Rex called back in forty-three minutes.

I was still sitting on the floor of my father's old suite, my back against the wall, the phone in my lap. When it rang, I didn't jump. I just picked it up.

"Diana." His voice was careful. Controlled. The voice of a man delivering a verdict. "I need you to listen to me very carefully."

"I'm listening."

"The bond you believed you had with Cooper Turner was never legally registered with the Lycan Council. There is no record of a completed marking ceremony between you. However—" He paused. I heard papers rustling. "There is a registered bond between Cooper Turner and Ashlynn Parker, filed twenty-six months ago. Civil ceremony. Witnessed by Milena Turner and the Nightstone pack's former Gamma. It's legitimate."

I said nothing. I couldn't.

"Diana, I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me. Do you remember the marking ceremony? Do you remember the actual moment of the bite?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried to think back eight years to that moonlit night in the pack's ceremonial clearing. Cooper had given me ritual wine. It had tasted strange—bitter, with an aftertaste I'd attributed to nerves. We'd spoken the traditional words. He'd kissed me. And then...

Blank.

I remembered waking up in his bed the next morning with a bandage on my neck and Cooper beside me, smiling. Telling me I was his. That we were bonded forever.

"I don't remember the bite," I said quietly.

"No." Rex's voice was tight. Angry. "You wouldn't. I had the ritual wine analyzed through a contact at the Council's forensic lab. It contained a sedative compound—specifically designed to suppress a wolf's bond-verification instinct during marking. It's illegal. Has been for seventy years."

My hand went to my neck. To the mark I'd worn for eight years like a badge of honor. "What about this?" I asked. "The scar?"

"Superficial tissue damage. Consistent with a surgical blade, not canine penetration. A true mate-mark goes deeper—into the scent glands, the muscle. It leaves a permanent bond-trace that shows up on Council scans. Yours doesn't."

I closed my eyes. "So I've been packless."

"Legally, yes. You had no Luna protections. No territorial claim. If Cooper had died, you would have had no inheritance rights. If the pack had been challenged, you could have been removed without cause." He paused. "Diana, you've been the other woman in your own pack for eight years."

The words should have broken me. Instead, they settled into place like the last piece of a puzzle I'd been assembling without knowing it. All the small things that had never made sense. The way Milena always referred to pack matters as "family business" and excluded me from certain meetings. The way Cooper's financial records had sections I couldn't access. The way Ashlynn had always been just... there, hovering at the edges, waiting.

"I need documentation," I said. My voice was steady. Clinical. "Everything you found. The lab report on the wine. The Council registration records. The bond-scan results. I need it in a format that will hold up in a formal inquiry."

Rex was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're going after them."

"Yes."

"Good." I heard the fierce satisfaction in his voice. "I'll have everything to you within seventy-two hours. Encrypted file transfer. And Diana—I'm sorry. I should have checked this years ago. Your father would have wanted me to."

"You're checking it now," I said. "That's what matters."

I ended the call. Then I sat in the dark and let myself feel it. Not the grief this time. The rage.

Eight years. Eight years of my life, my father's legacy, my blood and sweat and intelligence—all poured into a pack that had never actually been mine. All given to a man who had drugged me, staged a sacred ceremony, and let me believe I was his Luna while his real mate waited for me to be "resolved."

The other situation has resolved itself.

I stood up. My legs were steady. My wolf was silent now, but I could feel her—cold, focused, waiting.

I had work to do.

***

Seventy-two hours later, Rex's encrypted file arrived. I read it twice. The lab report. The Council records. The bond-scan analysis. Every piece of evidence laid out in meticulous legal language that left no room for interpretation.

I saved it all to three separate secure drives. Then I ordered a UV light and forensic evidence-collection supplies from a human supplier two states away. Paid in cash through a prepaid card. Had it shipped to a post office box I'd opened that morning under my mother's maiden name.

I was done trusting pack resources. I was done trusting anything Cooper Turner had touched.

The supplies arrived on a Tuesday. I waited until three in the morning, when the pack house was silent and the overnight security rotation had moved to the eastern perimeter. Then I went back to the stairwell.

I'd walked past it every day for three days. Hadn't looked at it directly. Hadn't let myself think about what I was going to find.

Now I stood at the top landing with the UV light in my hand and made myself look.

The steps were clean. Polished wood, gleaming faintly in the emergency lighting. No visible stains. No obvious residue.

I turned on the UV light.

The fourth step lit up like a crime scene.

Purple-blue streaks, concentrated in a deliberate pattern across the center of the tread where someone descending would naturally place their foot. Not a spill. Not an accident. This was applied. Carefully. With intent.

I moved down. The fifth step showed the same pattern. The sixth. The seventh.

Four steps. Designed for maximum slippage. Designed to make sure that when I fell, I fell hard.

I photographed everything. Multiple angles. Close-ups. Wide shots showing the pattern's placement. My hands didn't shake.

Then I collected samples. Cotton swabs in sterile tubes, labeled and dated. Chain of custody documentation, the way Rex had taught me years ago when I'd helped him prepare evidence for a territorial dispute case.

When I was done, I had twelve samples and forty-seven photographs.

I stood at the bottom of the stairwell and looked up at where I'd fallen. Where I'd lost my pup. Where someone had tried to kill me.

Not tried. Succeeded. They'd killed my baby. They just hadn't managed to kill me.

I turned off the UV light. Then I walked to the pack house's main security office.

I'd installed this system three years ago. Upgraded it personally after a break-in attempt on the eastern border. I knew every camera angle, every backup protocol, every administrative access point.

I logged into the server using my credentials—the ones Cooper had never thought to revoke because he'd never thought I'd need to be revoked. I pulled up the footage from the night before my fall.

There. 2:47 AM. Main corridor, third-floor camera.

A figure moving toward the stairwell. Female. Slender build. Moving with purpose, not caution.

I zoomed in. The resolution was good—I'd made sure of that when I'd selected the equipment. I could see her face clearly in the hallway lighting.

Ashlynn Parker.

She was carrying something small. A bottle, maybe four ounces. Dark glass.

I watched her reach the stairwell door. Watched her glance back once, checking the corridor. Watched her disappear through the door.

Seventeen minutes later, she emerged. The bottle was gone. Her hands were empty. She walked back the way she'd come, her expression calm.

I checked the stairwell camera footage for the same time window.

Deleted.

Crudely. Whoever had done it had simply erased the seventeen-minute block and hoped no one would notice the gap. They hadn't known about the automatic backup system that ran every six hours, storing footage on a separate encrypted drive.

I restored the backup.

There she was. Ashlynn, on the fourth-step landing, crouched down with the bottle tilted. Pouring carefully. Spreading the oil with her fingers to make sure it covered the right area. Moving to the next step. And the next.

She worked quickly. Efficiently. Like she'd planned this. Like she'd thought about it.

I saved everything. The original footage. The deleted section. The restored backup. I burned it all to a secure drive and labeled it with the date and timestamp.

Then I sat back in the security office chair and stared at the frozen image on the screen. Ashlynn's face, caught in the act. Calm. Focused.

She'd murdered my pup. Deliberately. Methodically. And she'd done it because I was in her way.

I ejected the drive. Slipped it into my pocket. Logged out of the system and erased my access history.

Then I walked out of the pack house and got in my car.

I had everything I needed now. The fraudulent bond. The wolfsbane evidence. The security footage.

I just needed one more thing.

I needed Ashlynn Parker to confess.