Although Lyra was taken aback, she wasn’t surprised.

Darius had always had feelings for Mireille. It wasn’t exactly unexpected that he would go this far for her.

Once upon a time, Lyra might have taken it personally. But now, she simply replied with quiet composure, “Alright.”

After all, she was leaving soon. Whether their wedding portraits were burned beneath this moon or the next made no difference.

For a second, Darius froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He’d only said those words out of frustration, annoyed she hadn’t given him a way to save face.

‘Wasn’t she the one who used to treasure those things the most? Why’s she suddenly agreeing so easily?’

Without another word, Lyra called a servant to take down the framed pictures from the wall. They carried them to the garden and burned them until nothing remained.

Mireille, newly returned from the coven stronghold of Varghelm, had no den of her own yet.

So, Darius offered her a chamber in the Alpha’s villa for a while.

Lyra didn’t object. Her tone was even, almost indifferent. “Sure,” she said.

She even instructed the steward to prepare the guest den next to his chamber for Mireille—then quietly moved her own belongings into a smaller room below the west wing, closer to the servants’ quarters.

As she was packing, Darius’s voice came from behind her.

“Come on, Lyra, don’t be petty. I know you’re jealous, but Mireille’s only staying here for a while.”

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “You hate sleeping alone. Moving down here—will you even rest properly?”

He hesitated, then softened his tone. “About those portraits—I went too far. If they meant something to you, we can take new ones. When there’s time.”

He stepped closer, reaching to hug her from behind—only for her to slip out of reach.

Turning to face him, she met his gaze. Calm. Clear.

To be fair, Darius had never been cruel. In the three years they’d been bound by oath and law, he’d done enough to make her believe—perhaps—the Moon had fated them for each other.

But every time Mireille reappeared, he never hesitated. He always chose her.

Lyra loved him. She really did. But what she wanted wasn’t love handed out with conditions or affection that came second to someone else.

“I’m not jealous,” she said quietly. “You’ve been dealing with pack matters late into the night. Sleeping alone helps me rest better.”

Her words, spoken so evenly, unsettled him more than anger would have.

Darius’s expression hardened. He wasn’t used to defiance—especially not from her. He had already lowered his pride. This was supposed to be the moment she softened, as she always had.

“Whatever,” he said curtly. “By the way—what was that document you had me sign earlier today?”

Lyra’s lips curved faintly. “A little gift for our third bond anniversary. You’ll know soon enough.”

That eased his temper a fraction.

He knew Lyra didn’t like Mireille’s presence, but Mireille had only just returned to Frostmere and he was simply helping her settle in.

Once her new manor was ready, she’d leave. He told himself that—soon, everything would return to normal. He’d still live properly with Lyra, as duty demanded.

“Alright. It’s late. You should get some rest.”

When Lyra brushed past him, he instinctively lifted his arms for the usual goodnight embrace—but she walked straight by, silent as snowfall.

He stood there, the faint scent of her fading down the corridor, his wolf restless.

Something about her was different tonight. He just couldn’t name it.

The night deepened. The silver moon slid high above Frostmere.

Lyra—already asleep—was yanked from her bed and dragged upstairs by two of the Alpha guards.

Her shoulder slammed into the wall of the Alpha’s chamber. Pain bloomed through her ribs, the breath knocked from her lungs.

Dazed, she blinked through the haze—and then heard his voice, cold and sharp as a northern wind.

“I understand your jealousy, Lyra,” Darius said, his golden eyes blazing, “but drugging Mireille? That’s a line even you shouldn’t cross.”

Her pulse spiked. “What?”

She looked up, vision swimming.

On the bed, Mireille lay trembling in Darius’s arms. Her skin flushed crimson, her breath ragged, sweat slicking her brow—her aura tangled and unstable, as if her blood was reacting to a potion or dark spell.

“I didn’t do it!” Lyra’s voice cracked.

Mireille whimpered, clutching at Darius’s chest. “I only drank the moonmilk you gave me… I didn’t have anything else…”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed, her senses sharpening. “You asked for that drink! I had some too—why am I fine, then?”

“And what would I gain from drugging you?” Her tone turned scathing. “Mireille, if you’re going to frame me, at least try harder.”

She was telling the truth. But truth had no power in the face of well-crafted tears.

Mireille began to sob harder, her voice weak and trembling. “Forget it. If she says I faked it, then maybe I did. I… I have nothing else to say.”

Lyra’s hands curled into fists. Fury boiled beneath her skin, her wolf stirring but caged. It felt like punching water—no resistance, no justice.

That was the last straw for Darius. His voice dropped to a deadly growl.

“That’s enough, Lyra! This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this. You know what happened three years ago.”

His words dropped like a hammer.

“You really think someone with your record deserves trust?”

Just like that, one sentence condemned her.

Lyra stared at him, teeth gritted. “I’ll say it again,” she said in clenched teeth, each word crystal clear. “I did not drug you three years ago.”

That night haunted her still. She’d gone after him when she heard he was drinking alone at the Silver Den tavern. Worried, she’d followed his scent—only to find him already drugged.

Yes, she loved him. Yes, one reckless night had changed everything. But she never planned it.

He had never believed her. And from that moment on, it became the wound neither of them could heal.

“Darius, I can’t… I can’t help it…” Mireille moaned, her fingers tightening around him. Her body trembled violently, her aura shimmering with unstable magic.

Darius frowned, pushing her back slightly—but Mireille snatched a small ritual blade from the bedside drawer and dragged it across her arm.

Blood welled instantly, crimson bright under moonlight.

“I know I’m a burden,” she sobbed. “I should just disappear… so you don’t have to worry about me anymore…”

The scent of blood hit the air like lightning, primal and intoxicating.

Darius clenched his jaw, seized the blade from her hand and growled lowly, “I’ll help you.”

Lyra’s breath caught. Her eyes widened as she stared at Darius, disbelief freezing her in place. She couldn’t comprehend that he’d said those words—so easily, so cruelly.

And yet, there was no hint of guilt in his eyes. The man she once shared a life with now looked at her like a judge delivering a sentence.

“You’ve really disappointed me, Lyra.” His tone was calm, almost cold. Then his gaze shifted toward Mireille, who was curled against him like a wounded bird. “You drugged her. Whatever happens after this—it’s your fault.”

As his arm tightened around her, Mireille’s fingers trailed idly over his chest. Her eyes flicked up to meet Lyra’s—taunting, amused.

Lyra’s knees trembled. She clutched the edge of the table, forcing herself to stay upright. When she finally spoke, her voice came out laced with mockery.

“You actually think I drugged her just so you—” her finger shook as she pointed at him “—could be the antidote?”

Her voice grew steady, sharp. “There are plenty of ways to neutralize drugs, Darius. This,” she gestured at the scene before her, “was never one of them.”

“Darius…” Mireille’s soft voice broke in, trembling just enough to sound sincere. Her nails grazed the bandaged cut on her arm, opening it slightly so a drop of red rolled down. “Don’t worry about me. Let me handle this myself.”

She tilted her head, her next words angled sweetly toward Lyra. “And please don’t blame her. I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. She just… loves you too much.”

Something in Lyra snapped. She’d already decided to leave Darius, but that didn’t mean she would let Mireille disgrace her in her own home.

“My God, Mireille—do you even have any shame left? You’re clinging to my mate in my house, pretending to be some innocent victim. Did your lover forget to teach you manners?”

The sound that followed was sharp and immediate—Slap!

Lyra’s head snapped to the side. Her cheek stung.

“Enough, Lyra!” Darius roared. “Mireille hasn’t spoken a single bad word about you and yet you keep spitting venom! You disgust me!”

He grabbed her wrist. She stumbled, gasping as he dragged her toward the door.

“You like drugging people, huh? Then stand here and listen to what that leads to!”

He tore the tie from his neck, bound her wrists to the doorknob and tightened the knot until metal bit into her skin.

His eyes were ice when he said, “You brought this on yourself. Don’t blame me—or her.”

The door slammed shut.

At first came silence. Then a sound—a soft groan. A breath. Then another. The rhythm built, unmistakable, unrelenting.

Lyra shut her eyes. Tears slipped silently at first, but eventually, even those dried up. All that was left was a hollow ache spreading through her chest.

Every moan from inside the room hammered another nail into the coffin of her love.

‘This is what happens when you love the wrong man,’ she thought bitterly.

Then pain struck deep in her abdomen. A sharp, twisting ache that sent her to her knees. The cords cut into her wrists, her body hanging from the door handle, drenched in cold sweat.

Her lips moved, but her voice came out barely a whisper. Compared to the pleasure-filled sounds beyond the door, her faint gasps were nothing—completely drowned out.

The night dragged on, each second longer than the last.

When the door finally opened, dawn light spilled in.

Darius stood there, adjusting his sleeve, his voice calm as ever. “Have you learned your lesson?”

No answer.

He frowned and looked down—Lyra lay motionless at his feet.

“Lyra?” He crouched, pressed a hand to her cheek—hot as fire. Panic flickered in his eyes.

He lifted her into his arms, about to rush out.

“Darius.” Mireille’s voice drifted lazily from the bed. “You were a bit rough last night. I think something’s swollen. And… I can’t exactly ask anyone else to help with that, can I?”

No response.

She continued, “Lyra used to get fevers all the time back in college. Just take her to the hospital. Let the maid handle it.”

Then, with a sigh, “And you know my reputation. If gossip spreads, people will talk. I can’t afford that.”

Lyra’s lashes trembled. Her vision was blurry, her body numb—but she saw it.

She saw Darius hesitate.

She saw him turn.

And then she felt herself being handed off to someone else’s arms.

Darkness followed.

When she opened her eyes again, everything was white. White sheets. White walls.

The steady beeping of a heart monitor.

“Ma’am,” the doctor said gently, “you’re about three months pregnant. But the baby isn’t stable. You should—”

“Doctor,” Lyra interrupted, her voice hoarse but firm. “I don’t want the baby. Schedule the abortion.”

The doctor blinked, taken aback. “There’s no medical necessity to terminate—”

Her next words cut him short.

“My mate cheated. We’re divorced. That’s reason enough. Please schedule it. Today.”

The doctor exhaled slowly. Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed back. “Understood. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”

Once he left, Lyra reached for her communicator and typed a message.

[A month’s too long. Three days. Come get me in three days.]

She hit send.

Lucian replied within seconds. [Okay. I’ll come fetch you in three days.]

Seeing his rune-light agree, Lyra felt a small ease settle in her chest at last.

Her body had always been fragile and after the cleansing and the procedure, she remained under the healers’ care for three more dawns to regain strength.

It wasn’t until the day she was discharged that Darius finally came to the White Hall.

“Hey. I’m sorry. Mireille’s been on her period for the last few days and the cramps have been so bad she can’t even walk. She gets anxious whenever I’m not around,” he explained.

With her back to him, Lyra continued folding the last of her small chest and answered flatly, “Mm.”

Sensing her coldness, Darius stepped close and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“What happened with the potion that time—yes, you went too far. You crossed a line. But I’ve reflected too. I shouldn’t have lost myself… I won’t let it happen again,” he promised.

“I know you despise Mireille because you love me, but truly, there is nothing between us. She is only a friend. And remember—you’re my mate. What is it you fear?” he pressed.

If Darius could have seen her face then, he would have noticed the disdain flashing in her eyes.

Friends? You lay with her. What friendbed fools around like that? she thought, bitter. Would it only count as “something” if Mireille bore his pup?

But Lyra no longer cared. In a few moons she would be gone for good. There was no use quarrelling over things that would soon be ashes.

“What’s past is past. I don’t wish to speak of it.” She folded the last scarf. “Aren’t you here to escort me? Let’s go.”

Darius felt a strange hollow—she had not even offered him a smile.

Fine, he thought. When Mireille departs, I’ll surprise Lyra. We will begin anew. I will let the old nights be buried.

Everything of late only proved one thing clearer—Mireille is but a friend. What I feel for Lyra… His gaze lingered on his wife. It is love.

He lifted her trunk and guided her from the healing wing.

As they reached the corridor, the attending healer approached with measured steps.

“Lyra, is this your mate? I thought—”

Fearing the healer might speak of the procedure, Lyra cut him off. “Thank you for your care. I recover well now; I will not waste the pack’s resources.” She drew Darius away and hurried from the clinic.

But no sooner had they returned to the villa than Mireille’s voice rang like a bell.

“Oh, Lyra, three years and you remain unchanged!” she sang mockingly.

Lyra shot her a warning glare, then turned to climb the stairs to finish packing.

Mireille’s next words made her halt.

“Three years ago, I was the one who slipped a draught into your cup. I told you to find him at the bar. I knew Darius loved me, but when I left, who could say he would not fall for another? You liked him too, so I set a small trap.”

She sauntered forward, one strap of her dress deliberately hanging, the faded kissmarks at her throat and chest plain to see.

“You took care of him for three years. I appreciate that sacrifice. But now I’ve come back—this house is mine no longer. It’s time for you to leave, Lyra.”

She smiled, triumphant. “You have no kin here in Frostmere. Do not cross me. Take heed: leave while you still can.”

Lyra’s body trembled with cold fury; the revelation seared through her. So it was her plan from the start, she thought.

Without hesitation, Lyra raised her hand and struck Mireille across the face.

She fixed Mireille with a hard look. “So long as I breathe in this den, you will remain the other woman. Push me, Mireille, and none of us step away unscathed.”

Mireille reeled, stunned, lips parted with outrage. Her eyes hardened as she lifted her hand to strike back—when Darius appeared in the doorway like a blade.

In an instant Mireille’s expression shifted; her voice trembled with contrition.

“Lyra, Darius and I are only friends! That night was a mistake! Please! Don’t tell anyone!”

In the next beat, she sank to her knees, begging, forehead nearly kissing the floor.

Before Lyra could speak, Darius shoved her aside roughly.

Lyra, still tender from her recovery, hit the floor hard and hurt. But it was Mireille he lifted to her feet with practiced gentleness.

When he turned to Lyra again, his eyes cut like knives. “You are being absurd, Lyra! I’ve told you—why will you not let this lie?” he demanded.

“If you spread rumors of that night, how will Mireille live with shame?”

Tears rimmed Lyra’s eyes. She bit her lip. “You didn’t ask me what truly occurred, Darius. Will you believe anything she says?”

His hands balled into fists. Seeing her so fragile stirred something in him—but in the end he sided with Mireille.

“I only trust what stands before me,” he declared. “Apologize to Mireille now. Swear you will not lay a hand on her again.”

Lyra let out a cold, mirthless laugh, chin high with pride. “I did what any woman would. I am not the one to apologize.” Her stance did not waver. “You two are the ones at fault.”

Whatever conscience may have lingered in him evaporated.

He looked down at her with the weight of pack authority. “No. This time, Lyra, you will admit your fault.”

He summoned the guards. In moments, they seized her arms and hauled her upright.

“If you will not beg forgiveness, I will execute the family’s discipline. Ninety-nine lashes—you will not endure them,” he said, believing force would bend her will.

He thought threat would break her.

Lyra met his challenge without flinch.

“I struck her,” she said, voice steady. “Because she deserved it. But I have not threatened her.” Her eyes flashed. “Darius, if you dare lay a hand on me, even just once—you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life.”