Wrenna Voss's POV

The man across the negotiation table just lunged for my wrist, and my new Alpha's claws closed on his throat before mine could.

"Touch my Luna again, and Blackpine ends today."

Three years ago they told my pack I died in a rogue attack on the northern cliff.

It wasn't an attack.

Lola paid thirty thousand for the rogues that drove me off the edge, and the alarm that should have saved me went dark for eleven minutes.

The hands that killed the alarm belonged to my own son.

Seven years old, giggling, doing his Aunt Lola a little favor.

I didn't die.

Cassian pulled me out of the ravine with my throat torn open and my memory wiped clean, and at Silvermoon I climbed from his patient to his war strategist to the mate the Moon Goddess threaded to him herself.

Now Blackpine is rotting—plague in the dens, rogues at the gates—and my husband has crawled north to beg.

He keeps staring at my neck.

"My mark," he whispers, shaking. "My mark is still on you."

So I sweep my hair aside and show him.

There's an old scar there, yes.

And burning silver right over it, a brand-new crescent that isn't his.

"Some desperate animal bit me three years ago," I tell him. "My healer pulled the rot out herself."

The boy in their delegation is crying, calling me Mom.

I look at him the way you look at a stranger's pup.

***

"Miss Lola told me to help her scare people."

My seven-year-old son, Eli, squatted in the freezing mud, his small fingers wrapped tightly around the heavy iron lever of the North Patrol main alarm valve.

I grabbed his wrist, pulling him away from the machinery. Rain lashed against my face, mixing with the dirt smeared across my cheeks.

"Just for a little bit," Eli whined, trying to yank his arm out of my grip. "She said it would be funny."

"You do not touch the perimeter defense, Eli," I said, my voice cutting through the howling wind. "Never."

"You're hurting me!" he yelled, kicking at my shin.

I ignored the sting and hauled him away from the console. I had given up my position as North Border Commander six years ago. I handed over the reins willingly, stepping down so I wouldn't have to share a chain of command with Lola, my husband's first love. For six years, I took Damon's logistics and night patrol shifts. I spent my nights trudging through the muck, keeping the border secure while they stayed warm inside.

Tonight was no different. I was on my sixth patrol of the evening while Damon celebrated Lola's birthday in the banquet hall.

"Walk," I ordered, pushing Eli toward the main compound.

I shoved open the heavy oak doors of the outpost's main hall. Warm air and the scent of roasted venison hit my face. Music played from the corner, and dozens of pack members stood around holding crystal glasses.

Damon stood at the center of the room, laughing next to Lola. She wore a crimson silk dress, her blonde hair pinned up perfectly.

He turned. His smile vanished the second he saw me dripping mud onto the polished hardwood floor.

"What are you doing?" Damon asked, his voice carrying over the sudden silence of the room. The music died down.

"Eli was out by the main valve," I said, pushing our son forward. "He had his hands on the master lever."

Lola covered her mouth, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Oh, Eli, I told you to play a prank on the gate guards, not go out into the cold."

I stared at her. "You sent a seven-year-old to tamper with outpost security?"

"I merely suggested a harmless joke," Lola replied, her tone soft, defensive. She stepped closer to Damon. "I never thought he would go near the actual valve. He's just a boy, Wrenna. Don't be so harsh."

Damon didn't look at Lola. His gaze dragged up and down my filthy uniform, resting on the mud caked around my boots.

"Wrenna, look at yourself," Damon said.

"The master valve was half-closed, Damon. If the lever drops, the entire North Cliff alarm system goes dark."

"And you handled it by dragging him in here to make a scene?" Damon countered.

"I handled it by stopping a breach."

"A breach?" Damon laughed, a harsh, echoing sound. "It's a rainy Tuesday, Wrenna. The only thing breaching this outpost is your paranoia."

"The lever was moved," I insisted.

Lola sighed, a fragile sound. "Damon, please. Don't fight because of me. I'll go apologize to the guards myself if it makes Wrenna feel better."

"You won't do any such thing," Damon said, placing a hand on Lola's waist. He turned his cold gaze back to me. "Patrolling is for soldiers, Wrenna. A Luna should be more dignified."

Laughter rippled through the gathered pack members. A few whispered behind their hands.

I tightened my jaw. Six years. Six years of covering his shifts, six years of keeping this border secure, wiped out by a single sneer in front of the entire pack. He didn't care about the danger. He only cared that I had interrupted Lola's party looking like a common foot soldier.

"The valve needs to be reset," I said, keeping my chin up.

"Then tell a guard to fix it," Damon snapped, turning his back to me. "Go clean yourself up. You're ruining the evening."

Eli ran past me, burying his face in Lola's skirt. She stroked his hair, shooting me a sympathetic look that made my stomach churn.

I didn't argue. I turned on my heel and walked back out into the freezing night. The heavy doors slammed shut behind me, cutting off the warmth and the music.

The rain had turned to sleet. I marched straight back to the iron console by the perimeter fence. The master lever still sat at a dangerous angle, halfway between active and dormant.

I grabbed the freezing metal and shoved it forward to lock the alarm back into place.

It wouldn't click.

I pushed harder, throwing my weight against the iron. The metal grated, emitting a harsh, scraping sound. It wouldn't budge.

I pulled out my flashlight, clicking the heavy button. The yellow beam cut through the sleet, illuminating the base of the lever. I dropped to my knees in the mud, ignoring the freezing water seeping through my pants. I ran my bare fingers along the icy valve core, digging into the narrow gap between the gears.

Wood chips.

Rough, splintered oak, packed tightly into the mechanism. I scraped at it with my fingernails, but the wood was wedged deep, hammered into place. This wasn't a child's prank. Eli couldn't have jammed this himself. He didn't have the strength to wedge wood into heavy machinery.

My chest tightened. I checked my watch.

The system had been offline for at least eleven minutes.

Eleven minutes on the North Border was a death sentence. It was enough time for an entire pack of rogues to cross the river undetected.

I pulled my radio from my belt. "Command, this is Voss. The North valve is jammed. Do you have eyes on the cliff?"

Static hissed through the speaker.

"Command, respond," I demanded.

Nothing.

A long, piercing howl tore through the darkness from the direction of the North Cliff.

I yanked my head up. I waited for the red warning lights on the outpost towers to flare to life. I waited for the automated sirens to scream.

The towers remained completely dark. The alarm was dead.

I abandoned the jammed lever and sprinted toward the armory shed. I kicked the wooden door open and grabbed the heavy brass backup horn from the wall hook.

I ran toward the cliff path, my boots slipping in the mud. The wind whipped against my face, carrying the foul, rotting scent of wet fur and blood. My lungs burned with every breath. I bypassed the main barracks, knowing there was no time to wake the sleeping guards. By the time they geared up, the perimeter would be overrun.

More howls erupted. Closer this time. Dozens of them.

Rogues.

They were already past the first perimeter fence. The sound of their heavy paws tearing through the underbrush echoed over the storm.

"Damon, get the guards out here!" I screamed into the radio, not caring if it transmitted through the static.

I reached the edge of the tree line. The cliff path stretched out before me, shrouded in absolute darkness. I raised the cold brass horn to my lips, ready to blow the manual alert.

A massive shadow launched from the branches above, claws extending toward the back of my neck.

Wrenna Voss's POV

The shadow hit me like a freight train.

Heavy paws slammed into my shoulders, driving me face-first toward the mud. Before I could twist away, razor-sharp fangs sank directly into the back of my neck.

They didn't just bite flesh. They clamped perfectly over the scarred tissue of my mate mark.

A scream ripped from my throat as the old wound tore open. I shoved the heavy brass horn backward, blindly smashing the metal into the attacker's skull.

"Get off me!" I roared.

Bone crunched. The rogue whimpered, releasing my neck.

I stumbled forward, spinning around and wiping the hot blood from my eyes. I raised the dented horn like a club, my chest heaving.

Six wolves stepped out of the tree line.

"Stand down!" I ordered, my voice booming over the sleet.

They didn't flinch. They didn't howl. They spread out, flanking me in a perfect crescent. Feral rogues fought like wild dogs, messy and chaotic. These wolves moved with military precision.

Lightning flashed, illuminating their thick, matted fur. Every single one wore a braided red leather cord tied tight around their throat.

"Red-cord mercenaries," I spat, gripping the horn tighter. "Who bought you?"

The largest wolf, a scarred gray male, shifted his weight. His bones cracked as he morphed into a towering, half-human form.

"You talk too much for a dead Luna," the mercenary growled, wiping rain from his snout.

"Thirty thousand gold coins," I said, recognizing the standard contract rate for a high-ranking assassination. "That is the going rate for your guild, isn't it?"

"Your head is paid for," he sneered. "Nothing personal."

"You think you can take this border?" I challenged, taking a slow step backward.

"We already own it," he replied. "Your alarm is dead. Your guards are asleep. You are entirely alone."

My boots slid on the slick slate. I was running out of ground. The roar of the crashing river echoed hundreds of feet below me.

"Are you boys going to stand there all night?"

A soft, entirely calm voice floated through the storm.

I snapped my gaze down the cliff path.

Lola stood at the edge of the tree line, perfectly sheltered beneath a large black umbrella. She wore her crimson silk dress, untouched by the mud or the wind. She wasn't screaming for help. She wasn't running toward the outpost.

She was just watching me.

"Lola, get inside!" I yelled, though the words tasted like ash in my mouth.

She tilted the umbrella back. A chilling smile spread across her face. It was the look of a customer confirming a shipment had arrived exactly on schedule.

"Why would I run?" Lola asked, her tone conversational, completely at odds with the snarling beasts surrounding me. "The storm provides such excellent cover."

"You jammed the valve," I breathed, staring at her through the rain. "The wood chips. You sent Eli out here as a distraction."

"He is a very useful boy," Lola replied, her smile widening. "Thirty thousand gold is a bargain to finally clean house."

"You brought mercenaries onto pack lands!" I screamed, pointing the horn at her. "You are endangering everyone!"

"They only want you, Wrenna," Lola said, adjusting her silk shawl. "Once you fall, they leave. It is a very simple transaction."

"I paid you for efficiency," Lola added, turning her attention to the gray male. "Push her over."

"We work at our own pace, lady," the mercenary chuckled, stepping closer to me. "Time is up, Luna."

"Damon!" I shrieked, praying my voice would carry to the main hall. "Breach! North Cliff!"

"Wrenna, shut up!" Lola snapped, her calm facade faltering for a fraction of a second.

"Damon!" I yelled again.

The heavy oak doors of the outpost finally burst open.

Damon charged into the storm, his formal clothes soaked instantly. He gripped a silver broadsword, his eyes scanning the darkness.

"What is going on out here?!" Damon yelled.

"Mercenaries!" I shouted, my heel teetering on the crumbling precipice. "They breached the perimeter!"

Damon raised his sword. "Who let them in?!"

"Your precious Lola!" I screamed, pointing at the tree line. "She paid them!"

"Liar!" Lola cried out. She dropped her umbrella and fell to her knees in the mud, wrapping her arms around herself. "Damon, they attacked me! Wrenna led them right to me!"

Damon saw the wolves. He saw the blood pouring down my neck.

Then he looked at Lola, shivering on the wet ground.

"Damon, look at their necks! They are hired killers!" I pleaded, extending my free hand toward him. My boots slipped another inch on the wet stone.

"Lola, hold on!" Damon roared.

"Help me!" I begged.

He didn't run toward the cliff. He didn't charge the wolves threatening his mate.

He threw himself in the opposite direction, sprinting across the mud to tackle Lola to the ground, shielding her under his broad chest.

"Guards!" Damon bellowed over his shoulder, completely ignoring my bleeding form. "Form a defensive wall around Lola! Keep her safe!"

"What about the Luna?!" one of the emerging guards shouted from the doorway.

"Leave her! Protect Lola!" Damon ordered.

He never even looked back at me.

The gray mercenary lunged.

I stepped back to brace for the impact, raising the brass horn to strike.

Empty air met my heel.

The loose slate gave way with a sickening crunch.

"Damon—"

Gravity seized me.

I tipped backward, tumbling over the jagged edge of the North Cliff. The freezing wind roared in my ears, tearing the brass horn from my grip.

My stomach dropped. Absolute darkness swallowed me. The violent motion ripped the wound on my neck wide open, sending a fresh spray of hot blood into the freezing rain.

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the fatal impact of the river rocks below.

A massive, unfamiliar claw shot out from the rocky overhang, wrapping tight around my wrist and jerking me to a violent halt.

Wrenna Voss's POV

"Hold still, or you will tear the stitches."

A sharp sting flared at the base of my skull. I flinched, my hands flying up to block whoever was touching me. My fingers met a thick layer of crushed herbs and rough linen. I twisted my hips, trying to roll off the hard surface beneath me. My muscles screamed in protest.

"I said hold still." A woman with silver-streaked hair pressed her forearms against my shoulders, pinning me to the wooden cot. "You lost a massive amount of blood. If you fight me, you bleed out right here on this table."

I stopped struggling. My chest heaved. I stared at the wooden ceiling, then at the woman leaning over me.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"Sela. Pack healer for Silvermoon." She tugged the linen bandage tighter around my throat, tying a harsh knot. "Do you know your name?"

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I dug into my mind, searching for a face, a place, a single letter of my name. A vast, empty white void stared back at me. I tried to picture a house, a family, anything. Nothing. Just a blank slate and a pounding headache.

"I do not know," I whispered, my throat raw.

"Do not force it," a deep voice rumbled from the corner of the cabin.

A man stepped into the dim light of the oil lamp. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and eyes like cold steel. He wore a heavy dark coat, the collar turned up against the draft. He did not carry himself like a guard. He carried himself like he owned the ground he walked on.

"I am Cassian Vale," he said, stopping at the foot of the cot. "Alpha of Silvermoon. Sela and I pulled you out of the river gorge."

"The gorge," I repeated. The words felt entirely foreign.

Sela leaned in close. She lowered her voice to a harsh murmur, making sure Cassian could hear every word.

"The bite on your neck did not come from a wild animal," Sela said, wiping her blood-stained hands on a towel. "It was a trained rogue. I served in the border wars for ten years. I know a mercenary strike when I see one. Someone wanted you dead, and they paid good money to ensure it happened."

My stomach twisted. Someone wanted me dead. Why? I didn't even know who I was. But a raw, undeniable instinct flared in my blood, cutting through the confusion. Survive. Find out. Destroy them.

"Are you going to ask me where I came from?" I asked Cassian.

I swung my legs over the edge of the cot. The room spun violently, but I gripped the mattress and forced myself to sit upright.

"You do not know where you came from," Cassian replied flatly. "Interrogating a blank wall wastes my time."

He turned and dragged a heavy wooden table to the center of the room. A thick layer of fine, packed sand covered the top, dotted with small wooden blocks and carved flags. A tactical map.

A tall man with a scarred cheek followed Cassian into the light, eyeing me with open suspicion.

"This is my Beta, Jaxon," Cassian said. He gestured to the sand table. "While you were unconscious, you kept moving your fingers against the sheets. Tracing lines. Shifting positions. You were arranging troops."

I frowned, looking down at my bare hands. "I was?"

"You are not a normal patient," Cassian stated. He picked up a wooden block and tapped it against the edge of the table. "Jaxon and I have been trying to break a simulated siege on our western ridge for three hours. Show me what your hands were doing."

"Alpha, she has a traumatic brain injury," Jaxon protested, stepping between me and the table. "She can barely sit up. This is ridiculous."

"Let her look," Cassian commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I pushed myself off the cot. My knees wobbled. Pain shot down my spine, but I locked my joints and limped toward the table. I stared down at the wooden blocks. The red flags represented enemy forces, clustered heavily at the base of a carved sand ridge. The blue flags, Silvermoon defenders, were spread thin across the top.

Jaxon crossed his arms, glaring at me. "They have us pinned," Jaxon said. "Look at the elevation. If we push forward, they flank us in the trees. If we hold the ridge, they starve us out. There is no viable counter-offensive without heavy casualties."

I stared at the board. The shapes of the flags, the curves of the sand—it all made perfect sense, like a language I spoke fluently but couldn't remember learning.

I reached out. My hand moved on its own.

I grabbed three blue blocks from the center line and shoved them far to the left, burying them slightly in the sand to simulate a hidden trench.

"What are you doing?" Jaxon snapped, stepping forward to block my hand. "You just weakened the main gate. They will slaughter the center."

I shoved his hand away. "Watch the board, Beta."

"Quiet," Cassian ordered, his steel eyes locked on my hands.

I ignored Jaxon completely. I swept my palm across the right flank, flattening a small sand hill, and moved the remaining blue flags into a tight, crescent formation. I took a single red block—the enemy vanguard—and pushed it into the gap I had just created at the center.

"You let them in," Jaxon scoffed, his tone heavy with disdain. "Congratulations, you just lost the war."

"I trapped them," I corrected. My voice rang out steady and sharp, carrying an authority I did not know I possessed.

I tapped the blue blocks hidden in the trench. "You are thinking like a guard, trying to protect a static line. Think like a hunter. The enemy pushes the weak center, believing they broke your defense. They flood the gap. The moment their vanguard crosses this line—" I drew a sharp line in the sand with my thumbnail "—your hidden left flank swings out, cutting off their retreat."

I moved the pieces quickly, simulating the crush. "The crescent on the right collapses inward, forcing them into a bottleneck against the steep elevation of your own ridge. You do not hold the ridge to survive. You give up the ridge to turn the valley into a kill box."

Silence filled the cabin.

Jaxon stared at the sand table, his jaw slacking. He looked from the wooden blocks to my face, the suspicion in his eyes replaced by stark disbelief. He reached out, tracing the lines I had drawn in the sand.

"A triple-point encirclement," Jaxon muttered. "We spent hours staring at this. She solved it in ten seconds."

Cassian did not look at the table. He looked directly at me. A dangerous, calculating gleam sparked in his eyes.

"Who taught you how to command?" Cassian asked, stepping closer.

"I told you," I said, wiping the sand from my fingertips onto my pants. "I do not know."

"You have muscle memory for warfare," Cassian noted. "You do not panic when told assassins are hunting you. You belong on a battlefield."

I met his gaze, refusing to back down despite the throbbing pain in my neck. "Then give me a reason to fight for you, Alpha. Because right now, I need a safe place to heal, and you need someone who can actually read a map."

Cassian's mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk. "Deal."

Sela walked over, carrying a woven basket filled with bloody rags and crushed herbs. She refused to look at me. She kept her eyes fixed entirely on Cassian.

"I need to boil more bandages," Sela said, her voice tight and urgent. "Alpha, a word outside."

Cassian nodded and followed the healer toward the heavy cabin door. Jaxon lingered by the sand table, still rearranging the wooden blocks, muttering under his breath about the kill box.

I sat back down on the cot, my energy draining rapidly. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind a fierce ache in my neck. I pressed my hand against the thick linen, feeling the heat radiating from the wound.

Through the thin wooden walls of the cabin, the wind howled, but it was not loud enough to drown out the voices on the porch.

"She is dangerous, Cassian," Sela whispered sharply.

"She is a brilliant tactician," Cassian replied, his boots shifting on the wooden planks. "We can use her."

"You do not understand," Sela hissed.

The sound of her heavy medicine basket hitting the floorboards echoed through the wall.

"When I cleaned the rotting tissue, I saw the scar tissue underneath," Sela said. "The old mark on her neck is an Alpha-level bite. This woman was a pack's Luna."