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.

Breakfast was ashes on my tongue. At the butcher’s, I selected cuts with methodical cruelty, ribeye for Nathaniel, venison for Yoan. A culinary send-off laced with silent venom.

“We’ll need a proper carnivorous spread,” Sky remarked, her tone laced with grim levity.

“Naturally.” I pictured his face when he discovered the emptied wardrobes, the hollowed-out study.

On the walk back, I lingered at the training grounds. The newest recruits—puppies, really—drilled under the Gammas’ barked orders. My chest tightened. Last time you’ll play the dutiful Luna.

At the kiosk, I bought every Jammie Dodger and Penguin bar in stock. They swarmed me, all gap-toothed grins and grass-stained knees.

“Thanks a lot, Luna!” they chorused, one freckled boy clutching my sleeve. “You’re proper angelic, you are. Don’t let no one say otherwise!”

I knelt, smoothing his cowlick. “Mind your Gamma. And never apologise for second helpings.”

Their praise lodged like shrapnel in my throat. “Persevere,” I urged, forcing a smile. Did they sense the valediction beneath my gestures? The finality?

Back in the kitchen, I assembled two tiffin carriers—one for him, one for her. Once, I’d packed twin meals for our shared lunches in his office: debating policy over Coronation chicken sandwiches, stealing crisps from his plate. Now, I was little more than a courier for his indifference.

When did the erosion begin? I wondered, arranging samosas with surgical precision. After her mate’s death? Or earlier—when his eyes first lingered too long on her mourning black?

The walk to his office felt surreal, as though observing a stranger enacting this pantomime of devotion. Last lunch. Last compromise. Last shred of hope discarded.

The room stood empty, stale coffee crusting a mug emblazoned with World’s Best Alpha. Predictable. His new Beta shrugged: “With Beta Yoan. Her girl’s taken a turn.”

“I’ll wait,” I said, tone flat.

Alone, I approached his desk. The drawer slid open with a conspiratorial whisper. Beneath requisition forms lay the pack seal—a tarnished silver wolf’s head.

Hands steady, I stamped the transfer documents Alpha Malcolm had provided. No signature required.

A shuddering breath escaped me. One copy abandoned on the desk; the other secreted in my handbag. My visa to sovereignty.

“Now, the final…” My whisper died as Yoan’s voice slithered through the pack bond.

Angie, darling—Nathaniel mentioned you’re lurking in his office? Do be a love and bring lunch here. He’s ever so peckish.

Honeyed poison. My jaw clenched. The memory of last month’s “family dinner” surfaced—Hazel’s pointed silence, Yoan’s saccharine pity, Iona’s trembling lower lip.

Still, this would be my final grovelling act.

“Course,” I bit out, boots scuffing laminate.

Yoan’s terraced house reeked of bergamot and deceit. Jeremy answered, shirt half-buttoned, trousers misaligned.

“Who authorised this visit?” he snapped, jerking his belt buckle.

My gaze flickered past him to Yoan, swathed in a silk dressing gown. “Interrupting something?”

“Don’t be absurd,” she purred, a Butter-wouldn’t-melt tone. “I insisted you come. Nathaniel, darling—stop glowering.”

Nathaniel—shoeless, collar askew—collapsed onto her Chesterfield as if born to it.

“Do come in, Angie,” Yoan simpered, plucking the tiffin carrier from my grip. “Let’s make this civil.”

I trailed her through the cramped hallway, the air thick with jasmine and performative grief.

“How’ve you been coping?” I asked, the question ash on my tongue.

She arranged her face into a mask of martyrdom. “Oh, dreadful at first. But Carl’s sacrifice was the Moon Goddess’s design, wasn’t it? One mustn’t question divine will.” Her eyes remained arid.

Pity Carl died before learning his wife and child enjoy toying with another’s husband, I thought, spooning dal onto porcelain.

Yoan’s gaze snagged on the mating brand beneath my collar. “Nathaniel mentioned that… mark. Quaint, isn’t it?”

“A temporary brand,” I said, ladling rice with excessive care. “Yours with Carl was genuine, of course. Mine’s merely ink.”

Her mouth tightened. As I turned to set the table, my phone trilled—Allison.

Stepping onto the rain-slicked porch, I answered.

“Angie—Malcolm’s intel checks out?” My brother’s voice crackled with static and worry. “You’re not fleeing because he’s hurt you?”

My breath hitched. “Transfer’s underway. How’s Mum?”

“Pining. We all are. When?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow. Soon.”

Through the window, I watched Yoan feed Nathaniel a samosa, her fingers lingering near his lips.

“Soon,” I repeated, the word a vow.

The call disconnected. Nathaniel stood framed in the doorway, his collar still askew.

“Who was that?” A question sharp as a papercut.

“Allison,” I said, meeting his gaze unflinching. “Enquiring after my wellbeing.”

He nodded, a bureaucrat’s gesture. “Join us, then.” No apology. No acknowledgement of the obscenity. Merely logistics.

The sheer banality of his presumption stole my breath. No flicker of remorse—only the mild irritation of a man whose mistress’s lunch had gone cold.

“I’ll pass.” My smile could’ve carved glass. “Other obligations.”

“Suit yourself. Home later.” He turned, already halfway back to Yoan’s simpering laughter.

Not your home. Not anymore.

Drizzle stung my cheeks as I hailed a black cab. My destination is the Family Division of the High Court. Final affidavits. Dissolution of a marital contract signed in youthful delusion.

But first, a necessary detour is the hospital mortuary. A hollow-eyed clerk processed Iona’s burial permit when I presented the document embossed with Nathaniel’s seal. No condolences. No hesitation. The mortuary staff moved with unseemly haste, transferring my daughter’s precious burden to the Black Widow Pack’s morgue under cover of administrative efficiency.

As I approached the courthouse steps, uncertainty coiled cold in my chest. My hand lingered on the brass handle, the weight of finality pressing upon me. *Was this truly the path?*

Then it returned—the sting of that wretched evening, the hissed taunts, the spectacle of Nathaniel and Yoan’s entwined laughter while I faded into obscurity. Their bonded status, confirmed and celebrated, had seared through the pack like a brushfire, scorching the last fragile embers of our marital pretence.

I drew a sharp breath, knuckles whitening on the doorframe.

“Live joyfully with your mate, Nathaniel,” I hissed to the empty air.

“And I shall carve my own happiness from the ashes.”

The divorce papers bore my signature in swift, ink-black strokes. At home, I arranged the documents with clinical care—twin wedding bands gleaming dully beside them—and scrawled a note of glacial brevity, ‘Kindly arrange to sign.’

When I was done, I picked up my suitcase and left. This time, leave forever.

By dusk, I was speeding north, the Pearl Harbour Pack dissolving in my rearview. Relief coursed through me, sharp and bracing, yet beneath it thrummed a wire of tension. The transfer papers in my glovebox were stamped, lawful, irrefutable—but would border guards truly permit a Luna to slip quietly into exile?

I needn’t have doubted. News of Nathaniel’s bonded union had outpaced even my departure. The officers at the checkpoint merely inclined their heads—a gesture hovering between deference and pity—and ushered me through without a word.

Dawn found me crossing into Black Widow territory, the jagged silhouette of my old life crumbling behind me.

Fatigue had long since been incinerated by adrenaline. Twelve hours of nocturnal motorways had left me thrumming with restless purpose—to reclaim my birthright, to bury my daughter with the rites denied by Pearl Harbour’s soulless protocols.

The Black Widow’s border cut across the moor like a blade. A lean silhouette materialised from the mist, collar upturned against the dawn chill. Allison.

I braked, wheels crunching gravel. He pried open the driver’s door before I’d cut the engine.

“Welcome home, you absolute menace,” he drawled, though his gaze darted past me to the empty backseat. “Shift over. And where—” His voice fractured, just once. “Where’s the tiny terror who owes me five birthday piggybacks?”

"I—Iona..." The words withered in my throat as my eyes fixed on the small coffin perched on the passenger seat.

Allison’s face contorted—fear, rage, desolation—as if words had abandoned her entirely.

"What’s happened, Angie?" she whispered, brittle.

Before I could answer, Nathaniel’s voice ruptured through my mind—a mindlink frayed with terror, fury, raw and jagged as shattered glass.

"Angie! Why are you leaving?"