LENA'S POV

The Luna's office still smelled like me when I opened the door. Cedar polish, old paper, the lavender sachets I tucked into the filing drawers.

Then the scent of lilies hit me.

There was a tall vase of them on my desk, white and waxy, crowding the corner where my photo of the first Omega shelter intake used to sit. The photo was gone. In its place were three neat stacks of folders, each one labeled in looping blue ink. Healers' Rotation. School Board. Eastwood Trade.

My handwriting had been on those files for four years. Now it was hers.

I set my empty box on the chair and started on the bookshelf. My books, my notebooks, the chipped mug the pups at the shelter had painted for my birthday. I was wrapping the mug in a scarf when the door opened behind me.

"Oh," Serena said. "You're here."

She was carrying a fresh cup of coffee and wearing a cream blazer that looked like it had been bought for the job. She glanced at the box, then at the half-empty shelf, and something satisfied settled into the corners of her mouth.

"Don't let me rush you," she said. "Take whatever you need."

"I'm only taking what's mine."

"Of course." She set her coffee down on my desk, on her desk, and touched one of the lilies like she was checking it was real. "I hope you don't think I wanted it to happen like this. Noah just feels the pack needs someone stable right now."

"Stable," I said.

"After everything." She tilted her head. "The banquet. The Harvest Moon. You nearly fell down the Pack House steps, Lena. People talk."

I tucked the mug into the box and didn't answer. Whatever she wanted from me, a crack, a tear, a raised voice, she wasn't getting it in this room.

Serena watched me pack for a few seconds. Then she pulled a slim folder from her bag and laid it on top of the stack.

The tab read Hollow Creek Sanctuary.

My hands stopped.

I'd started that program out of a garage with two cots and a space heater. Orphaned pups no pack wanted. Omegas who'd run from mates who hit them. Now it was a converted farmhouse on the east boundary with twenty-six beds, a schoolroom, and a waiting list.

"I'd like to take this over too," Serena said. "It makes sense for the Luna's office to manage it."

"It was never under the Luna's office. It's mine."

"It's run on pack land."

"Leased pack land. Under my name."

She gave me that soft, careful look again, the one she used in front of the elders. "Lena, I'm saying this as a friend. You look exhausted. You're coughing all the time. Those kids need someone who'll actually be around." She paused just long enough for it to sting. "For the long term."

For one second, I wondered if she knew. If Noah had told her about the blood, about Elara, about the clock ticking down under my collarbone.

No. He didn't know either. I'd never gotten the chance to tell him.

I looked at the folder. I thought about the girl who'd showed up at Hollow Creek last winter with her shoes duct-taped together, and how she'd cried when I gave her a room with a lock on the inside. Serena had never once visited. Not a single time.

I could fight her for it. Drag it to the council. Make it ugly.

And while I fought, the kids would be the ones caught in the middle.

"Okay," I said.

Serena blinked. "Okay?"

"You want the program, take it." I pulled out my phone, scrolled to a contact, and put it on speaker. "Dana, it's Lena. I need you to move something today."

My accountant answered on the second ring. "Go ahead."

"Every private donor to Hollow Creek. My personal trust, the Eastwood family fund, the Carvers, the Okafors. Everyone who gave because I asked them to. Contact them about redirecting their future support to a new foundation under my name. I'll send the paperwork tonight."

Serena's smile slipped.

"That's almost ninety percent of the budget," Dana said slowly.

"I know exactly what it is."

"Where's the future funding going?"

"Somewhere it'll be used for the kids, not for a title." I ended the call and slid the phone into my pocket.

Serena's face had gone a shade paler. "You can't just pull the funding. Those pups—"

"Will be taken care of. By me." I lifted the box onto my hip. "You wanted to run the pack's program, Serena. Now you can. The building and the paperwork are still there. Have fun with the budget."

I walked out and left her standing among the lilies.

---

I was loading the last box into my trunk when a black SUV with Silvercrest plates pulled into the driveway.

Julian got out, looked at the open trunk, and raised his eyebrows.

"So it's true," he said. "You walked out of the whole pack."

"News travels fast."

"Your Beta's mate told my Beta's mate. That's faster than any council." He leaned against my car, hands in the pockets of his coat. Up close in daylight, he looked less like a rival Alpha and more like a man who hadn't slept much. "I didn't come to gossip. I came with an offer."

"If this is about river rights, I'm not in the mood."

That pulled a smile out of him. "You'd lose again anyway."

"I'd win this time."

"Probably." The smile faded. "Silvercrest is building a sanctuary on our northern border. For rogues who want to stop being rogues, Omegas with nowhere to go, pups without packs. We have the land and the money. What we don't have is anyone who knows how to make a place like that work." He looked at me steadily. "You do. I've seen Hollow Creek."

I stared at him. "You want me to run it."

"I want you to build it. Your way."

"Julian, I'm not anyone's Luna anymore."

"Good," he said. "It's not a Luna job. You wouldn't belong to me or to my pack. You'd belong to the work. You can sign a contract, you can walk away whenever you want, and nobody stands next to you on a platform."

Something loosened in my chest, and for once it wasn't the Rot.

For six years, every place I'd stood had been beside Noah. The office, the platform, the head of the table. I'd never stopped to wonder if there was a version of me that didn't need him in the room to have a reason to be there.

Apparently there was. And someone had driven two hours to offer her a job.

The front door opened behind us.

Noah came down the porch steps slowly. His right hand was still bandaged from the window. His eyes went from Julian to the boxes in my trunk, and the air around him tightened the way it had on the Pack House landing.

"Ashf—" He stopped and corrected himself, cold and formal. "Alpha. You're on my land."

"I'm in your driveway," Julian said. "I was invited. More or less."

Noah looked at me. "Were you?"

I could have lied. I could have said Julian just showed up, that it meant nothing. Instead, I turned to Julian and spoke clearly enough that there was no way Noah could miss it.

"I'll take it. The sanctuary. I'll come to Silvercrest."

Then I looked at my husband and waited.

One word. That was all. Stay. Don't. Wait. I would have taken anything. The bond said he still loved me, so I gave him one last chance to prove the bond right in daylight, out loud, in front of someone else.

Noah's jaw worked. His bandaged hand curled at his side, and I saw the gauze pull tight across his knuckles. For a moment, I swear he was going to say it.

"Silvercrest suits you better," he said.

Then he turned around and went back inside, and the door closed quietly behind him.

Julian didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

I shut the trunk. The mark on my neck burned once, hard, like something inside it had flinched.

"When can I start?" I asked.

Julian studied my face. "Whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready now," I said. "I'm not coming back to this house."

LENA'S POV

The last box was the hardest one, because it didn't hold anything useful.

It held three years of marriage. Ticket stubs from the river festival where Noah had won me a stuffed fox and then pretended he hadn't tried. A dried corsage from the Eastwood gala. The wooden spoon he'd burned the first time he tried to make me pancakes, which I'd kept because he'd looked so wounded when the smoke alarm went off.

I sat on the floor of the guest room, where I'd slept since the night of the ring, and went through it piece by piece.

Most of it went into the trash bag beside me. I didn't let myself linger on any of it.

At the bottom was our wedding photo in a silver frame. We were standing under the old oak at the edge of the Pack House grounds. My veil had caught in the wind, and Noah was reaching to fix it, laughing, his eyes on me instead of the camera.

I'd always loved that picture because he looked like a man who couldn't believe his luck.

I set it face-up on the dresser and left it there. Let him decide what to do with it. I wasn't carrying that man out of this house when he'd already walked out on me.

The only thing I took was the velvet pouch tucked into the corner of the box. Inside was my mother's moonstone necklace, a pale oval stone on a thin silver chain. She'd worn it every full moon until the day she died. I fastened it around my neck, and the stone settled cool against my skin, just below the gray edge of the mark.

"You're wearing that again."

I didn't jump. I'd felt him in the hallway for a full minute, the bond humming like a live wire.

Noah stood in the doorway with his bandaged hand at his side and a bundle of envelopes in the other. They were tied with a faded blue ribbon. I knew that ribbon. I'd bought it at a craft store when I was twenty and thought I was being romantic.

"It was my mother's," I said. "It's the only thing in this house I actually want."

His eyes flicked to the wedding photo on the dresser, then away.

"You forgot these." He tossed the bundle onto the bed like it was junk mail. "Figured you'd want them back."

The letters. The ones we'd written each other the year before the wedding, when he was off training with the border patrol and I was finishing my healer certification three hundred miles away. We'd promised not to call. Letters only, because his grandmother had said real mates should be able to fall in love with words.

I'd kept his in a shoebox for years. Apparently he'd kept mine too.

"You held onto them," I said.

"They were in a drawer. I was cleaning it out." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Do whatever you want with them. Burn them. I don't care."

I picked up the bundle. The ribbon was soft from handling, frayed at one end like someone had untied and retied it more than a few times.

I didn't point that out. I'd learned what happened when I pointed things out.

"Can I ask you something?" I said.

"You're going to anyway."

"Six months ago. When Serena started sitting in on my meetings, when you started coming home late, when you stopped touching me in your sleep." I looked up at him. "Is that when it started? Were you already in love with her by then?"

He didn't answer right away.

The silence stretched long enough that I could hear the clock in the hallway and a truck downshifting somewhere on the road. His jaw tightened. For a second, his gaze dropped to the letters in my hands.

Then he looked straight at me.

"Longer than you think," he said.

It landed somewhere under my ribs, quiet and heavy, and stayed there.

Longer. So every time he'd kissed my forehead before a council meeting, every anniversary dinner, every night he'd pulled me close and murmured my name against my hair, there had already been someone else.

I waited for the tears. They didn't come. Maybe I'd used them all up in the kitchen with the broken glass.

"Okay," I said.

He frowned. "Okay?"

"Thank you for being honest. Finally." I stood and tucked the letters into my coat pocket instead of the trash bag. I wasn't sure why. Maybe because the girl who wrote them deserved better than a garbage can. "That makes this easier."

"Lena—"

Outside, tires crunched on gravel.

---

Julian had come himself.

He didn't honk or wait in the car. He got out of the black SUV and came up the walk, and when he saw me at the top of the porch steps with my suitcase, he stopped at the bottom and let me come to him.

"That everything?" he asked.

"Everything I want."

He took the suitcase and loaded it into the back with the boxes his Beta had picked up that morning. Then he walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for me.

He didn't offer his hand. He didn't touch my elbow or the small of my back. He simply stood there holding the door, giving me all the space in the world to decide.

I was grateful for that in a way I didn't know how to say.

Behind me, I felt Noah step onto the porch.

I hadn't meant to turn around. I'd told myself on the stairs that I wouldn't. But the bond pulled, the mark flaring hot under the cool weight of the moonstone, and I looked back before I could stop myself.

He was standing in the open doorway with one hand braced on the frame. He wasn't wearing a coat. The wind tugged at his shirt, and his face was pale in the gray afternoon light, paler than I'd seen it in weeks.

He looked at me, and I looked at him.

Six years since the river. Three years since the oak tree. Ninety days, minus however many I'd already lost.

He didn't say my name. He didn't move.

So I turned away from him and got into the car.

Julian shut my door gently and came around to the driver's side. He started the engine, then sat with his hands on the wheel for a moment, watching me out of the corner of his eye.

"You sure?" he asked quietly.

The house sat in the side mirror, small and white and framed by pines. Noah was still in the doorway.

My fingers closed around the moonstone.

"Drive," I said. "And Julian?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't stop the car. No matter what."

He studied me a second longer, then nodded once and pulled out of the driveway.

I watched the mirror. Noah didn't come down the steps. He didn't wave. He just stood there, getting smaller, until the road curved through the trees and the house disappeared behind a wall of green.

The mark on my neck gave one last hard throb, like a door slamming somewhere inside me.

Then it went quiet.

---

NOAH'S POV (THIRD PERSON)

He stood in the doorway long after the SUV was gone.

Long after the sound of the engine faded into the trees. Long after the wind shifted and carried the last trace of lavender and cedar down the hill and away, until there was nothing left on the air but pine and cold and wet earth.

Only then did his hand slip from the doorframe.

He caught the wall instead, palm slamming flat against the siding. His knees hit the porch boards hard. He bent forward, shoulders heaving, and his bandaged hand clawed at his chest as if he could tear out whatever was rising in it.

The cough ripped up from somewhere deep.

Blood spattered across the white-painted steps. Thick and black as tar, steaming faintly in the cold.

Exactly like hers.