The summons came the next morning.

A young Omega knocked twice on my door, eyes fixed on the floor. "The Alpha wants you in his study."

I pulled myself up. My chest wound had stopped bleeding, but the fabric stuck to the raw skin. Every step down the hall felt like walking on broken glass. I passed staff who used to bow to me. Now they looked away.

I knocked once and pushed the door open.

Duncan sat behind his desk, a cup of coffee steaming beside a stack of papers. He didn't look up. He let me stand there for a full minute before he finally leaned back in his leather chair and studied me like I was a stain he needed to scrub out.

"Sit," he said.

I sat.

My eyes moved before he spoke. The armchair by the window—Kylie's perfume soaked into the cushion, cloying and sweet, the kind of scent she drowned herself in to cover her weak wolf smell. On the corner of the desk, my old wildflower diffuser hummed quietly. Still running. Still filling the room with the scent he'd claimed to love. Only now Kylie's cheap perfume was layered on top of it, like someone had spray-painted graffiti over a painting.

He'd kept my diffuser going for five years. And he'd let her sit in it.

"Alivia." His voice dropped into that Alpha tone I used to melt for. Now it just made my skin crawl. "You need to understand something. You abandoned your post. Five years, gone. Off in the Wastes playing martyr while this pack ran itself."

I said nothing.

"I could have called you a rogue. Stripped your Luna title officially. No one would have blamed me." He leaned forward. "Instead, I'm giving you a chance to come back. That's mercy. You should be grateful."

Grateful.

The word sat in my mouth like ash. I looked at his healthy face, his clean hands, his crisp shirt. Five years I'd eaten roots and slept in caves for this man. Five years I'd carved my own body open to save him.

I kept my face still. I didn't blink.

He took my silence for submission. His shoulders relaxed. "Good girl. We'll do this properly. A Luna Ceremony. Formal. In three days. It will settle any questions about the pack's leadership."

A ceremony. With his mark on her neck.

"Kylie has been very helpful," he added, casual. "She picked out a gown for you."

I met his eyes then. Just for a second. I let him see nothing.

"Dismissed," he said.

I stood up and walked out.

---

The gown arrived that afternoon in a garment bag, delivered by a nervous Omega who wouldn't meet my eyes.

I laid it out on the guest bed.

It was pale silver, long, with lace along the sleeves. Pretty, if you didn't look closely. I looked closely.

The alteration tags were still pinned inside the waistband. Kylie's measurements, written in the seamstress's careful hand. Bust, waist, hips—all wrong for my frame. And when I lifted the fabric to my face, I caught it. Her perfume. Faint but there, soaked into the collar where it had touched her skin.

She had worn this. Tried it on. Decided it wasn't good enough for her.

And Duncan had sent it to me.

I sank onto the edge of the bed and pressed the dress against my knees. My hands shook. Not from grief. From something colder, older, sharper.

My wolf stirred for the first time since the bond broke. She was weak, thin as smoke, but her voice came through clear.

*Remember this.*

I folded the dress carefully. I did not cry.

---

The ceremony was held in the Silverfang great hall.

Every Alpha, Beta, and elder within a hundred miles filled the space. Candles burned in tall iron holders. The old Luna banner hung from the rafters—the one I'd embroidered myself the year I was mated.

I stood off to the side, near a pillar, in Kylie's discarded gown. The waist gaped. The hem dragged. Someone had tried to pin the bust, but the fabric still hung wrong on me. I looked like a child playing dress-up in her sister's clothes.

Which, I suppose, was the point.

Kylie stood at Duncan's right hand.

Her dress was new. Deep gold, custom-fitted, cut low enough to show off his mark on her throat. She glittered with jewelry—too much of it, gaudy pieces climbing up her ears and wrists. My Luna pendant sat on a chain against her collarbone. She kept touching it, like a child checking a prize.

Duncan spoke. I didn't hear the words. Something about renewal. Strength. Unity.

He did not look at me once.

Half the room did. I felt their eyes. Elder Rosalind from the East Ridge Pack—she'd known my mother—stared at me with her lips pressed thin. Marcus, standing behind Duncan, kept his gaze fixed on the floor. Two of the Silverfang elders exchanged a glance I couldn't read. Uneasy. Unsettled.

But no one spoke. No one moved.

I stood there in a dress that wasn't mine, in a body that had been used up and thrown away, and I let every second carve itself into my memory.

Duncan raised his glass toward Kylie. Her hand slipped into his.

My wolf pressed against my ribs, still weak, still bleeding somewhere deep inside me. But her voice was steady.

*Remember this. Remember every second. Every face. Every laugh. Every hand that touched hers instead of yours.*

I would.

I would remember all of it.

And when the time came, I would give it back to them, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the empire they had built on my bones.

The candles flickered. The pack raised their glasses.

I did not raise mine.

The first emergency came three nights after the ceremony.

I was in the dining hall, forcing down cold soup at a corner table no one else wanted. Duncan sat at the head with Marcus and two visiting Alphas, discussing border patrols. He hadn't spoken to me since the ceremony ended. Hadn't looked at me either.

Then Kylie's voice cut through the room, high and breathless. "Duncan!"

She stumbled through the doorway, one hand clutching the frame, the other pressed dramatically to her chest. Her face was flushed. Her eyes wide. "I—I twisted my ankle on the trail. It hurts so much."

Duncan was on his feet before she finished speaking. He crossed the room in three strides, his hand going to her waist. "Let me see."

She leaned into him, her weight shifting entirely onto his shoulder. "I tried to walk it off, but—" Her voice broke. A perfect little sob.

Marcus frowned. "Should I call the healer?"

"No." Duncan's voice was firm. "I'll take care of her."

He guided her out of the hall without a backward glance. The visiting Alphas exchanged looks. One cleared his throat. The other picked up his fork.

I stared at my soup. My wolf stirred, thin and cold.

*She's not hurt.*

I knew. I'd seen Kylie's ankle as she passed. No swelling. No bruising. She'd walked in on it just fine.

But Duncan had still left.

---

The second emergency came four days later.

I was folding laundry in the service hall—Omega work, assigned to me by Kylie herself that morning with a sweet smile and a comment about "pitching in." Duncan found me there, a basket of his shirts in my arms.

He stopped. Looked at the basket. Then at me.

For a second, something flickered across his face. Discomfort, maybe. Or shame.

"Alivia," he said quietly. "We need to talk."

I set the basket down. Waited.

He opened his mouth—

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted. Concern. Urgency.

"It's Kylie," he said. "She's having a panic attack. I have to go."

He was gone before I could respond.

I picked up the basket and kept folding.

---

The pattern repeated. Again and again.

A rogue sighting near her favorite walking trail. A nightmare that left her "too shaken to be alone." A sudden migraine. A strange noise outside her window.

Every time, Duncan dropped everything. Mid-conversation. Mid-meal. Once, he left Marcus standing in his office with a contract half-signed.

And every time, I watched.

I watched the way Kylie's eyes would flick to me before she called his name. The way her voice would shift—just a little too breathy, a little too helpless. The way Duncan's face would go tight with worry, his body already turning toward her before his brain caught up.

She wasn't just his mate. She was his master.

And he didn't even know it.

My wolf's voice was a low, steady growl in the back of my mind. *He chose this. He chose her. Remember.*

I would.

---

Two weeks after the ceremony, I made contact with an old friend.

Not a Silverfang wolf. Not even Moonveil. Elena was a rogue healer who'd patched me up twice during my years in the Wastes. She owed me nothing, but she answered my message anyway.

We met at a diner two towns over, far from pack territory. She slid into the booth across from me, her sharp eyes taking in my too-thin frame, the way my shirt hung loose over the bandages still wrapped around my chest.

"You look like hell," she said.

"I need information," I replied.

She raised an eyebrow. "About?"

"A healer. Silverfang Pack. Name's Dr. Garrett. He diagnosed a wolf-dormancy coma five years ago."

Elena's expression didn't change, but her fingers drummed once on the table. "That's a serious accusation."

"I'm not accusing. I'm asking."

She studied me for a long moment. Then she pulled out her phone, typed something, and turned the screen toward me.

A bank transfer. Fifty thousand dollars. Dated five years ago. Sender: Duncan Hale, Alpha of Silverfang. Recipient: Dr. Marcus Garrett.

Two weeks later, another transfer. Same amount. And another. And another.

Six payments total. Three hundred thousand dollars.

"He relocated to Europe last year," Elena said quietly. "Bought a villa in Greece. Doesn't take patients anymore."

I stared at the screen. My hands were steady. My breathing was steady. But inside, my wolf was howling.

"Can you get me copies?"

Elena hesitated. Then she nodded. "Give me three days."

---

I stored the files in a safety deposit box at a bank in neutral territory, far from Silverfang and Moonveil. The paper trail was thin, but it was there. Wire transfers. Dates that lined up perfectly with Duncan's "accident." A signed NDA buried in the hospital's records.

Proof.

Not enough to take to the Council yet. But enough to know I wasn't crazy. Enough to know I'd been right.

I walked out of the bank and stood on the sidewalk, the key to the deposit box heavy in my pocket.

My wolf pressed against my ribs, stronger now. Still broken, still bleeding, but alive.

*We're going to burn it all down,* she whispered.

Yes. We were.

But not yet. Not until the fire was hot enough to turn everything they'd built into ash.

---

Kylie found me in the laundry room the next morning.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smile playing at her lips. She wore a silk robe—one of mine, from before—and her hair was still damp from the shower.

"Alivia," she said sweetly. "I need you to change the sheets in the master suite. Duncan spilled coffee this morning."

I looked at her. At the robe. At the Luna pendant still hanging around her neck.

"Of course," I said.

Her smile widened. "And when you're done, could you press his shirts? He has a meeting this afternoon."

"Of course."

She pushed off the doorframe and started to leave. Then she paused, glancing back over her shoulder.

"You know," she said, her voice dropping, "it's really admirable. How you're trying to fit in again. Even with... well." Her eyes flicked down to my chest, where the bandages showed through my thin shirt. "Even with everything."

She left.

I stood there, a basket of towels in my arms, and let her words settle over me like a second skin.

My wolf didn't growl. Didn't snarl.

She laughed.

*She has no idea what's coming.*

No. She didn't.

And that was exactly how I wanted it.

The soup tasted wrong.

I noticed it halfway through the bowl. A bitter edge beneath the salt, like metal on my tongue. I set the spoon down and stared at the pale broth, watching a thin film of oil swirl on the surface.

Kylie stood across the dining hall, arranging flowers in a vase. She glanced at me once, her lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

I pushed the bowl away.

Too late.

By midnight, I was on the floor of my guest room, retching into a basin. My stomach twisted in knots. Sweat soaked through my shirt. My wolf whined somewhere deep inside me, weak and disoriented. The pain came in waves—sharp, burning, like something was clawing its way through my insides.

Wolfsbane. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make me wish I was dead.

I stayed on that floor for three days.

No one came to check on me. Not Duncan. Not Marcus. Not even the Omega who usually brought my laundry assignments. The pack house hummed with life above me—footsteps, laughter, the clink of dishes at meals I couldn't attend.

On the fourth day, I could stand.

I washed my face in cold water. My reflection stared back at me, hollow-eyed and pale. My hands still shook. But I could walk.

I found Kylie in the east hallway, carrying a stack of linens toward the master suite.

"Kylie."

She stopped. Turned. Her eyebrows lifted in false surprise. "Alivia! You're up. I was starting to worry."

"We need to talk."

Her smile tightened. She glanced down the hall—empty—then back at me. "Of course. What's wrong?"

I stepped closer. Close enough to see the flicker of unease in her eyes. "The soup. Three nights ago."

"Oh, that." She shifted the linens in her arms. "I hope it wasn't too salty. The new cook is still learning."

"It wasn't salt."

Silence.

Kylie's smile didn't move. But something changed in her face. A hardness. A coldness I'd seen before, buried under all that sweetness.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

I took another step. My wolf stirred, thin and angry. "Yes. You do."

For a long moment, we just stared at each other.

Then Kylie's mask cracked.

She laughed. Low and sharp. "God, you're pathetic. You actually thought you could come back here and what? Reclaim your life? Your mate?" She dropped the linens on a side table and crossed her arms. "Duncan never wanted you, Alivia. The mate bond was a joke. A political arrangement. He told me everything."

My chest tightened. Not from pain. From rage.

"He faked a coma for five years," she continued, her voice rising. "Five years so he could be with me instead of you. And you know what? It worked. You ran off to the Wastes like a good little martyr, and we got exactly what we wanted."

I said nothing. My hands curled into fists at my sides.

Kylie leaned in, her eyes glittering. "And your precious mother? She didn't just die, Alivia. She was removed. Taken out of the picture so my mother could take her place. And guess who signed off on it?"

My breath stopped.

"Your father," she whispered. "Alpha Albert himself. He wanted my mother. Wanted me. And your mom was in the way. So they made her disappear."

The hallway tilted. My wolf roared inside me, clawing for control. I felt my nails sharpen, my teeth ache. The shift pressed against my skin, desperate to break free.

Kylie smiled. "Go ahead. Shift. Attack me. Give Duncan a reason to throw you out for good."

I forced myself to breathe. Once. Twice. My wolf snarled and thrashed, but I held her back.

I looked at Kylie. At her smug face. At the Luna pendant still hanging around her throat.

Then I turned and walked away.

Her laughter followed me down the hall.

---

I didn't sleep that night.

I sat on the floor of my room, my back against the wall, and let the truth settle over me like a weight.

My mother. Murdered. Covered up. Sanctioned by my own father.

Five years in the Wastes. A lie.

The Devotion Mark. A joke.

Everything I'd given. Everything I'd sacrificed. Built on a foundation of rot.

My wolf pressed against my ribs, still weak but burning now. Not with grief. With something colder. Sharper.

*We're going to destroy them.*

Yes.

I pulled out my phone and opened the encrypted folder Elena had sent me. The bank transfers. The forged medical records. Dr. Garrett's signed NDA.

I started a new file.

Wolfsbane. I'd smelled it in the soup, tasted it on my tongue. Someone had to have purchased it. Someone had to have signed for it. Wolfsbane wasn't something you could just pick up at a corner store—it required pack authorization, a healer's signature, documented use.

I sent Elena a message. *Need purchase records. Wolfsbane. Silverfang Pack. Last six months.*

She replied within an hour. *On it.*

Then I opened a second file. My mother's death certificate. Cause of death: sudden heart failure. No autopsy. No investigation. Signed by Alpha Albert and witnessed by Duncan's father, the previous Silverfang Alpha.

Two powerful Alphas. One convenient death.

I pulled up every document I could find. Pack meeting minutes. Financial records. Correspondence between Silverfang and Moonveil from that year. I cross-referenced dates, names, signatures.

Patterns emerged. Payments. Transfers. A healer who'd retired early and moved out of state. A coroner who'd left the pack suddenly, no forwarding address.

A cover-up. Methodical. Thorough. Expensive.

I worked through the night, compiling everything into a single dossier. By dawn, I had a file thick enough to bury them all.

But I didn't move yet. Didn't send it to the Council. Didn't confront anyone.

I saved it. Encrypted it. Backed it up in three separate locations.

And I waited.

---

Kylie noticed the change in me.

I saw it in the way she watched me now. Not with smug satisfaction. With something else. Unease. Suspicion.

I moved through the pack house quietly. I took my Omega assignments without complaint. I folded laundry. I scrubbed floors. I kept my head down and my mouth shut.

But I was always watching. Always listening.

And Kylie knew it.

She started checking over her shoulder when she walked past me. She stopped leaving her phone unattended. She whispered to Duncan behind closed doors, her voice too low for me to hear but her body language screaming paranoia.

She was scared.

Good.

Two weeks after the wolfsbane, I saw her slip out of the pack house late at night. She wore a dark coat, hood pulled up, and she moved fast, glancing back every few steps.

I followed.

She drove to the edge of neutral territory and parked near an abandoned warehouse. A truck was already there, engine running. Three men stepped out. Rogues. I could smell them from where I crouched behind a stack of crates—unwashed, feral, dangerous.

Kylie handed one of them a thick envelope.

"She's in the lowest guest room," Kylie said. Her voice carried in the still night air. "East wing. No guards. Make it look like an accident."

The rogue opened the envelope and flipped through a stack of bills. He grinned. "When?"

"Soon," Kylie said. "This week. Before she has a chance to—" She stopped herself. Shook her head. "Just do it."

She got back in her car and drove away.

I stayed crouched behind the crates, my heart pounding, my wolf growling low and steady.

Kylie had just hired someone to kill me.

And I had just watched her do it.

I pulled out my phone and hit record. The rogues were still talking, counting the money, laughing about how easy the job would be.

I recorded every word.

Then I slipped back into the shadows and disappeared into the trees.