The neutral territory was a lawless stretch of dense forest between pack lands, a place where exiles went to disappear. Mark insisted on coming with me, his presence a silent, towering shadow at my back. We found Gamma Torres living in a rusted trailer half-buried in ivy, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and unwashed wolf.

I knocked on the metal door. It swung open with a screech, revealing a man who looked more beast than human. His beard was matted, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

"Get lost," he growled, moving to slam the door.

"Gamma Torres," I said, my voice steady. "It’s Mariana Shaw."

He froze. His gaze raked over me, landing on the silver pendant at my throat. A sneer curled his lip. "The pet? The one who spread her legs for the butcher?"

Mark let out a low, vibrating growl behind me, stepping forward. I put a hand on his chest to stop him. This was my fight.

"I didn't know," I said, meeting Torres's hateful stare. "I thought he saved me. I was wrong. I’m here to kill him, Torres. But I need proof."

Torres laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Proof? You want proof?" He stepped down from the trailer, invading my personal space. He smelled of rot and old rage. "Five years ago. The night the Moonstone Pack burned. I was on nursery duty. The alarms hadn't even gone off yet. No rogues. No fire. But I smelled him."

My breath hitched. "Who?"

"Your mate," he spat. "Preston. That sickly sweet vanilla scent of his. He was in the nursery wing before the first match was lit. He wasn't there to save anyone, girl. He was there to make sure the fire started in the right place."

The ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I had suspected it, but hearing it—knowing he had walked through my home while my family slept, planning their end—was a different kind of agony.

"We need physical evidence," Mark said, his voice grim. "A scent from five years ago won't hold up before the Council."

Torres turned back to his trailer. "Then go dig in the ashes. That’s all that’s left."

***

The ruins of the Moonstone Pack house were a graveyard of blackened timber and stone. Nature had begun to reclaim it, vines choking the scorched remains of what used to be the grand hall. It was quiet here. Too quiet.

I stepped over a crumbled wall, my boots crunching on debris. Memories flashed—my father laughing in this hallway, my mother humming in the kitchen. Now, it was just dust.

My chest tightened. The air felt too thin. I stopped, gripping a charred support beam. My vision blurred at the edges. I could smell the smoke again. I could hear the screams.

"I can't," I gasped, my knees buckling. "I can't be here."

A panic attack. It was a tidal wave, pulling me under.

Strong hands gripped my shoulders. Not gentle, but firm. Grounding. Mark didn't coo at me. He didn't offer empty comforts. He simply poured his strength into the touch, an anchor in the storm.

"Breathe, Mariana," he ordered, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. "You are not a victim here. You are the Alpha's daughter. This is your land. Claim it."

I focused on his amber eyes, on the solid weight of his hands. I forced air into my lungs. Slowly, the ghosts receded. I nodded, straightening up.

"Okay," I whispered. "I'm okay."

We moved toward what used to be my father's office. The floor was gone, just a gaping hole into the foundation. We jumped down, sifting through the rubble. For an hour, we found nothing but melted glass and twisted metal.

Then, Mark stopped. He kicked aside a pile of rotted wood and bent down, pulling something from the muck.

"Mariana," he called softly.

I went to him. in his hand lay a dagger. The blade was blackened, but the hilt... the hilt was unmistakable. Embedded in the pommel was an obsidian stone carved with a half-moon eclipsing the sun.

The crest of the Eclipse Pack.

"It's a ceremonial dagger," I said, my voice trembling with cold fury. "Used for lighting the ritual fires. He left his signature."

"He was arrogant," Mark said, turning the blade over. "He thought no one would ever survive to look for it."

I took the dagger. It was heavy, cold, and damning. "He was right. Until now."

***

Back at Blood River, I sat in the guest quarters, staring at the phone in my hand. It was a burner, untraceable. I dialed a number I had memorized years ago—Sarah, a maid in the Eclipse pack house who had been the only one to show me kindness without pity.

She picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Sarah. It's Mariana."

There was a gasp on the other end. "Luna? Oh goddess, are you safe? Everyone says you went mad."

"I'm safe," I assured her. "Listen, I need to know what's happening there. What is Preston doing?"

Sarah lowered her voice to a whisper. "It's... it's bad, Luna. The 'paradise' is falling apart. That girl, Josie? She's terrified. She locks herself in the guest wing all day. She keeps faking sick—stomach aches, migraines—anything to avoid her Luna duties. She knows she can't handle the pack politics, and I think she's starting to realize Preston isn't the knight in shining armor she thought he was."

"And Preston?"

"He's unhinged," Sarah said, fear trembling in her voice. "He's drinking before noon. He rants about your 'ingratitude' to anyone who will listen. He smashed the mirror in the hallway yesterday because he said it looked at him wrong. He's losing control, Mariana. The pack is scared."

I hung up the phone, a cold smile touching my lips. Preston needed to be the savior. He needed a helpless victim to fix. But Josie was proving to be a burden, not a trophy, and I had become the villain in his story.

He was cracking. And I was going to be the one to shatter him completely.

The invitation to the Alpha Summit lay on Mark’s desk like a declaration of war. Heavy cream cardstock, embossed with gold leaf, inviting the Alpha of the Blood River Pack to the annual Moon Ball. It was the most prestigious event of the year, a place where alliances were forged in whiskey and broken in blood.

Mark didn’t look at the card. He looked at me.

"Preston expects me to hide you," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "He expects you to be cowering in a safe house, afraid of your own shadow."

I ran a finger over the edge of the desk. "He expects his broken toy to be broken."

"Then let’s disappoint him."

Mark reached behind his desk and pulled out a long, flat box wrapped in black velvet. He slid it toward me. "I didn't buy this. I had it commissioned the day you crossed the river."

I undid the ribbon and lifted the lid. The breath left my lungs in a sharp rush. Nestled in the tissue paper was a gown of midnight blue silk, so dark it was almost black, shimmering with delicate silver embroidery that climbed up the bodice like vines of moonlight.

It wasn't just a dress. Blue and silver were the colors of the Moonstone Pack. My father’s colors.

"You don't go as my guest, Mariana," Mark said softly, standing up and moving around the desk. "And you certainly don't go as a refugees. You go as an equal."

I touched the cool silk, my throat tight. For five years, Preston had dressed me in pastels—pinks and creams that washed me out, making me look frail and harmless. This dress was dangerous.

An hour later, I stood before the full-length mirror in my quarters. The silk draped over my body like liquid night, hugging my curves before pooling at my feet. The neckline was plunging, daring, exposing the skin where Preston’s mark had faded into a scar. I hadn't covered it.

Mark stepped into the room, fastening his cufflinks. He froze when he saw me. His amber eyes darkened, the pupils blowing wide as his wolf surged to the surface. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a static electricity that made the hair on my arms stand up.

He walked toward me, stopping just inches away. I could feel the heat radiance off his body. His hand hovered near my waist, trembling slightly, as if he was fighting the urge to pull me against him.

"You look..." His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together. "Lethal."

"Good," I whispered, my pulse hammering against my throat. The attraction between us was a physical weight, a taut wire ready to snap. But not yet.

"Tonight is for blood," he murmured, leaning down so his breath ghosted over my ear. "Pleasure comes later."

I shivered, nodding. Just as I turned to grab my clutch, my burner phone buzzed against the vanity.

I frowned. Only one person had this number besides Mark.

I opened the message. It was a wall of text from an unknown number, but the signature made my blood run cold.

*It’s Josie. I don't have much time. I found his 'trophy' box in the study. He has things, Mariana. Locks of hair. Teeth. A piece of burnt wood from a crib. He didn't save us. He collects us.*

My grip on the phone tightened until the plastic creaked.

*I heard him on the phone with his Gamma,* the message continued. *He’s planning to ambush you at the Summit. He wants to kill you publicly, claim it was a rogue attack, and play the grieving mate again. I can’t be part of this. I told him I’m in heat—faked it with some oils I bought from a witch. He locked me in my room, but he’s coming alone. And he is unhinged. Be careful.*

I showed the screen to Mark. He read it, his expression hardening into a mask of cold fury.

"He’s coming alone," Mark said, a predatory grin sharpening his features. "He’s isolated himself."

"He thinks he’s the hunter," I said, dropping the phone into my clutch. "Let’s show him what happens when the rabbit picks up a gun."

***

The Grand Hall of the Summit venue was a cavernous space filled with the scent of expensive perfume, roasted meat, and the overwhelming musk of three hundred werewolves. Chandeliers the size of small cars dripped crystals from the ceiling, casting a golden glow over the gathered Alphas and Lunas.

The double doors swung open for us.

"Announcing Alpha Mark Salazar of the Blood River Pack," the herald boomed.

The room went quiet. Conversations died mid-sentence. All eyes turned to the entrance.

Mark didn't walk in front of me. He didn't lead me by the hand like a child. We walked in step, side by side.

I kept my head high, my shoulders back. I didn't suppress my aura this time. I let it roll off me in waves—the cold, metallic scent of an Alpha female mixed with the ozone power of the Blood River pack.

I saw him almost immediately.

Preston was standing near the champagne fountain, looking disheveled. His tie was crooked, his face flushed with drink. He was laughing loudly at something an Elder had said, but the laughter died in his throat when he saw us.

His eyes locked on me. On the blue dress. On the silver wolf pendant at my throat.

*Crash.*

The crystal flute slipped from his fingers, shattering on the marble floor. Champagne splattered his expensive shoes, but he didn't notice. He looked like he was seeing a ghost.

The silence in the hall stretched, thick and suffocating. Preston blinked, shaking his head as if to clear a hallucination. Then, the mask slipped back into place. The Savior mask.

He stepped over the broken glass, his arms opening wide in a performance of relief that made my stomach turn.

"Mariana!" he called out, his voice slurring slightly. "Oh, thank the Goddess! You're safe!"

He rushed toward us, ignoring Mark entirely. "I've been sick with worry! Look at you... dressed in these rags, paraded around by my rival. Come here, sweetheart. Come to me. I forgive you for running away."

The audacity was almost impressive. He reached for me, his hand aiming for my arm—the same spot he used to bruise.

Mark growled, a low, dangerous sound, but I held up a hand to stop him.

I didn't flinch. I didn't step back.

When Preston’s hand was inches from my face, I smiled. It wasn't a Luna’s smile. It was a baring of teeth, sharp and promising violence.

"You don't get to touch me, Preston," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the silent hall. "And you certainly don't get to forgive me."

Preston froze, his hand hovering in the air. For the first time, he looked into my eyes and didn't see his reflection. He saw the fire that was about to burn his world to ash.