I wrote two words: full architecture. Then I began.

Not a confrontation. I had known since the night I found the pendant that a confrontation was the wrong move. A confrontation gives the other person a chance to perform. To cry, to explain, to generate enough noise and confusion that the people watching remember the scene instead of the evidence. Kellan was good at scenes. He had been performing for three years in this house and no one had noticed.

What I was building was not a scene. It was a structure. Something load-bearing. Something that would still be standing long after the emotion had cleared.

I wrote for two hours. By the time I set the pen down, I had four columns. Territory. Finances. Rank. Timing. Each one mapped to a specific action, a specific sequence, a specific outcome. The territory column had one name at the top: Silas Vance.

---

Silas Vance was eighty-one years old and moved like a wolf who had decided long ago that he had nothing left to prove. He had served as Silverfang's legal Elder for thirty years, outlasting three Alphas and two full Elder Council rotations. He was not old-guard. He had never been old-guard. He had been my father's ally, his quiet legal architect, the wolf who had drafted the original Larson territorial deed with language so precise that it had held up against three separate challenges in the decades since.

He owed the Larson bloodline. He knew it. I had never asked him to pay it.

I went to him at dusk, through the back path that ran behind the pack house gardens. My mother was in her moonflower beds as I passed, kneeling in the dirt with her hands in the soil, her back to me. I did not stop. I could not have that conversation yet. Not until the territory was safe.

Silas answered his door before I knocked. He looked at my face and stepped back to let me in without a word.

His study smelled like old paper and cedar smoke. He settled into the chair behind his desk and folded his hands and waited.

I laid the financial documents in front of him. The photographs. The healer's payment records. I did not editorialize. I let the paper speak.

He read everything. He did not rush. When he finished, he set the last page down and looked at me over the top of his glasses with the expression of a wolf who has seen a great many terrible things and is not surprised by this one.

"The territory," I said. "I need it in a bloodline trust. Irrevocable. Structured so no mate-claim under pack law can reach it. Not now, not after a marking, not under any provision Kellan Thomas or anyone acting on his behalf could invoke."

Silas was quiet for a moment. "You understand that once it's sealed, even you cannot unilaterally dissolve it."

"That's the point."

He nodded slowly. "Your father asked me once to build something that would last past him." He picked up his pen. "I think this qualifies."

He worked through the night. I know because I sat in the chair across from him and did not leave. He did not ask me to. Around midnight he made tea and set a cup in front of me without comment, and I drank it, and we did not speak again until the documents were finished.

At four in the morning he pressed his Elder seal into the wax at the bottom of the final page. The sound of it was small and definitive, like a door closing on something that could never be reopened.

"It's done," he said.

I picked up the sealed document and held it for a moment. The paper was warm from the lamp. The wax was still soft at the edges.

Kellan had spent three years building toward this land. He had paid for visions, performed devotion, smiled at me over breakfast with his hand warm on my shoulder, and every single morning he had been building toward this deed.

It was mine now. Locked. Permanent. Beyond his reach for the rest of his life.

I set the document carefully in my bag and stood.

"Thank you, Silas."

"Don't thank me," he said quietly. "Finish it."

I walked home through the dark with the sealed trust against my ribs and the full weight of what came next settling into my bones like something I had been carrying for years and was only now ready to put down properly.

The Winter Solstice Banquet was in eleven days.

I had work to do.



Chapter 3

I found my mother on her knees in the moonflower garden, the way I always found her at dusk. She had her hands deep in the soil, turning it around the roots of the white blooms she had planted the year my father died. The flowers were closed for the evening, tight little fists of white petals. They only opened under moonlight. She had always loved that about them.

I stood at the garden's edge for a moment before she heard me. She looked older in the low light. Softer. The kind of soft that comes from years of grief settling into a person's bones and making itself at home.

"Ari." She sat back on her heels and smiled. "You're out late."

"I needed some air." I stepped onto the stone path and crouched beside her. The soil smelled dark and wet. "Mom. I need to tell you something."

She read my face the way mothers do. Her hands stilled in the dirt. "What happened?"

"I've been reviewing the family accounts." I kept my voice level. Careful. "There are some irregularities. Transfers I don't recognize. I've frozen everything as a precaution until I can sort it out."

She blinked. "Frozen — Ari, I've been helping Emelia with a few things. She's had nothing, you know that. I didn't think —"

"How much, Mom?"

She looked down at her hands. A long pause. "I'm not sure of the exact amount."

I watched her face. The confusion was real. The trust in her eyes when she said Emelia's name — that was real too. She had no idea. She genuinely had no idea what she had been handing over, or to whom, or why.

That was the part that made my chest tight. Not the money. The fact that someone had looked at my mother's grief and her love and her open hands and had decided those were weaknesses to be used.

"It's fine," I said. "I'm handling it. I just need the accounts locked until I finish the audit."

"Of course." She reached over and touched my hand, leaving a small smear of soil on my wrist. "You're so much like your father. He always caught things before they became problems."

I looked at her moonflowers. Closed tight. Waiting for the moon.

"Get inside before it gets cold," I said. I kissed her cheek and left her there.

I did not tell her about the photographs. I did not tell her about the healer, or the payments, or the name Emelia Harrison and what it actually meant. Not yet. The territory was sealed. The accounts were frozen. But my mother's heart was still full of a story Kellan had written for her, and I needed that story to stay intact for eleven more days.

After that, she would see everything. The whole hall would.

---

The pack's audiovisual setup was managed by a junior wolf named Cody Reeves — twenty years old, two months out of his Delta evaluation, and still quietly grateful that I had passed him on a footwork assessment that, strictly speaking, he had not earned. He was not a bad fighter. He was just a nervous one. I had made a judgment call. He had never forgotten it.

I found him in the equipment room off the great hall two days after my visit to the garden. He was running cable checks for the Solstice setup, headphones around his neck, a tablet in his hand.

He looked up when I came in and straightened immediately. "Beta Larson."

"Cody." I closed the door behind me. "I need a favor."

I handed him the flash drive. I told him exactly what I needed — the files loaded onto the projection system, queued to display midway through the feast, triggered on my signal. A single tap on the remote I would be carrying. No previewing the files. No copies. No questions.

He held the drive and looked at me for a moment. He was smart enough to understand that something significant was about to happen in that hall. He was also smart enough to understand that his job was not to understand it.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Good." I turned to go, then stopped. "Cody. If anyone asks you about the setup before the banquet, you're running a standard slideshow of the year's training highlights. That's all you know."

He nodded. "Training highlights. Got it."

I left him to his cables.

---

I rehearsed the speech every night.

Not because I was afraid of forgetting it. The words were simple. The format was fixed by pack law, the same structure that had been used for rejections since before my grandmother's time. I knew it the way I knew my own name.

I rehearsed it because I needed my voice to stay even when I said it. In front of every ranked wolf and Elder and pack family in Silverfang. In front of Kellan's face when he finally understood what was happening. In front of my mother.

I stood in front of my mirror each night and said it quietly, the way you practice something you intend to do only once and intend to do perfectly.

*I, Ariana Larson, Beta Female of Silverfang Pack, reject you, Kellan Thomas, as my mate.*

The bond pulled every time. A deep, low ache, like a bruise pressed from the inside. My wolf did not like the words. She had spent three years learning his scent, building the architecture of a bond she believed was sacred, and she did not understand yet that the wolf on the other end of it had been laughing at her the whole time.

I let her feel it. I did not fight it. I just kept saying the words until my voice stopped wanting to break.

---

The night of the Winter Solstice Banquet, the great hall was full and warm and loud with the particular noise of a pack at ease — the clink of glasses, the low rumble of conversation, the smell of roasted meat and pine boughs and a hundred wolves who believed this was just a celebration.

I sat at the Beta table and ate my dinner and smiled at the right moments and refilled my water glass twice.

Across the hall, Kellan was at the Beta family table. His arm was draped along the back of the chair beside him — Emelia's chair. She was laughing at something, her head tilted, the candlelight catching the silver chain at her throat. The moonstone was tucked under her neckline tonight. She had learned, at least, to be subtle about it in my presence.

He caught my eye once. Smiled. Warm. Easy. The smile of a man who has no idea the floor is already gone beneath him.

I smiled back.

I reached into my jacket pocket and felt the small weight of the remote.

Midway through the feast. That was the timing. Let them eat. Let them settle. Let the hall fill up with the comfortable noise of a pack that thinks it knows what tonight is.

Then show them what I know.

I set my fork down. Picked up my water glass. Waited.

The projection wall behind the head table was dark. In about four minutes, it would not be.



Chapter 4

The projection wall lit up without warning.

One moment the hall was warm and loud and full of the comfortable noise of a pack that thought it knew what tonight was. The next, the photographs were there — enormous, undeniable, filling the wall behind the head table like a confession no one had

Chapter 1

On the day I left, Alpha Kayden stood silently to the side, watching as I folded the few belongings I had into the small bag I’d brought with me when I first arrived at the Silver Moon Pack’s mansion. He stepped closer, his Alpha aura faintly brushing against me, and said in a calm voice, “There’s no need to rush. The envoy won’t arrive for a few more days.” I wrapped a familiar pen in a handkerchief before looking up at him. “Today is a good day for travel. I don’t have much, so it won’t take long to pack.” It was too calm. Too easy. Compared to the messy rejections or affairs among the high-ranking wolves, my departure from the Silver Moon Pack was just a few words and a rejection letter. I carefully wiped down my old books and placed them in the corner of the bag, wondering if I’d forgotten anything. I didn’t notice the two Omegas’ contracts clutched in his hand. After a long hesitation, he finally stepped forward and offered them to me. “Take them with you. They’re used to serving you.” I knew what he meant, but I simply smiled and declined. “They might not have an easier life with me. Let them stay.” He asked again, “Where will you go?” My voice was steady. “Perhaps I’ll return to my hometown first.” He nodded. “It’s a remote place. Pay your respects to your parents’ graves and then move on. Find somewhere better to settle.” I agreed, “Alright.” But I knew I wouldn’t return to the capital. These gestures of kindness would likely be wasted on me. Life was unpredictable, full of gains and losses. If it hadn’t been for that misunderstanding years ago, I might have already settled in that remote village. There was nothing to regret. Over the years, I’d used my healing skills to support Kayden, funding his rise to Alpha and smoothing his path. Now, those skills were my lifeline. The intricate potions, the delicate herb combinations—I’d mastered them all. With this craft, I could survive anywhere. But even if the day came when my hands failed and I could no longer brew, I wouldn’t return to the capital. With that thought, I tightened the straps of my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and said, “I’m leaving.” Just as I was about to step over the threshold, he called out, “Wait!” I turned back. “What is it?” He hesitated, then asked, “The pendant Mother gave you, the one with the moonstone of eternal love, and the pair of wolf figurines from our marking ceremony—the ones with your name engraved on the base. You’re leaving them behind?” I paused, then replied, “You can handle them.” He seemed taken aback, as if he hadn’t expected me to feel so detached. He scoffed, though it didn’t sound like amusement. “How am I supposed to handle them? Selling them or giving them away isn’t appropriate. Leaving them here would only cause trouble if she sees them.” My chest tightened. “Then throw them away.”

Chapter 2

Kayden finally had nothing more to say and followed me out the door. The distance from the inner courtyard’s corridor to the front gate felt like an eternity… I had stood by Kayden’s side as he rose from a struggling pack member to the Alpha of the Silver Moon Pack. I handled every detail of the pack’s affairs with care. I was respectful to those above me and kind to those below. Magdalena, Kayden’s mother, treated me like her own daughter. If she had still been alive, she would have shielded me from this scene, making Kayden kneel in the pack’s hall as punishment. I missed her. I missed the homemade stew she used to make for me. I missed her telling me not to focus too much on pack duties, lest I strain myself. I missed how, when others criticized me for not bearing a child after years of being his mate, she stood up for me despite her illness: “How my daughter-in-law fares is none of your business! Having a child is a matter of fate. What are you gossiping about? What’s your intention?” I missed how, before she passed, she whispered to Kayden to treat me well. But, unfortunately, she didn’t get her wish. … The pack members had always respected me. Now, as I prepared to leave, they gathered in the courtyard, hesitating, unsure whether to approach and say goodbye. I calmly told them to return to their duties. Kayden valued discipline, and I didn’t want them to be punished on my account. After I left, Chloe, the Lycan Princess who had been rejected by the Lycan King of the North, would become the new Luna of the Silver Moon Pack. Their task would be to win her favor, ensuring their lives in the pack went smoothly. Compared to me, an ordinary Omega, Chloe’s royal title, even tarnished, carried an inherent nobility. As the Alpha, Kayden needed a Luna who could bring prestige to the pack. In that regard, I was no match for Chloe. Being replaced was expected. Still, the situation was far more absurd than I imagined. Even if it wasn’t Chloe’s fault, being rejected after two years in the North had damaged her reputation. A werewolf’s desire is a stable pack and a rightful place. When the news reached the pack, Kayden couldn’t eat or sleep. I could see he felt pity for her. He didn’t say it outright. But he had already written the rejection letter, hiding it in a drawer of his desk. I found it while organizing his papers. Silently, I put it back and continued with my tasks as if nothing had happened. At that moment, I revisited every memory of our journey together. I couldn’t find evidence that Kayden didn’t love me. He was a considerate mate. He would surprise me with jewelry I had admired for my birthday. When I was unwell, he stayed by my side, caring for me without rest. Whenever he saw something interesting, he’d bring it to me, hoping to make me smile. … But if that was love, why was I cast aside the moment she returned, even before she set foot in the pack’s territory?