The email came three days after I found the footage.

I was in the studio—a small room off the east wing that no one used anymore. I'd claimed it without asking, dragging my supplies in one afternoon while Cassian was at a border meeting. Buster lay in the corner, his head on his paws, watching me work. I wasn't painting. Just sketching. Lines that went nowhere. Shapes that refused to resolve.

My phone buzzed. I almost didn't look.

But Selene stirred. Not cold this time. Something else. A flicker of warmth so faint I thought I imagined it.

I picked up the phone.

The subject line read: Continental Pack Summit — Artistic Recognition Award.

My hands started shaking before I opened it.

Dear Ms. Holmes,

It is our honor to inform you that your submission, 'Fractured Light,' has been awarded the Celestial Achievement in Visual Arts at this year's Continental Pack Summit. Your work was selected unanimously by our council as a profound and visceral exploration of trauma, survival, and the indomitable spirit of the wolf. We would be honored to have you accept this recognition in person at the awards ceremony on June 14th.

I read it three times.

Then I started crying.

Not the silent, swallowed kind I'd gotten used to. Real crying. The kind that came from somewhere I'd forgotten existed. Buster was on his feet immediately, his head pushing into my lap, his weight solid and grounding.

I pressed my face into his fur and let myself break.

The painting was mine. I'd made it during recovery, in the small art therapy room the rescue facility had set up. I'd painted it in four sleepless nights, my hands shaking so badly I had to stop every few minutes to breathe. It was raw. Ugly in places. The colors were too dark, the lines too jagged. But it was the first thing I'd created that felt true.

I hadn't even known it had been submitted.

I wiped my face and stood. My legs felt unsteady but I made it to the door. Down the hallway. Cassian's office was on the first floor. I didn't knock.

He looked up from his desk, his expression shifting immediately into concern. "Annalise? What's wrong?"

I held up my phone. "I won."

He blinked. "Won what?"

"The Continental Pack Summit. The art award. My painting—'Fractured Light'—it won the highest honor."

For a moment his face was blank. Then something flickered across it—surprise, maybe, or confusion. He stood and crossed to me, taking the phone gently from my hand.

He read the email. His jaw tightened.

"Annalise," he said slowly. "This is incredible. I'm so proud of you."

But his voice was wrong. Too careful. Too measured.

"The ceremony is in two weeks," I said. "I want to go. I want to accept it."

He set the phone down and took both my hands. His grip was firm. Grounding. The way it used to be.

"I need you to think about what that means," he said softly. "The Summit is attended by every major pack in the region. Alphas, Lunas, council members. The scrutiny will be intense. There will be questions about where you've been, what you've been through. Cameras. Interviews."

He cupped my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones.

"You're still healing," he continued. "Your wolf is fragile. The stress of that kind of public exposure—Annalise, it could set your recovery back months. I can't let that happen to you."

"I can handle it," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

"I know you think you can." His eyes held mine without blinking. "But I've watched you have episodes. I've seen how hard you're fighting just to get through each day. This isn't about whether you're strong enough. It's about protecting you from something that could break you."

Selene sent a wave of cold through me. Sharp. Insistent.

I pulled my hands back. "Then what do you suggest?"

"I'll accept on your behalf," he said immediately. "I'll represent you at the ceremony. I'll make sure everyone knows the work is yours. You'll get the recognition without the exposure."

His voice had dropped into that register—not quite Alpha tone, but carrying its weight. The undertow that made disagreement feel like rebellion.

"Cassian—"

"Annalise." He stepped closer. "Do you trust me?"

I looked at him. At the face I'd loved since I was eighteen. At the eyes that used to make me feel safe.

"Yes," I whispered.

The lie tasted like ash.

"Good." He kissed my forehead. "I'll take care of everything."

Two weeks later, I watched the ceremony on the packhouse broadcast.

I sat in the studio with Buster, the screen propped on a chair in front of me. The Summit's Great Hall was massive, glittering with chandeliers and filled with wolves in formal dress. The camera panned across the audience—Alphas in tailored suits, Lunas in gowns that probably cost more than most cars.

The art awards were announced midway through. A council member took the stage and spoke about the power of creative expression, the way art could capture what words could not.

Then they called the Celestial Achievement winner.

"This year's highest honor goes to 'Fractured Light,' a stunning and deeply moving work that explores the intersection of trauma and resilience. Please welcome the artist—Brooklyn Shaw."

The applause was deafening.

Brooklyn walked onto the stage.

She wore a gown from the Luna wardrobe. I recognized it—midnight blue silk with silver embroidery, the kind of dress I'd tried on once and never had occasion to wear. Her hair was swept up. Her makeup was flawless. She looked like she belonged there.

Cassian walked beside her, his hand at the small of her back.

The council member handed her the award—a crystal sculpture that caught the light and threw it across the stage in fractured beams.

Brooklyn accepted it with both hands. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling. "This painting—it was born from a place of deep empathy. I wanted to honor the survivors of rogue violence, to give voice to their pain and their strength. Creating it was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but also the most meaningful."

The crowd applauded again. Several Lunas dabbed at their eyes.

Cassian smiled at her. Proud. Protective.

I stared at the screen.

Selene went completely silent. Not cold. Not warm. Just—gone.

I sat there until the broadcast ended. Until the screen went dark and the studio was quiet except for Buster's breathing.

Then I stood, walked to the door, and locked it.

I pulled out my journal. Opened to a blank page. Pressed my pen to the paper so hard the tip nearly tore through.

I didn't sketch. I wrote.

Two words, over and over, until my hand cramped.

Not hers. Not hers. Not hers.

Something inside me didn't break.

It hardened.

I confronted him the next morning.

I didn't plan it. I woke at dawn with Selene's cold certainty pressing against my ribs, and I knew I couldn't wait another day. I found Cassian in his office, already dressed, already working. He looked up when I entered and smiled—that warm, easy smile that used to make me feel safe.

"Annalise. You're up early."

I closed the door behind me. Buster stayed in the hallway. I'd left him there deliberately. I needed to do this alone.

"The painting," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Brooklyn didn't create it. I did."

His smile didn't falter. "I know that."

"Then why did you let her accept the award?"

"Because you weren't ready." He stood and crossed to me, his movements unhurried. "Annalise, we talked about this. The exposure would have been too much for you. I was protecting—"

"Stop saying that." The words came out harder than I intended. "Stop saying you're protecting me when what you're really doing is protecting her."

Something flickered across his face. Not guilt. Calculation.

"Brooklyn is fragile," he said carefully. "The captivity damaged her in ways that aren't visible. If I'd exposed her lie publicly, if I'd humiliated her in front of the entire Summit—Annalise, she would have broken. She might have hurt herself. I couldn't risk that."

His eyes locked on mine. Unblinking. Steady.

"I need you to understand," he continued, his voice dropping into that tender register. "This isn't about choosing her over you. It's about managing a dangerous situation carefully. For the good of the pack. For everyone's safety."

Selene sent a wave of nausea through me so sharp I had to press my hand against the desk to stay upright.

"I want my recognition back," I said. "I want you to tell the Summit council the truth. I want Brooklyn to return the award."

Cassian's jaw tightened. "That's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Because the damage is done." His voice was still gentle but something underneath it had gone hard. "Brooklyn accepted that award in front of every Alpha and Luna in the region. If I reverse it now, it makes the pack look incompetent. It makes me look incompetent. Do you understand what that would cost us?"

"Cost you," I said quietly.

His expression shifted. Not anger. Something colder.

"Annalise." He stepped closer. "I need you to let this go."

"No."

The word hung in the air between us.

Cassian's eyes narrowed. When he spoke again, his voice carried a frequency that made my bones vibrate.

"You will accept Brooklyn's authorship publicly." The Alpha tone crashed into me like a physical force. My knees buckled. I hit the floor hard, my hands catching me before my face did. "You will never speak of the painting's true origin. You will smile and congratulate Brooklyn at the next Summit gathering. You will do this because I am your Alpha and your mate, and you will obey me."

The compulsion wrapped around my throat like a fist. My mouth opened. The words came out in a whisper I couldn't control.

"Yes, Alpha."

He crouched in front of me, his hand cupping my face, tilting it up so I had to look at him. His expression was pained. Anguished. But behind it—just for a second—I saw something else.

Relief.

He wasn't protecting Brooklyn. He was protecting himself. From scandal. From scrutiny. From the possibility that anyone might question his judgment or his authority.

Whatever love I still held for him died on that floor.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I'm so sorry it had to be this way. But you'll understand eventually. I'm doing this for us."

He stood and left the office.

I stayed on the floor until the compulsion's grip loosened enough for me to breathe. Selene whispered a single word through the cold.

*Wrong.*

I pulled myself up and walked back to my room. Buster was waiting at the door. He pressed against my leg as I stumbled inside and locked the door behind us.

I sat on the floor with my back against the bed. Buster lay across my lap, his weight grounding me. I pressed my face into his fur and tried to remember how to think.

The device with the security footage was still hidden in my paint box. The email from the Summit council was still on my phone. I had evidence. I had proof.

But Cassian had just used his Alpha tone to silence me. If I tried to speak now—if I tried to expose him—my own body would betray me. The compulsion would lock my throat. I would kneel and obey.

I needed help. Real help. The kind that didn't answer to Cassian's authority.

I pulled out my phone. Scrolled through my contacts. Most of them were pack members. People who would report back to Cassian the moment I said anything.

Then I saw a name I hadn't thought about in years.

Finnegan Cruz.

We'd grown up together during diplomatic visits between Silvercrest and Shadowveil. He used to sit with me while I painted, asking questions that weren't stupid, making observations that showed he actually looked at the work. We'd lost touch after I bonded with Cassian. I hadn't heard from him since before the abduction.

I stared at his name for a long time.

Then I put the phone down. I wasn't ready. Not yet.

Buster shifted in my lap, his head turning toward the door. A low growl started in his chest.

I heard footsteps in the hallway. Light. Deliberate.

Brooklyn's voice drifted through the door, speaking to someone I couldn't see.

"She's so unstable. I'm honestly worried about that dog. What if she has an episode and he gets hurt?"

The footsteps faded.

Buster's growl deepened.

Selene stirred. Not cold this time. Something sharper. Hotter.

I pressed my hand into Buster's fur and made myself breathe.

Three days later, I woke to find Buster gone.

I sat up fast, my heart already racing. He always slept at the foot of my bed. Always. I called his name. Checked the bathroom. The studio. The hallway.

Nothing.

Panic spiked through me, sharp and immediate. My vision started tunneling. I forced myself to count. Four breaths in. Four breaths out.

I found a pack member in the dining hall and asked if they'd seen him. They shook their head. I checked the kitchen. The training grounds. The healer's clinic.

The clinic door was unlocked. I pushed it open.

The main room was empty. But on the counter, laid out with careful precision, were syringes, sedatives, and a single form with Buster's name printed at the top.

Euthanasia authorization. Signed by Maren Solís. Approved by Beta Roland Voss.

I couldn't breathe.

I ran.

Outside. Across the grounds. My legs felt unsteady but I didn't stop. I called Buster's name until my throat was raw.

I found him at the border.

He was sitting calmly beside a man crouched on one knee, letting the dog investigate him with unhurried patience. The man's hand rested lightly on Buster's head, his posture relaxed, like he had all the time in the world.

He looked up.

Finnegan Cruz.

His eyes met mine—not with surprise but with the expression of someone who had been waiting to be exactly here.

"Annalise," he said quietly. His voice was steady. Familiar in a way that made my chest ache.

Buster's tail wagged. He looked at me, then back at Finnegan, like he'd decided something important.

I stopped three feet away. My hands were shaking. My vision was still tunneling at the edges.

"He's safe," Finnegan said. "I intercepted the healer's order an hour ago. No one's putting him down."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Finnegan stood slowly, his movements careful, like he was approaching something fragile. Buster stayed at his side.

"I've been at the Shadowveil border for three days," he continued. "Waiting for the right moment. I think this is it."

He held out his hand.

I looked at it. At him. At Buster, whose tail hadn't stopped wagging.

The walls I'd held against everyone in the packhouse—the ones I'd built to survive Cassian's gaslighting and Brooklyn's taunts—lowered.

Just a little.

Just enough.

I took his hand.