The grand hall of the Ironclaw Pack smelled of roasted boar, heavy pine resin, and cheap masculine triumph.

Alpha Luka sat at the head of the banquet table, sloshing dark red wine into a silver goblet. Gabriel sat three chairs down from him, dressed in tailored black wool, with Milana draped over his shoulder like a silk scarf.

I sat at the low trestle near the service entrance, where Luka’s stewards placed visiting pack staff and unranked attendants. They had dragged me along under the excuse of needing an on-call field medic for the journey, but everyone knew the real reason: Gabriel wanted me in the background, a silent trophy of his absolute authority, watching his new mate bask in the light of allied Alphas.

Luka slammed his goblet onto the oak table, laughing loudly.

"To the new dawn of Ashveil!" Luka bellowed, his voice booming off the vaulted rafters. He turned toward Gabriel, raising his glass in an exaggerated salute. "Out with the dead weight, my friend. A real Alpha needs a fertile she-wolf by his side, not a barren, rejected stone who drains the fire from his bed."

Luka gestured broadly toward the back corner where I sat.

Gabriel threw his head back and laughed. It was a hearty, performed roar.

Around the hall, five other visiting Alphas chuckled into their cups. Their Betas joined in, snickering into their fists. The sound washed over me like filthy water.

Underneath the table, I pressed two fingers to the inside of my left wrist.

*One. Two. Three.* Sixty beats per minute. Perfectly steady.

Milana touched Gabriel’s collar with delicate fingers, purring something into his ear while offering the room an apologetic, fluttering smile that screamed false pity.

I pulled my fingers from my wrist. I pushed my chair back. The wooden legs scraped against the stone floor, cutting a sharp groove through the laughter.

I stood up and walked into the center of the hall.

The silence that spread behind my footsteps was sudden and awkward. It wasn't born of respect; it was the uneasy hush that falls over a room when someone expected to choke on their shame refuses to drop their eyes.

"Gabrielle," Gabriel barked, leaning forward on the dais. His voice was sharp, but the snap at the end wavered. "Sit down. You do not address this table without permission."

I didn't answer him. I stopped right before the high table, three paces from Alpha Luka.

From my linen satchel, I withdrew six empty glass vials and set them on the polished timber, one by one. The glass clinked cleanly against the dark oak. Then I laid down my battered leather notebook, its split spine resting beside the vials.

"Gabriel Henderson has not completed a natural wolf shift in four years," I said.

My voice was neither loud nor angry. It was flat and clinical, the tone a doctor uses when reading an autopsy report.

Gabriel shot to his feet, knocking his chair back against the wall. "Shut your mouth!"

"Every morning at six, for forty-eight months, his tea contained fifteen milliliters of distilled silver-moss and winter-root," I continued, looking directly at Luka. "His wolf suffers from late-stage core atrophy. Without chemical stabilization, his joints lock within thirty seconds of calling his beast."

"She's lying!" Milana shrieked from the high table, her breath hitching with dramatic distress. "Gabriel, she's trying to ruin you because you rejected her!"

"The dosage logs are on the table, Elder Silas's initial countersignature is on page fourteen, and the chemical residue in those vials will match the dark rings currently sitting beneath your Alpha's eyes," I said evenly. "He ran for two hours during the hunt because he stole three weeks' worth of reserved dosage before the banquet. But the reservoir is empty. And so is he."

Gabriel lunged forward to grab my throat, his eyes flashing a desperate, sickly amber. "I will tear your throat out, you worthless—"

He tried to force his claws out.

Instead of black talons, his fingers merely cramped into ugly, trembling hooks. A wet, hollow crack sounded in his chest as his ribs seized. The dominant aura he tried to project didn't slam into the room—it sputtered out like damp wood on a cold hearth.

Then the smell hit the table.

Without the sweet, masking scent of my winter-root tonics running through his sweat, Gabriel's true state filled the air. It was thin, metallic, and sour. The scent of a dying wolf rotting from the marrow out.

Luka’s laughter died instantly. The Ironclaw Alpha leaned back, his eyes narrowing to razor slits as he flared his nostrils. He took in the sour stench of decay, then shifted his gaze from Gabriel’s trembling hands to the open notebook on the table. The hearty warmth on Luka’s face vanished, replaced by cold, calculating disgust.

Gabriel saw that look. He felt the gaze of five allied Alphas realizing their northern partner was hollow timber.

Gabriel’s face went chalky white. Without a word, he grabbed Milana’s wrist so hard she gasped, yanking her off the dais and dragging her through the double doors toward the private guest quarters.

Milana didn't fight his grip. As the doors slammed behind them, a faint, razor-thin smile pulled at the corner of her lips.

Inside the private chamber, Gabriel locked the heavy bolt and threw Milana against the velvet-covered bed. He was panting, ripping his silk tie off with clumsy, shaking fingers.

"Strip," he rasped, his eyes bloodshot, pupils blown wide with panic. "Take it off, Milana. If I mark you... if we bind tonight, the Moon Goddess will restore the link. The bloodline will fix it. I'll take your scent, and my wolf will answer."

"Of course, Gabriel," Milana whispered, her voice dripping with practiced tenderness. "Whatever you need to be whole."

She slid off the mattress and glided to the sideboard, pouring a heavy measure of spiced wine into a silver goblet. Gabriel’s back was turned as he tore off his shirt, desperately trying to force the black fur along his shoulder blades to take hold.

Milana’s hand moved beneath the sleeve of her gown.

She produced a tiny glass dropper. Two clear drops slipped into the dark red liquid. A concentrated stimulant derived from mountain wolfsbane—an illicit rogue recipe passed down through back-alley apothecaries. It would force a wolf's blood into a violent, blind mating frenzy, burning away reason and leaving Gabriel desperate to claim her womb before morning.

Once his mark was torn into her neck and his seed was planted, the pack wouldn't dare question her title. The truth in that journal downstairs wouldn't matter. She would be the Luna, untouchable and pregnant with the Ashveil heir.

Milana turned back around, her eyes shining with dark ambition, and pressed the goblet into Gabriel’s trembling hand.

"Drink this, my Alpha," she murmured softly against his ear. "And take what belongs to you."