A she-wolf working the ledgers in his legitimate front den.

A secret.

My injuries weren't serious, so the moon-healer kept me under watch for three days before releasing me. Everything was routine. Quiet. Uneventful. The private healing den smelled of crushed herbs and old bloodline wealth, and the attendants moved with the particular carefulness of wolves who knew better than to ask whose name was truly on the account.

The cost went through the Pack's care arrangement, and whatever was left over was refunded directly back to Salvar's account.

Three days.

Not a single visit.

Not even a message.

And then, on the day I was released, my communicator chimed.

"You're out already?" Salvar's voice came through, casual, almost mildly annoyed. "You could've at least given me a heads-up."

I held the communicator in silence.

"I've got a council gathering today," he continued. "Can't come for you."

"…Okay."

That was all I said.

I swallowed everything else. The questions that rose to my throat. The ones that used to matter.

I didn't ask where he was.

I didn't ask who he was with.

Instead, I opened my communicator and checked his location.

A lodging house. One of the ones on Pack-controlled ground, the kind with discreet staff and no watchers in the corridors.

I didn't need him to explain anything. I didn't need confirmation.

Then, faintly, through the receiver, I heard a she-wolf's voice.

"Come dry my hair, will you?"

The line went dead almost instantly.

He cut it off.

I stared at my communicator for a moment, unmoving. Somewhere beneath my ribs, my wolf went very still, the way a creature goes still when it has finally understood a thing it cannot fight.

Not long after, two transfer notices surfaced on the screen.

1,314 gold moons.

1,520 gold moons.

The numbers hit me harder than anything else.

They weren't random.

They meant something. They always had.

1314 meant forever.

1520 meant I love you.

For years, I had wished for this. For him to send me those numbers, for something so simple and full of meaning. I had imagined catching it on a crystal screen, sharing it to the spirit network, just once, like everyone else. Just once, to show that I had something real.

But every time I brought it up, he refused.

He didn't like attention.

He didn't want wolves asking questions.

He didn't want anyone knowing. An Alpha's private life was a liability, he said. Something rival packs could use.

And now… now that I had already decided to let him go, he sent them?

I didn't know if it was guilt. Or habit. Or something else entirely.

I opened his profile without thinking.

The moment it loaded, I froze.

His profile image had changed.

It was a paired portrait. A bonded picture.

But not with me.

I didn't hesitate.

I returned both transfers immediately.

A few seconds later, my communicator buzzed again.

A string of question marks.

I didn't reply.

When I got back to the den, nothing had changed.

Everything was exactly the same as the night of the Blood Moon feast. The same shoes by the door. The same coat tossed over the chair. The same faint scent lingering in the air, black cedar and cold iron with an undertone of ash and bitter clove, the ghost of a world where decisions were made in back rooms and sealed with oaths that could never be taken back.

Which meant one thing.

He hadn't been back.

Not once.

I stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around me. Then I took a deep breath, pushed down the tight ache rising in my chest, and started packing.

It didn't take long.

Piece by piece, the space began to empty.

Five years.

Five years of a life I had carefully built around him, dismantled in just a few hours.

Most of what I packed were things I had chosen myself.

Bonded things.

Matching mugs. Coordinated clothes. Small carvings that hinted at something shared.

Salvar had never liked any of it.

He never wore anything that could suggest he was claimed. Never used anything too obvious. He said a wolf in his position couldn't afford to look soft. Couldn't give anyone a handle to grip.

I used to joke about it.

Saying he acted like some scout living under a false scent, hiding his name from the world.

Now I realized.

It was never a joke.

He just never saw me as someone he needed to claim. No mark at the junction of my neck and shoulder. No warmth that would have glowed when he came near. Nothing.

I was halfway through packing when I heard the door open.

He came back.

His scent reached me a breath before he spoke, and my wolf lifted her head once, then turned away.

"Selene, what's this about?" he snapped the moment he saw me. "I've been calling you! I told you to come out for dinner. You didn't pick up or reply!"

I didn't look up immediately.

The scent reached me first.

A she-wolf's scent.

Not mine.

Not even close.

Without thinking, I lifted my hand slightly, stopping him from coming any closer.

When I finally raised my eyes, they drifted to his neck.

Faint red marks.

Bite-bruises that were not a mate's claim.

"Sorry," I said calmly, my voice steady. I smoothed the fold of a blouse flat against the lining of my bag, pressing the crease until it was sharp enough to cut. "I've been busy. Didn't check my communicator."

He frowned, his gaze sweeping across the room.

Only then did he notice the packed bags. The empty shelves. The missing pieces.

"Don't tell me you've been busy tearing down the den," he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "You just got out of the healing hall. You should be resting."

His eyes landed on a few unopened boxes I hadn't gotten to yet.

Inside were the bonded things I had bought recently. Still new. Still unused.

"You don't want any of this?" he asked.

I bent down to pick one up.

Before I could even straighten, he reached out and took it from my hands.

"Fine, I'll throw them out for you," he said, almost impatiently. "But stop wasting money on useless stuff. What, do you think coin falls from the moon?"

His tone was casual.

Indifferent.

Like none of this mattered.

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, he added, "Go change. I'll take you out to eat."

Like this was just another normal day.

Like nothing was ending.

Instead, I walked out to the balcony.

From there, I watched him.

He carried the boxes down and walked straight to the refuse pit behind the den, past the black sedan idling at the edge of the trail where one of his enforcers sat waiting with the engine running.

No hesitation.

No second glance.

He tossed them in.

Just like that.

The same way he had thrown away our five years.

Effortlessly.

Like they meant nothing at all.

At the eating-house, a quiet place on neutral ground where the pack sometimes kept private tables, he ordered several dishes without asking.

Most of them were our usual favorites.

The kind we always shared.

The kind tied to memories. Late-night laughter, old films flickering on the couch, lazy days when time seemed to slow down and the world outside, with all its blood and territory and obligation, couldn't reach us.

For a moment, it almost felt familiar.

Almost.

But then I saw it.

One more dish.

Bitter melon with scrambled eggs.

The one I hated the most.

He knew that.

He had always remembered.

Every little thing.

Until now.

My appetite disappeared completely, like something inside me had quietly snapped. Even my wolf went still beneath my skin, the way it always did when something was wrong and it didn't yet know what. The smell of the food, the low conversation at nearby tables, even the old crooning record drifting through the room all felt distant. I didn't feel like forcing myself anymore, didn't feel like pretending everything was normal.

"Excuse me," I called gently to the attendant standing nearby, keeping my tone polite and controlled. "Could you take this dish off the table? I'll pay for it separately."

The attendant hesitated for a second, clearly unsure, but before he could even reach for the plate, Salvar moved first. He dragged the dish back toward himself with a faint scoff.

"Oh, come on," he said, his voice edged with annoyance. "I miss a few days while you're in the Healing Hall and suddenly you're acting like a drama queen?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Maybe if you were actually watching where you were going, you wouldn't have ended up under those wheels in the first place."

The words landed harder than they should have.

Because I knew what it looked like when he cared.

I had seen it before.

There had been a time when a fever took me in the dead of winter. He had panicked, lifted me onto his back, and carried me through the freezing dark to a moon-healer he trusted, his hands trembling, his voice breaking as he kept asking if I was still conscious. I still remembered the way he cried that night, like losing me would destroy him. Back then he wasn't the Alpha yet. Back then his hands still shook for reasons that had nothing to do with blood or silver.

And now?

Now he had been part of the thing that hurt me… and didn't even bother to come.

He knew I hated bitter melon. For five years, he had never once ordered it, never once let anything remotely bitter near our table. He used to say even the scent of it made me frown too much, and that his wolf hated to see it.

And yet now, like we had gone back in time to when we had just met, like none of those years had ever existed, he casually ordered it again without a second thought.

I curled my lips into a faint, tired smile, the kind that didn't quite reach my eyes.

"I really hate bitter melon," I said softly. "I can't even stand the smell."

"Then don't eat it," he replied immediately, his tone sharp and impatient. "Simple."

The irritation in his voice wasn't even hidden. The silver lighter appeared in his hand, turning slow across his knuckles, each rotation catching the candlelight like a small, indifferent blade.

But I kept my expression calm, polite, the way I had trained myself to be over the years.

"I think… we should—"

I didn't get to finish.

A woman's voice cut in smoothly from the side.

"Salvar, after all these years, you still remember I love bitter melon!"

I lifted my gaze.

She stood right beside our table, perfectly put together from head to toe. Flawless face. Impeccable grooming. Her posture straight, chin slightly lifted as she looked down at me with a faint, unmistakable trace of disdain. One finger rested on the pearl at her throat, light as a breath, as if confirming something only she needed to know.

And then her scent reached me. White jasmine over copper, and beneath it something faintly too-sweet, like petals just beginning to turn. My wolf stirred low in my chest, uneasy without knowing why.

Without waiting for any invitation, she stepped closer.

With an easy familiarity, she nudged Salvar slightly inward on the booth, then slipped into the seat right next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The two enforcers at the bar didn't turn, but I could feel the room's attention tighten, the way it always did when the Alpha's table changed shape.

"Let me introduce myself," she said sweetly, her voice smooth like syrup. "I'm Salvar's she-wolf. Adressa Thornwell."

I didn't respond.

She leaned in even closer to him, her arm grazing his as if it was completely natural, then glanced sideways at me with a subtle, almost playful look.

"Salvar," she said lightly, "aren't you going to introduce her? She's…"

Salvar's expression stiffened instantly.

It was clear he hadn't expected this.

His eyes flickered toward me, a brief flash of unease, almost panic, before he forced himself to stay composed. Beneath the table his hand went still on the silver lighter he'd been turning. Something in his scent shifted too, the cold iron threading through the black cedar going sharp for half a breath.

For a second, I almost laughed.

"Selene Ashford," I said before he could speak, my tone calm and even. "I serve as a den liaison at Alpha Nightbane's front den. The hall was full, so we're just sharing a table."

His head snapped toward me.

That flicker of panic disappeared just as quickly as it came, replaced by visible relief. He let out a breath, then nodded quickly. The lighter resumed its slow rotation.

"Yeah, that's right," he said. "This is Selene. One of my pack."

Adressa smiled slowly.

The kind of smile a wolf gives when it already has its prey pinned beneath its paw.

"Miss Ashford must be very capable, then," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I've never seen Salvar sit at the same table with any she-wolf besides me."

Her tone was light, but every word carried weight. Under the white jasmine of her scent ran something faintly too-sweet, like petals already beginning to turn, and my wolf stirred low in my chest, uneasy, a growl I swallowed before it could surface.

Then she placed her crystal communicator casually beside her wine glass, nudging it forward just enough to be seen. It looked accidental.

But it wasn't.

I caught a glimpse of the screen.

Her image.

It matched Salvar's.

A bonded pair.

Even their colors today were coordinated. Same tones, same palette, down to the smallest details like the moonstone cuffs at their wrists. Everything was deliberate, curated, costly. The kind of matched presentation that in this world meant more than romance. It meant claim. It meant territory.

Under the warm lamplight of the den hall, they looked perfect.

Like a portrait of an Alpha and his Luna.

I lowered my gaze, set my chopsticks down carefully, and stood up.

I didn't want to stay.

Before I could take a step, Adressa reached out and grabbed my wrist.

Her fingers were slender, her nails long and perfectly manicured.

They dug into my skin just enough to hurt, just enough to leave a mark, but hidden from Salvar's line of sight.

"Miss Ashford," she said softly, her voice laced with feigned concern, "you're leaving already? Did I say something wrong?"

Her eyes shimmered, almost as if she were genuinely apologetic.

"Let me apologize, okay?"

I didn't have the patience for this.

Didn't have the energy to play along with someone pretending to be all sweetness and innocence.

I pulled my hand back sharply, breaking free from her grip.

Just as I lowered my eyes to check my wrist, I saw it: thin red marks where her nails had dug in, one of them already starting to bead with blood.

Before I could even process it, everything happened in an instant.

Adressa suddenly lifted her own hand and swung it outward.

A loud smack echoed through the den hall.

A little pup standing nearby was struck across the face.

His cry broke out immediately, sharp and piercing as he clutched his cheek, tears spilling down as he began sobbing uncontrollably. Two fingers hooked into the hem of his sweater, twisting the fabric tight, and he couldn't look up.

The entire room went quiet for a split second. The low music between songs. The clink of silverware stopping at three separate tables. A stillness that in any pack-favored hall meant someone of rank was watching.

Adressa's expression changed just as quickly.

Her face turned pale, her eyes widening in exaggerated shock.

"Oh no!" she gasped, covering her mouth. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to! Sweetheart, are you okay?"

Salvar was already on his feet.

He rushed over, apologizing repeatedly to the pup's parents, his tone urgent and sincere. Without hesitation he pulled out his communicator and transferred moon-credits, trying to smooth things over as quickly as possible. The Alpha handling lesser wolves. Keeping the peace in a public hall where the Nightbane name floated above every exchange like woodsmoke.

But then the little pup suddenly pointed straight at me.

"It was her!" he cried between sobs. "She grabbed that lady's hand and made her hit me! She should say sorry!"

Every gaze in the den hall shifted.

All at once.

Adressa turned to me slowly, her eyes filling with hurt, her expression trembling just enough to look real. Her fingers drifted to the pearl at her throat again, holding it like a she-wolf afraid of being struck next.

"Miss Ashford…" she said softly, her voice fragile, "I don't know what I did to upset you."

She lowered her gaze slightly, like she was holding back tears.

"If you have a problem with me, please… just take it out on me. Don't drag innocent ones into this…"

Whispers began to spread.

Low voices. Judging. Speculating.

I could feel it.

The weight of every stare pressing against my back. In a place like this, where half the room owed something to the Nightbane name, the murmur of the pack wasn't just opinion. It was verdict.

Salvar turned toward me, his expression darkening instantly. The air around him thickened, his Alpha aura pressing down over the table like a sudden drop in temperature, and somewhere beneath my skin my wolf flattened low without my willing it.

"What are you standing there for?" he snapped, his voice sharp and cold. "Apologize. Now."

His tone left no room for argument.

"Stop making a scene."

Like I was the problem.

Like I was the one who had embarrassed him.

Like I was the one who didn't belong.