Even after three cycles of the moon spent as mates, they didn’t always share the same den at night.

Lucien had once growled, low and unwavering, that he didn’t like having anyone curled up beside him.

Sylvara had long since understood—it wasn’t merely “someone” he wanted space from. It was always her.

She also knew he had always been cautious with Tahlia. He likely rehearsed every word, every justification for the young wolf, but when Sylvara agreed without protest, it had thrown him off balance.

“Fine,” she said softly, voice smooth as velvet, “there’s far too much of my things in your den anyway. I’ll take it all out myself.”

It hardly mattered whether she left her belongings today or a month from now.

The moment her words left her lips, Lucien opened his mouth to argue—an instinctive retort hovering just out of reach—but Tahlia’s sweet, calculated interjection cut him off.

“Thanks, Avy,” she said innocently.

Sylvara offered no reply. She bent low, arms thin but steady, lifting a heavy crate and maneuvering it toward the stairs.

The box was far too full. Her foot slipped against a hidden shard of glass on the floor, and she fell. Her knee slammed against the tiles, slicing into flesh, shards biting cruelly.

Pain seared through her body, a blaze that made her spine stiffen and sweat bead along her neck. She bit her lip hard to keep silent, refusing to cry out.

But Lucien didn’t notice. Tahlia had already tugged him away, leaving Sylvara alone on the floor, trembling as the ache burrowed deeper. One drop of blood fell, then another, tiny droplets staining the cold stone.

In the Winslets’ realm, Lucien would have carried Tahlia’s burdens without hesitation.

“Our little Yannie,” he would have said, warm and indulgent, “deserves to be treated like a princess.”

Sylvara, in contrast, had once been the daughter of a lowly maid. She hauled, scrubbed, and labored while no one lifted a finger. No one cared if she bled or fell.

Now, as the daughter of a pack elder and as Lucien’s mate, nothing had changed.

Everyone still aligned with Tahlia—without question, without pause.

Sylvara had learned to live with it.

The afternoon passed slowly, her hands and arms aching as she sorted through every chest, shelf, and trunk. By the time the sun began to slip below the horizon, her possessions were packed onto a waiting carriage.

“You didn’t have to discard so much,” Lucien said, frowning as he surveyed the load. “Yannie is only staying temporarily. Once she leaves, you’ll return. What’s the point of all this?”

To him, something felt off—she was too composed, unnervingly calm these past few nights.

“They’re relics,” Sylvara replied evenly. “Time to let them go.”

“You’ve never been wasteful,” he observed.

No, she hadn’t. Her life had been one of scarcity, of making everything she owned endure.

Yet she smiled faintly. “They’ve been with me a long time. Sometimes, you need to clear space. Out with the old, right?”

Just like people, she thought silently.

Her explanation sounded reasonable. Had he pressed further, he would have appeared petty. He let the matter drop.

“There’s an auction tonight,” he added, shifting the subject. “The organizers specifically invited me. You’ll attend. With Yannie.”

Sylvara opened her mouth to refuse, but he cut her off with a low, sharp bark of authority.

“You’re my secretary. I cannot appear without one.”

She stared at him. A dozen bitter retorts pressed at her tongue—like, and bringing Tahlia is acceptable?—but she said none. She simply inclined her head. One last duty before vanishing from his life.

Night fell, and inside the auction hall, bright enchanted lamps cast the space in daylight brilliance.

All who mattered were present—wolves and humans alike, polished, practiced, and powerful.

The Thorne Pack had risen swiftly these past two moons, and Jade, the host, stepped forward to greet them with a practiced smile.

“Alpha Thorne. Your seats await. Right this way.”

She gestured toward two adjacent chairs. “I understand congratulations are due. Your mate’s seat is ready beside you.”

For a heartbeat, the three froze.

Lucien’s mate bond had been private, sealed from the pack and outsiders alike. No one was meant to know.

Sylvara glanced at him, waiting. Two women. One additional seat.

The choice was inevitable.

“I am not married,” he said evenly, voice low, controlled. “I don’t know where that rumor began.”

The host blinked, puzzled. “And these two?”

Lucien advanced, taking Tahlia’s hand first.

“This is Tahlia, daughter of the S. Winslet Co., and an important wolf in our allied pack.”

“Ah, Tahlia Winslet,” Jade said politely, acknowledging her.

Then, with a reluctant curl of his lips, Lucien added, “And the one beside you? My secretary.”

Sylvara did not flinch. She had anticipated this brutal announcement. But knowing the cold truth did not dull the sting that pressed in her chest.

She stood tall, swallowing the burn, her dignity intact.

Lucien and Tahlia seated themselves as Sylvara remained behind, a lone sentinel in the chill of the grand hall.

Perhaps it was the crisp night air, perhaps the spectacle of the event, but a stabbing pain cut into her abdomen, sharp and unrelenting.

She pressed a hand to her belly, moving swiftly toward the restrooms—her retreat disguised as necessity, though in truth, she was fleeing.

She hadn’t even begun her blood cycle—so why did her belly flare with such sudden, searing pain?

Sylvara pushed herself to rise, every step a sharp ache, and made for the door. But it wouldn’t budge. Locked. From the outside.

Then came the grating, triumphant voice of Tahlia echoing through the enchanted seal.

“You pathetic shadow,” Tahlia sneered. “How’s it feel, wearing the scraps of a love that was never yours?

“Lucien has always belonged to me, from the very start. And now that I’ve returned, you’d best step aside.

“And here you are tonight, daring to show up and steal my spotlight?”

Sylvara doubled over, clutching her abdomen, cold sweat running in rivulets down her temples. Her voice was faint, strained, yet edged with defiance. “Tahlia… if you want him, take him. I… I don’t care anymore.”

Tahlia’s laughter was sharp, icy. “Ha! You expect me to believe that?

“You stole my mother’s favor back then… and now you try to take my mate too? Who do you think you are?

“You’re staying in here tonight. No one is coming to rescue you.”

With deliberate flourish, Tahlia dragged a carved wooden sign—“Restricted Area. No Wolves Beyond This Point”—and set it against the enchanted barrier door.

Because certain relics on display tonight were protected by lunar sigils, all attendees had been required to surrender their comm-amulets before entering. No outsider would dare approach. No one but Tahlia would think to check.

Shivering and weak, Avy sank to the stone floor, pressing herself against the wall as pain radiated through her body. Gathering the last of her strength, she slammed her fists on the heavy door and shouted, voice hoarse with desperation.

“Help… anyone… please… help me…”

But the warning runes on the sign kept passersby away; no one dared break the rules. No one came.

She had no sense of how long she wailed, how many heartbeats passed before the agony overcame her, and darkness finally claimed her.

When the auction ended and Sylvara had still not returned, Lucien’s frown was one of casual curiosity rather than concern.

Tahlia batted her lashes innocently. “Mondy, maybe she’s upset because I took her seat?

“If I’d known she’d sulk over it, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Hearing her pretend remorse, Lucien’s brows knitted. “You’re the Winslet heiress. Do you think a secretary belongs in your place?

“Forget it. Let her stew. She’s been puffed up with pride lately. Maybe a night of cool reflection will do her good. Let’s return to the den.”

Out of his sight, Tahlia’s lips curved in triumph. Sylvara, I told you—you can’t beat me. Not my mother, not my mate.

That night, Sylvara did not return to the pack stronghold, yet not once did Lucien inquire after his mate.

The next morning, during her routine rounds, a cleaning apprentice unlocked the restroom door where Sylvara had been trapped.

There she crouched, shivering in a corner. Her robe was soaked through, her body trembling from hours spent against the cold stone.

The apprentice rushed to her side, alarmed. “Mistress… how did you get locked in here? You look faint… should I summon the healers?”

Sylvara’s damp lashes lifted, eyes barely focusing. She forced herself upright, pressing arms against the floor.

“Thank you… but… it’s not necessary,” she murmured.

The sharp pain in her belly had softened, but the room remained bone-chilling from the night’s lingering cold.

She had expected at least one sign of concern from Lucien—he would have smelled her scent missing from the den, or come searching. But clearly, she had overestimated him again.

She remembered vividly how, the last time Tahlia had vanished for a mere ten minutes, Lucien had nearly raised an alarm across the pack.

Yet now, after a full night of silence, he had not lifted a claw to check on his mate.

So this is what love looks like, Sylvara thought bitterly, and this… this is what indifference feels like.

She steadied herself against the wall and moved, slow step by slow step, toward the exit, finally catching a carriage to the outskirts of the city.

In the warmth of the vehicle, she retrieved her comm-amulet and checked the messages. Not a single one from Lucien.

Instead, Red’s words burned across the screen:

[Sylvara, I can’t wait the full moon. One week. I’m coming to claim you in a week.]

When Sylvara glimpsed Red’s message, a flicker of warmth surged through her chest, chasing away some of the cold that had settled there.

She tapped a quick reply: [Okay.]

Yes, she thought, a full moon’s wait is far too long. One week—that’s all I need.

In just seven days, she would vanish from the Thorne den for good, severing every tie to Lucien and the pain he had caused.

As soon as she stepped back into the den, her nostrils caught the scent of arrogance before her eyes could register it. Tahlia lounged on the couch, draped in silk that belonged to Sylvara herself.

Her nightgown.

The door’s creak drew Tahlia’s gaze, and she let out a derisive smirk. “Back so soon? You look like a wolf barely dragged from the hunt.”

She rose gracefully, her steps deliberate, and tilted Sylvara’s chin with mocking precision. “Tsk. That face—pale as moonlight. Anyone would think you’d been mauled in the forest.”

Leaning closer, she bared her chest, the marks of last night on display like badges of conquest. “See these? All Mondy’s doing. Last night… was… unforgettable.”

Her words grew bolder, sliding into a mocking hiss beside Sylvara’s ear. “He said it himself—he only feels like an alpha with me. You? You lie there like a sleeping wolf, dull and lifeless.”

Sylvara’s eyes darkened to molten obsidian. Her palm shot out, striking Tahlia across the face with precision and force.

“Tahlia,” she snapped, teeth clenched, “know your place. I am still Lucien’s mate. You are… merely the interloper.

“Push me further, and I’ll expose you. Let the pack know you’re nothing more than a servant’s daughter, scheming to claim another wolf’s mate.”

Tahlia, however, had dug her own grave. She was far too eager to antagonize.

Just as she opened her mouth to strike back, her eyes widened in terror at the sight of Lucien advancing toward them. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled to the floor.

“Avy! I… I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have returned! I’ll leave tonight! I’ll die if it means I’m no longer in your way!” Tahlia whimpered.

Before Sylvara could respond, Tahlia surged forward, sprinting toward a stone pillar. Lucien intercepted her just in time, catching her in his arms.

“Yannie,” he barked, firm as a wolf’s growl, “I invited you here. If anyone has an issue with you, they answer to me!”

Sylvara’s lips curved into a bitter, almost hollow smile.

Lucien, still holding Tahlia, spun and commanded sharply, “Sylvara! Apologize to her—now!”

“I did nothing wrong,” Sylvara said, her voice steady, even as her chest burned. “I have nothing to apologize for. Lucien… aren’t you at least curious where I was last night?”

He scowled, fangs catching the dim light. “Did you—”

“I said, don’t you care—” she began.

“I don’t care where you prowled last night!” he snapped, cutting her off. “But you will not hurt Yannie! Fail to apologize this instant, and you’ll be suspended from your duties—until you admit your mistake!”

In his eyes, Sylvara was just a diligent subordinate. Suspension was supposed to sting. What he didn’t know was that she had never served for ambition—her work was a silent offering so that Lucien’s path remained untroubled.

Her gaze, weary but unwavering, pressed into him. For a moment, his chest tightened with guilt, but he turned away, taking Tahlia with him.

Before leaving, he ordered the pack servant, “Do not let her eat until she admits she’s wrong.”

Sylvara watched his retreating figure, silent tears tracing paths down her cheeks.

This was the wolf she had loved for seven long years. After this… she would never love him again.

For days, she remained locked within the villa’s enchanted walls. Three times each sun, the servant asked if she had realized her “error.” Sylvara never replied, only staring outward at the moonlit forest.

She counted down the days. Five more moons, and she would vanish from this den forever.

On the balcony swing, her comm-amulet buzzed incessantly. Every ping, a message from Tahlia.

Finally, on the day Sylvara intended to leave, another venomous note arrived:

*[Bitch, you couldn’t win over our mothers, and you can’t win over a mate. One word from me, and Mondy won’t come near you for a moon.] *

And she proved it.

For two full nights, Lucien did not return. Tahlia, however, sent proof of her conquest: videos of her entwined with Lucien under the silver glow of the moon; photos of him tending to her like a devoted alpha; intimate clips that burned with betrayal.

Once, Sylvara might have wept. But now… nothing. A wolf so shallow was better left behind.

On the fourth night, she still had not “admitted mistakes,” and the servant withheld food. She survived on water alone.

That evening, she wandered the frost-kissed garden, body weak from hunger. A golden wolfhound barreled into her, knocking her down. Normally manageable, but her frail state made her fall with force.

Pain erupted in her belly, sharp and unyielding. Blood soaked her legs. She knew immediately.

Two moons prior, during one of the rare moments of intimacy with Lucien, they had not protected themselves. Now, her womb rebelled, fire searing through her core. She sank to her knees, teeth gritted, and pleaded for the guards’ help.

The driver seized her trembling form and dashed toward the healers’ den—but the paths were barred.

“Mistress,” the driver stammered, “today is Tahlia’s birth celebration. Alpha Lucien closed the forest roads for her. We… cannot pass.”

Outside, her blood soaked her garments. Above, fireworks erupted, scattering like sparks over the dark canopy. All for Tahlia. All for Lucien’s displayed devotion.

Sylvara closed her eyes.

Summoning every ounce of strength, she ripped her silver wedding band from her finger and hurled it from the balcony.

Her mate, her marriage, the life she had once cherished—she wanted none of it anymore.