The bond broke at 10:14 on a Tuesday night.

I felt it the second Colton opened his mouth—the warmth on my neck went ice-cold, like someone had pressed a frozen blade against my skin. I was standing at the altar in the great hall, the entire Ironridge Pack assembled in rows behind me, torches blazing along the stone walls. I wore a simple silver dress. My wolf—barely awake after twenty-one years of silence—had been thrumming beneath my ribs all evening, restless and anxious, because Colton's scent was everywhere. Cedar and iron. Strong. Unmistakable. The Moon Goddess had confirmed it weeks ago: he was my fated mate.

But Colton wasn't looking at me.

He stood three feet away at the center of the ceremonial platform, his broad shoulders squared, his jaw set. And at his right hand, wearing a full ceremonial gown of Luna white—lace and silk that should have been mine—was Malia Sanders. Her dark hair was pinned with silver combs. Her lips were painted red. She met my eyes and smiled.

I blinked. My brain couldn't process what I was seeing.

"Erin Phillips," Colton said. His voice was loud, formal, laced with Alpha tone that pressed down on every wolf in the hall. "Step forward."

I did. My legs moved on instinct. The crowd was silent. I could feel three hundred pairs of eyes on my back.

Colton's expression was flat. Cold. Like I was a stranger.

"I, Colton King, Alpha of Ironridge," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "reject you, Erin Phillips, as my mate."

The bond severed.

It didn't snap. It tore. Like someone had reached inside my chest and ripped out a piece of my soul with their bare hands. The mark on my neck—the faint warmth that had bloomed there the night my wolf first stirred—went cold. Then it went hollow. Empty. A wound that pulsed with every heartbeat.

My knees buckled.

I caught myself on the edge of the altar, fingers digging into the stone. My vision blurred. My wolf—who had been humming softly inside me all night—howled once, a raw, agonized sound that only I could hear. Then she went silent. Violently, terrifyingly silent. Like she had been dragged under black water and couldn't surface.

I couldn't breathe.

The hall was still quiet. No one moved. No one spoke. They just stared.

Colton turned to Malia and took her hand. "I choose Malia Sanders as my Luna," he announced, his voice steady and sure. "A bond built on strength and loyalty means more than a fated bond I never asked for."

Malia's smile widened. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. The crowd erupted into hesitant applause. Some wolves cheered. Others looked uncomfortable but said nothing.

I straightened slowly. My hands were numb. My aura—the faint shimmer of presence every wolf carries—had dimmed to almost nothing. I could feel it, like a light going out inside me.

Colton glanced at me once. His expression was flat. Dismissive. Like I was already nothing.

I locked my jaw. I would not collapse here. Not in front of them.

I turned and walked.

One step. Then another. My legs shook, but I kept moving. Past the altar. Past the rows of pack members who wouldn't meet my eyes. Past the Beta and Gamma standing near the doors, their faces carefully blank. I pushed through the great doors and kept walking, down the torchlit corridor, past the guards, out into the cold night air.

I didn't stop until I reached the tree line at the edge of the compound.

Only then did I let myself feel it. The tears came fast and hot, blurring the dark shapes of the pines around me. My wolf was gone. The bond was gone. My neck felt like an open wound. I pressed my hand against it and felt nothing. Just cold skin. Just emptiness.

I sank to my knees in the dirt.

But grief only lasted minutes. Maybe less.

Because beneath the pain, something else was rising. Something sharp and cold and furious. I had spent three years as Colton's dutiful, unshifted fiancée. Three years enduring whispers that I was wolfless, broken, unworthy. I had believed him when he said the Moon Goddess would prove them all wrong. I had trusted him.

And he had destroyed me in front of everyone.

I closed my eyes and reached deep inside myself, past the hollow ache where the bond used to be, past my silent wolf, into a place I hadn't touched in years. A private mind-link I had kept hidden since childhood. I found the thread—thin, distant, but still there—and pulled.

*Ryker.*

I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I sent him a single, clear message: *I need political standing at the summit. Lycan authority. Can you do that?*

The response came back immediately, flooding through the link like thunder rolling across a distant mountain range. One word, dense with a decade of restrained fury and absolute, unquestioning devotion.

*Done.*

I felt the weight of his Lycan aura mobilizing, even from hundreds of miles away. Felt the promise in that single word. He would come. He would stand at my back. And when he did, Colton would learn exactly what it cost to discard a fated mate.

I opened my eyes and wiped my face. My hands were steady now.

I would not return to that hall. I would not beg Colton to reconsider. I would not disappear quietly into the shadows like the wolfless reject they all believed I was.

When I walked into that summit, it would be on my own terms. With a Lycan Prince at my side. And a tribunal petition in my coat.

I stood, brushed the dirt from my dress, and turned my back on the Ironridge compound.

Behind me, through the open doors of the great hall, I could still hear the sound of celebration.

I didn't sleep.

I sat in the small room Thomas had kept for us on the edge of the compound—just two beds, a desk, and a window that looked out toward the pines. The sky shifted from black to gray to pale pink, and I watched it all without blinking. My wolf was still silent. The hollow ache in my neck pulsed with every heartbeat.

When the first light broke over the tree line, I stood and changed into plain clothes. Jeans. A dark sweater. Boots. I braided my hair back tight and checked my reflection in the small mirror above the desk. My face was pale. My eyes looked bruised. But my hands were steady.

I had three things to collect before I left Ironridge for good.

The compound was quiet. Most of the pack was still asleep, knocked out from the celebration that had gone late into the night. I moved through the stone corridors like a ghost, keeping my footsteps soft, my aura pulled in tight so no one would sense me. The guards at the main hall were slumped against the wall, half-asleep. They didn't even glance my way.

I went to Thomas's room first. He was awake, sitting at the edge of his narrow bed, hands folded in his lap. He looked up when I opened the door. His eyes were red.

"Erin," he said quietly.

I crossed the room and knelt in front of him. "I need the jewelry box."

He didn't argue. He reached under the bed and pulled out the small wooden box with the false bottom, the one he'd kept hidden for as long as I could remember. He handed it to me without a word. I opened it carefully, checking the pendant inside—a platinum piece shaped like a howling wolf, delicate and old. My mother's. The only thing I had left of her.

I closed the box and tucked it into my coat. "Thank you."

Thomas reached out and gripped my hand. His fingers were rough and warm. "You're leaving."

"Yes."

"Good." His voice cracked. "You should have left years ago. I should have told you to run."

I squeezed his hand once. "I'll see you soon."

He nodded, but he didn't look convinced. I stood and left before either of us could say anything else.

The archive room was on the second floor of the east wing, tucked behind the Beta's office. I had catalogued every document in there myself over the past three years—territorial maps, summit rosters, alliance agreements, supply records. Colton had never cared about the archives. He thought paperwork was beneath him. But I knew exactly which files would matter at the summit.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The room smelled like old paper and dust. Rows of shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed tight with leather-bound volumes and rolled maps. I went straight to the back corner and pulled out the territorial boundary file and the current summit delegation roster.

I was sliding the documents into my bag when I heard footsteps in the corridor outside.

I froze.

The door swung open. Malia stepped through, still wearing the ceremonial Luna white from last night. The lace looked wrinkled now, and her lipstick was smudged at one corner, but she held herself like a queen. Her dark eyes locked on me.

"Erin," she said sweetly. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "I thought I might find you here."

I straightened and slung the bag over my shoulder. "I'm collecting what's mine."

"Yours?" Malia tilted her head, her smile widening. "Sweetheart, nothing in this compound is yours anymore. Not after last night."

I looked at her without expression. My wolf was still silent, but something cold and sharp was rising in my chest. Something that didn't need a wolf to function.

Malia took a step closer, folding her arms. "I wanted to let you know personally—since you're still technically a guest of Ironridge—that Colton has decided you may attend the summit. Isn't that generous of him?"

I said nothing.

"But," she continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "Omega guests are permitted only in a service capacity. You'll be listed as a platter-carrier. Not a delegate, of course. You understand."

She waited for me to flinch. To argue. To beg.

I adjusted the strap on my bag and met her eyes. "Then I'll see you at the summit."

Her smile faltered. Just for a second.

I walked past her, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed. She smelled like gardenia and something metallic underneath. Burnt musk. It made my stomach turn.

Malia's voice followed me into the corridor. "You think you can just leave? You think anyone will want you now?"

I didn't stop. I kept walking, the documents secure in my bag, Thomas's pendant warm in my fist.

Behind me, Malia's footsteps echoed once, then went silent.

I stepped out into the cold morning air and didn't look back.

The summit lodge sat high in the mountains, surrounded by pines and cold air that smelled like snow. It was massive—three stories of stone and timber, with wings branching off in every direction. The main hall had vaulted ceilings and iron chandeliers. The Alpha suites were on the upper floors, with views of the valley. The service wing was in the back, behind the kitchens, where the heating didn't quite reach.

I arrived on foot. I had left Ironridge before dawn, hitching a ride with a supply truck heading north. The driver didn't ask questions. I didn't offer answers. By the time we reached the lodge, the sun was high and delegations were already streaming through the main entrance.

I watched from the tree line as Colton's convoy pulled up—three black SUVs with Ironridge's wolf crest on the doors. He stepped out first, wearing a tailored suit that made him look every inch the Alpha. Malia followed, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. She wore a cream-colored dress that hugged her curves, her dark hair swept up in a twist. She smiled at every wolf who greeted them. Colton introduced her as "the future Luna of Ironridge" at least four times in the first ten minutes.

No one mentioned me.

I waited until they disappeared inside, then walked around to the service entrance. A tired-looking Beta with a clipboard checked my name against the staff manifest.

"Erin Phillips," I said.

He scanned the list, then frowned. "You're listed as domestic aide. Omega tier."

"I know."

He handed me a plain gray tunic and pointed down a narrow corridor. "Service wing is that way. You'll share a cot with the other Omegas. Meal assignments start at six."

I took the tunic and walked.

The service wing smelled like soap and old wood. The cots were lined up in rows, separated by thin curtains. Most were already claimed—bags stacked at the foot, blankets folded on top. I found an empty one in the back corner, near a window that looked out at the kitchen's loading dock. I set my bag down and changed into the gray tunic. It was rough against my skin, shapeless and plain. I braided my hair back tight and checked my reflection in the window glass. I looked like every other Omega here. Invisible.

Good.

Malia found me before lunch.

I was in the main corridor, carrying a stack of linens to the upper guest rooms, when I heard her voice behind me.

"Erin."

I stopped and turned. She stood at the top of the staircase, flanked by two she-wolves from her personal circle. Both wore expensive clothes and smug expressions. Malia descended slowly, her heels clicking on the stone steps.

"I need you to bring my luggage to the Alpha suite," she said sweetly. "Third floor. East wing. Don't drop anything."

I looked at her without expression. "Of course."

She smiled. "Good girl."

I carried her luggage. Three suitcases, heavy and awkward, up two flights of stairs while visiting wolves passed me in the corridors. Some glanced at me. Most didn't. I was just another Omega doing Omega work. When I reached the Alpha suite, Malia was waiting at the door. She inspected each suitcase, running her fingers along the zippers like she was checking for damage.

"Set them inside," she said. "By the window."

I did. The suite was enormous—plush furniture, a four-poster bed, a fireplace already crackling with heat. Colton's jacket was draped over a chair. His scent—cedar and iron—filled the room. My wolf stirred faintly, then went silent again. The hollow ache in my neck pulsed once.

Malia stepped close, her voice dropping. "You know, I almost feel sorry for you. Walking around here like you still matter."

I straightened and met her eyes. "Is there anything else you need?"

Her smile faltered. Just a fraction.

"No," she said tightly. "You're dismissed."

I left.

By evening, I had been reassigned to scrubbing the banquet hall floor. Malia's orders, delivered through the head Omega with a thin smile. I knelt on the cold stone with a bucket and brush, working my way across the massive hall while wolves streamed past on their way to dinner. Some stepped around me. Others didn't bother. I kept my head down and scrubbed.

Malia walked past twice. Both times, she slowed just enough to make sure I saw her.

I didn't look up.

That night, alone in the service wing, my wolf woke up.

It wasn't gentle. It was violent. She slammed against my ribs so hard I gasped, doubling over on the narrow cot. My hands clenched into fists. My heart hammered. The hollow scar on my neck burned cold, then hot, then cold again. My wolf snarled—raw and furious and wounded—thrashing inside me like she was trying to claw her way out.

She couldn't shift. The rejection had damaged something deep, something I didn't understand yet. But she was awake. And she was angry.

I pressed a hand to my sternum, breathing hard. Around me, the other Omegas slept, oblivious.

"I know," I whispered. My voice was hoarse. "I know. We're not done."

My wolf stilled. Not submitting. Listening.

Waiting.

I lay back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. My hands were steady. My mind was clear.

Ryker would arrive tomorrow. And when he did, everything would change.