"Rather than complaining incessantly, you'd do better preparing my breakfast," he interrupted.

I clenched my jaw and tightened my fists. I desperately wanted to slap him repeatedly and make him understand that his daughter Iona was more than just 'critically wounded'. I wanted to make him realise he had lost his own daughter through his selfish prioritisation of Hazel, Yona's son.

I clenched my jaw, restraining the biting response that trembled on my lips.

He had been like this recently—distant, acerbic, perpetually absent, even when physically present. So, I turned silently and made my way to the kitchen.

Even as I stirred the spaghetti I was making, my thoughts kept drifting to Yoan and his son, Hazel. Was Yoan with Nathaniel all day? Did he sleep over at Yoan's? Did he love Hazel even more than Nathaniel should love Iona? But I tried to push those feelings aside and think more positively. After breakfast was ready, Nathaniel joined me at the table but he was always on his phone.

I stayed quiet, knowing there was no point in starting a conversation. His reply would probably be short and painful.

"We've investigated the attack from the early hours, and we suspect several packs who've long been at odds with us, primarily because our pack is more prosperous than theirs," Nathaniel continued whilst enjoying his meal. "I'll be home rather late today. Would you mind preparing my packed lunch as usual?"

"Yes," I replied with uncharacteristic indifference.

"Has Iona not awakened yet? Poor thing must be terrified and traumatised. I'll take her for a picnic next weekend," Nathaniel mused.

I sighed and stared at him in utter disbelief. Our daughter had been lying in the mortuary for two days, yet he remained completely oblivious to this devastating reality.

Drawing a deep breath, I murmured, "Actually, Iona—"

Before I could explain that our daughter would never wake again, Nathaniel's mobile rang. Upon answering, his face contorted with worry, and he sprung to his feet with alarming urgency.

"Mate, could you possibly drop off that packed lunch at the office later? Something urgent's come up. Hazel's having seizures," Nathaniel announced.

"Nathaniel!" I called out sharply.

"I'm terribly sorry, but this is paramount, Angie. Listen, you've recovered from your injuries, haven't you? So I really must look after Hazel and Yoan. Yoan's a widow now, and her husband was a high-ranking Theta who wielded considerable influence in the Pearl Harbor Pack."

"Yes, I've recovered, and your daughter hasn't awakened," I replied with biting sarcasm, "And perhaps never will."

"Oh, come now, Angie. This is hardly the time for petty jealousy," Nathaniel grumbled.

"Yes, I know."

"Thank you for understanding, Angie. I'll see you at the office later." Nathaniel patted my head before grabbing his coat and departing.

In that moment, I felt like an insignificant fragment of Nathaniel's life—as I had always been. Nathaniel prioritised Yoan and Hazel above all else, whilst I remained an outsider desperately trying to breach their world.

I watched Nathaniel's car begin to pull away from the house, feeling increasingly alienated by the reality before me. Just before his final departure, a courier had arrived with a bouquet of lilies and a box of luxury chocolates. I knew, with crushing certainty, that these were gifts for Yoan and her son.

Nathaniel could be so lavish with others, yet last month's memory stabbed at my heart—when Iona had asked for a new doll, Nathaniel had merely tossed her a packet of cheap hair bands.

I'd always known Nathaniel desperately yearned for a son, but his treatment of Iona had been beyond cruel.

To him, Hazel might as well have been his own son—born of a woman who’d stood by his side for years, after all. Meanwhile, my Iona is a child of his newfound choice, sprung from the womb of a wife he selected only recently. Nathaniel’s priorities will forever lie with Yoan and Hazel, never with me or my poor, overlooked girl.

Yoan’s husband, Carl, perished a year ago—his life claimed by grievous wounds from a night hunt. Yet even in death, Carl’s devotion to Yoan remained unshakable, flawless. And now, Yoan has my husband—Nathaniel—as her closest confidant. A man who dotes on her, who would move heaven and earth for her. A loyalty I’ve never been granted, though by every right, I should claim it.

Time and again, this bitterness towards Yoan and Hazel has gnawed at me. Even when I carried Iona—clinging to her as my body threatened to betray us both—it festered. Yet whenever I dared confront Nathaniel, he dismissed it as hysterics. Blind jealousy, he’d sneer, as though my anguish were some trifling melodrama.

But Nathaniel remains wilfully oblivious to the heart of it: his own daughter, who’s never known a father’s love. Half the pack whispers of it—this unspoken truth about Iona—yet he parades his indifference like virtue. No wrongdoing here, his silence declares.

And oh, how it stings. When he lavishes Yoan with jewels fit for a queen, I receive trinkets I could pluck from the market myself. It’s not the cost, Nathaniel. It’s the care—the absence of thought for the woman who’s sacrificed everything. For you.

Still, I dare not confront Yoan or her son. The Pearl Harbour Pack would sooner tear out my throat than see me as their Luna. Her they adore; me, they tolerate.

The microwave’s piercing beep jolts me from my misery. I busy myself packing two lunchboxes—overstuffed, as always—then gather laundry with mechanical haste. But my hands freeze mid-fold. His shirt. Nathaniel’s, worn last night. I press it to my face, and—

Scent of gladiol and musk. Her.

“Yoan’s,” Sky, my wolf, growls through the mindlink. No hesitation. No mercy.

The tears come then, ugly and suffocating.

He was with her. While I lay bleeding, mourning Iona’s eternal absence, he clung to her.

Every whispered promise, every “You’re my only”

The shirt slips from my grip as my knees buckle. All those lies, so deftly spun, and I… I believed.

Every suspicion I’d stifled for years razored open, raw and brutal.

I lurched to my feet, ribs cracking under the truth—her perfume cloying his collars, the bouquet he’d never brought me, the glacial distance between us. It wasn’t suspicion anymore. It was arithmetic.

I’d always been the third.

The mobile trembled in my grip, fingers slick with fury. How many times had we rowed over Yoan? How many times had he spun my pain into pettiness, made me grovel for daring to question his “loyalty”?

Not this time.

No more contorting myself into apologies. No more haunting my own bloody marriage.

I stabbed at the screen, dialling the number I’d ignored weeks prior—the one cryptic offer I’d dismissed, clinging to the delusion that Nathaniel might change. That I might still matter.

“Alpha Malcolm.” My voice was glacial, steady—a stark contrast to the fault lines fracturing my insides. “I’ve reconsidered your… proposal. I’ll be transferring back to the Black Widow Pack.”

A beat of silence. Then, deliberate, as though etching the words into the air itself, “Soon.”

Months prior, Alpha Malcolm had presented me with a prestigious opportunity: to serve as an agricultural strategist at Black Widow Pack’s academy farm. The same academy where I had once been a prodigy—where I’d first crossed paths with Nathaniel, and where I’d mastered critical techniques in communal survival and sustainable leadership.

My affinity for agriculture had bloomed early. As a child, I’d nurtured an unrelenting fascination for livestock husbandry and crop cultivation—a passion that hardened into academic obsession. By sixteen, I’d drafted pioneering methodologies to optimise harvest yields; by twenty, my research licences with Black Widow Pack had earned me a formal endorsement from their Leader himself. When Nathaniel proposed five years ago, I was being groomed for a coveted role in their Department for Environment, Food & Rural Affairs.

Yet love loomed over me like a scythe. In the delicate calculus of devotion, I chose Nathaniel. I forfeited my ambitions, dismantled my laboratory, and vanished into the shadows of Pearl Harbor Pack as its Luna.

Two years later, Alpha Malcolm reached out once more, urging me to reclaim the role. Black Widow Pack’s harvests had failed catastrophically; they needed expertise I could provide. Yet loyalty to Nathaniel anchored me. I declined again—though not without sending crates of our surplus grain to stave off their famine.

How could I, as Luna, abandon Pearl Harbor? My duty, I’d told myself, lay in the soil of these lands, in the pulse of this pack.

But yesterday’s ambush shattered that illusion. As Iona and I bled out on the forest floor, Nathaniel had raced to Yoan’s side first. Not mine. Not ours. My daughter’s death, my own brush with oblivion—they were mere footnotes to him.

A Luna in title. A ghost in practice.

Why linger where my Alpha—my husband—treated my existence as incidental?

The decision crystallised, cold and unyielding. I dialled Alpha Malcolm’s number, voice steady. “I accept your offer. I’m returning to Black Widow Pack.”

“Excellent news, Angie. Our pack’s doors remain open to you,” Alpha Malcolm replied, his voice brimming with a warmth that seemed to transcend the receiver. “I’ll expedite the transfer documentation and forward the requisite files once prepared. Ensure your affairs here are settled—we’ll prioritise a seamless transition.”

“Thank you, Alpha Malcolm,” I said, steadying the tremor in my words. “I’m grateful for this chance. You’ll have no cause to doubt my commitment.”

The call ended. I stood motionless, the weight of finality pressing down. There was no undoing it now, I would leave.

Yet duty lingered.

I assembled Nathaniel’s lunch—roasted pheasant, honeyed oats—and added extra portions for the labourers reconstructing the storm-ravaged eastern barracks. A habitual gesture, but today it felt ceremonial. A quiet farewell to the life I’d clung to for too long.

My thoughts drifted unbidden to my early days in Pearl Harbor Pack. I bore no hatred for this place. The pack members—generous, resilient souls—had shown me nothing but kindness, despite my outsider origins.

But their warmth couldn’t mend the fractures within my own walls. If my marriage had become a hollow pantomime, if my husband’s loyalties frayed at the slightest test… what solace was there in duty without devotion?

A home ought to be a sanctuary, yet for me, it had become nothing more than a vessel of solitude.

Lost in contemplation, I arrived at the Alpha's office and, as was customary, entered without requiring permission. The staff greeted me with their usual warmth as I made my way to the lounge to deposit the snacks I had prepared.

As I stood there, my mobile vibrated. An email from Alpha Malcolm appeared, containing the attached transfer documents. The reality of the situation struck me, and I resolved to print them in Nathaniel's office later.

Yet just as I prepared to leave, I caught wind of hushed gossip. I halted, my heart descending as I recognised the subject of their whispered exchange.

"You simply must have seen it," one pack member whispered with barely contained excitement. "At the clinic, Alpha Nathaniel presented Yoan with flowers and the most expensive chocolates for Hazel. It was absolutely romantic."

"Indeed? He's been terribly sweet to her. With everything Yoan's experiencing with her son after the attack, she must be utterly distraught."

Another voice interjected, "I wonder... if Beta Hazel is their biological child, surely our pack would grow stronger?"

"Perhaps. Some say they're already mates, you know."

A gasp escaped my lips before I could suppress it. Surely they couldn't be serious? My chest constricted as I stood, rooted to the spot.

"What? How could they possibly be mates? Yoan already has one," someone questioned, their voice laden with disbelief.

"Well, I've heard Beta Yoan's husband isn't actually her fated mate. Besides, it's hardly unprecedented for Alphas and Lunas to marry without being true mates, is it?"

They spoke the truth there—

Nathaniel and I weren't fated mates.

We'd met at the academy, where Nathaniel had pursued me rather determinedly. Initially, I had resisted, holding fast to my belief that I should wait for my fated mate.

But Nathaniel had been persistent, and eventually, he persuaded me. He made a solemn promise that if neither of us had found our mates by seventeen, we would marry.

And so we did. For five years, we'd shared our lives, believing we'd somehow circumvented the hand of fate.

But now, hearing their words, an overwhelming realisation descended upon me.

What if Nathaniel truly had found his mate? What if that mate was indeed Yoan?

Tears threatened to spill, but I forced them back. I simply couldn't allow them to witness my anguish.

With glacial composure, I interrupted their conversation. "Is that true?"

The packmates recoiled, their whispers dissolving into panicked stammering. “Luna Angeline—we didn’t realise you were there—”

Before I could demand answers, the lounge door crashed open. A breathless voice sliced through the silence, “Beta Hazel’s collapsed—cardiac failure. They’re stabilising him now.”

***

The operating theatre was stifling, the air thick with antiseptic and dread. I leaned against the wall, numb, as Nathaniel cradled Yoan—her body racked with sobs, his hands tender on her shoulders. The scene mirrored my own torment two days prior, alone in a sterile room, absorbing the news of my daughter’s death while my husband buried himself in her bed.

Now, watching them, bitterness coiled in my throat. I forced a thin smile. No theatrics. No scenes.

As I approached, Yoan flinched. Her tear-streaked face contorted with something akin to shame, and she lurched away from Nathaniel’s hold.

“L-Luna Angeline—forgive me,” she choked. “We’ve… been close since we were children. He was only comforting me—”

Nathaniel spoke before I could.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for, Yoan.” His hand remained on her shoulder, his tone soft—too soft, the kind reserved for lovers, not friends. Not in his wife’s presence.

I exhaled sharply, my resolve hardening like frost on glass.

This wasn’t the first time his devotion to her had gouged at me. But today, amidst the pack’s murmurs and the pall of loss, it carved deeper. I heard their words—he’s grown cold toward her; their bond was never true—and still, the question gnawed, Why marry me, then? Why chain us both?

The doubt clung like a parasite. Had Nathaniel wed me as some petty retort when Yoan bonded with her husband weeks before our ceremony? I crushed the thought. Our history spanned years—long before her entanglement. Surely his proposal hadn’t been a blade aimed at her.

Or had it?

I blinked, realising the paramedics had vanished. Only we three remained in that claustrophobic corridor, the fluorescents humming their judgment.

Yoan’s voice punctured the silence. “We must uncover a treatment for Hazel. Properly this time.”

“We’ll secure specialists,” Nathaniel said, decisive. “Whatever’s required.”

The collusion stung anew. I turned sharply, heels clicking toward the exit.

“Angeline—”

I didn’t pause. The corridors blurred as I quickened my pace, then broke into a sprint. The woods swallowed me—ancient oaks and bracken offering crude solace. Shifting mid-stride, my wolf’s paws struck the mud as rain needled the canopy.

Run. Just run.

My wolf roused, her presence a balm. Steady, she murmured. You are not prey.

Yet my human heart fractured. What am I, then?

“Steady, Angie,” Sky murmured, her voice a low thrum in my skull. “Quell this rage. Nathaniel isn’t your destined bond. Remember. Your worth isn’t shackled to his gaze.”

Her counsel cooled the tempest in my chest.

“You’re right,” I panted, halting beneath a cathedral of ancient pines, my breath fogging the damp air. “If Nathaniel’s free to claim his fated mate, then so are we. We deserve that.”

“Undeniably.”

Resolve hardened like frost. I returned to the manor, scrubbed myself raw under the shower’s blistering jets, and stalked to the wardrobe. Suitcase in hand, I began folding blouses with military precision.

“Tomorrow, I depart for the Black Widow Pack,” I vowed aloud.

No more compromises. No more withering in the shadow of a man who’d mistaken my loyalty for frailty.

The door hinges whined. Nathaniel loomed in the threshold, his gaze narrowing on the half-filled suitcase.

“Explain this.” His tone was glacial, detached—the voice of an Alpha assessing a tactical blunder, not a husband confronting his wife’s abandonment.

“Tidying the wardrobe,” I lied, the suitcase’s weight a leaden anchor as I smoothed creases from a blouse I’d never wear again.

“Right. I’ll be accompanying Yoan to the Silver Fang Pack tomorrow,” Nathaniel announced, as though discussing a grocery list. “Regarding the attack.” His tone was rehearsed, lifeless. “Whilst you’re here—pack my charcoal suit. The Brioni one.”

“Of course,’” I replied, toneless. My gaze remained fixed on the silk beneath my fingers—safer than meeting the ice in his eyes.

“I’ll shower, then work late. Don’t bother with supper.” The bathroom door clicked shut.

I said nothing. Let the silence fester. Folded trousers, stacked jumpers, each movement precise. Let him work. Let him stay. Let him warm her bed until the sheets frayed. I’d long since drained my reserves of outrage.

Dawn bled through the curtains as the door groaned. Nathaniel stood silhouetted, shirt rumpled, eyes bloodshot.

“Why’s your case the only one packed?” His voice was sandpapered rough.

I blinked slowly. “My oversight. I’ll sort yours after breakfast.”

“See that you do.” He thrust a roll of notes at me. “There’s a Full English in the kitchen. Prepare lunches—two portions. Yoan’s barely eaten since Hazel’s decline.”

I pocketed the cash. “Naturally.”

“And ensure my case is ready by noon,” he called over his shoulder. “‘Critical meeting at the office.”

The door snapped shut behind him before I could muster a retort. I stared at the void where he’d stood—the man who once lavished me with devotion now reduced to a spectre in his own home.

In our first year, my silences would unravel him. He’d arrive with armfuls of peonies from Covent Garden, book spontaneous weekends in the Cotswolds, his apologies whispered against my neck. Now, even my absence went unmarked.

He’s severed himself from us, Sky observed, her voice a blade sheathed in sorrow.

“Then we owe no explanations,” I murmured, padding to the en suite. Let the scalding water purge his scent from my skin.