The pack documents felt heavy in my hands as I approached the study. Alpha Hayes had requested them urgently, and I'd hurried to deliver them personally, hoping for a rare moment alone with my mate. My heart fluttered with that familiar ache—the mate bond pulling me toward him like a moth to flame.

I pushed open the heavy oak door without knocking. "Alpha, I've brought the territorial reports you—"

The words died in my throat.

A scent hit me first—pine and musk intertwined with something floral and suffocating. Hayes's scent. And Skye's.

My half-sister's perfume had always been too strong, but now it seemed to fill the room, mingling with Hayes's in a way that made my stomach churn.

They were on the leather sofa by the fireplace. His hands tangled in her hair, her legs straddling his lap. Their lips moved against each other with hungry desperation.

"Margot." Hayes broke away, his voice rough. Not with guilt. With irritation.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The documents slipped from my fingers, scattering across the Persian rug.

"What is she doing here?" Skye's voice dripped with disdain as she slowly unwound herself from Hayes. She didn't even bother to look embarrassed.

"I—I'm sorry," I stammered, backing toward the door. "I didn't mean to—"

"You should have knocked." Hayes straightened his shirt, his eyes avoiding mine.

Tears burned behind my eyes. "You asked for these immediately."

Skye's laugh was sharp and cruel. "Such a good little Omega. Always following orders."

I turned to flee, but Skye's voice stopped me. "Wait."

She crossed the room with predatory grace, her strong wolf's movements fluid and confident—everything I'd never be.

"Margot," she said, her voice suddenly sweet with false concern. "Are you upset? You shouldn't be. We're just... talking."

The lie hung between us, almost visible in the air.

"You know," she continued, stepping closer, "everyone expects Hayes to choose a proper Luna. Someone strong. Someone with a wolf."

"Skye," Hayes warned, but there was no real heat in it.

"He needs me," she whispered, close enough now that I could smell Hayes's scent on her skin. "Not some wolfless freak."

Something inside me cracked. "Don't call me that."

"Oh?" Her smile was vicious. "Then what should I call you? Little sister? Future Luna?" She laughed again. "I think not."

I felt her hands against my chest then—a hard, deliberate shove.

The world tilted. My feet left the ground. For one suspended moment, I hung in the air, eyes wide with shock.

Then I was falling.

The grand staircase rushed up to meet me. Each impact drove the breath from my lungs—shoulder, hip, head. Pain exploded through me as I tumbled down the polished wood, my body helpless to stop the descent.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was Skye's face at the top of the stairs, watching with cold satisfaction.

* * *

I woke to sterile white walls and the sharp smell of antiseptic.

"She's awake," someone said.

Blinking against the harsh light, I tried to move and gasped as pain shot through every inch of my body.

"Don't try to move yet," the pack Healer said, her voice clinically detached. "You have multiple fractures and a concussion."

The door opened, and Beta Marcus strode in, his imposing figure filling the small room. Behind him, my mother hovered like a shadow.

"Margot." His tone was flat. "What happened?"

I swallowed painfully. "Skye pushed me."

His expression didn't change. "That's not what we heard. Skye says you were upset about seeing her with Alpha Hayes and lost your balance."

"That's not—"

"Enough." He cut me off. "This is an unfortunate accident. The pack doesn't need drama right now."

My mother stepped forward then, her eyes cold. "You've always been clumsy, Margot. Can't even walk properly down a simple staircase."

"Mother—"

"You will apologize to Skye," Beta Marcus continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Publicly. At the next pack gathering."

"But she—"

"Listen carefully." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "You are wolfless. You are an Omega. Skye has a strong wolf and the respect of the pack. Who do you think they'll believe?"

The truth crashed down on me like another fall. No one would take my side. Not against Skye.

* * *

Three days later, they discharged me. Every step was agony as I limped back to my quarters in the east wing of the pack house.

The main hall was eerily quiet. Too quiet.

As I rounded the corner, I froze.

Streamers hung from the ceiling. Tables groaned under the weight of food and drink. Pack members mingled in their finest clothes, laughing and drinking.

And at the center of it all stood Hayes and Skye.

He had his arm around her waist, his expression proud as he addressed the crowd.

"Tonight," he announced, his Alpha voice carrying easily through the hall, "we celebrate Skye's Come of Age and officially nominate her as future Luna of the Obsidian Moon Pack!"

Applause erupted. Skye beamed, her hand possessively clutching Hayes's arm.

I pressed myself into the shadows, invisible as always.

"To Skye," Hayes raised his glass, "my chosen mate and future Luna!"

The glass shattered in my hand before I realized I'd picked one up. Blood mixed with wine as it dripped from my palm.

No one noticed. They were too busy cheering for the perfect couple.

In that moment, something inside me died—something far more precious than pride or dignity.

It was the last fragment of hope that had kept me bound to this place. To him.

The pain in my chest was unbearable. It wasn't the physical pain from the fall—that was healing. This was something deeper, more primal. The mate bond, torn and bleeding inside me, punished me with every breath.

I stumbled back to my room, locking the door behind me. The celebration continued below, laughter and music floating up through the floorboards like needles piercing my skin.

"They're celebrating," I whispered to the empty room. "Celebrating while I die inside."

My hands trembled as I pulled out my journal—the one place I'd ever been honest. The pages were nearly full now, years of pain and hope and desperate love recorded in my careful handwriting.

I opened to a fresh page and stared at the blank paper. Something was crystallizing inside me—a decision I'd been avoiding for too long.

"I can't do this anymore," I said to myself, my voice breaking. "I can't be this person anymore."

The pen felt heavy in my hand as I began to write:

"I, Margot Brown, reject you, Alpha Hayes Bryant, as my fated mate."

The words burned onto the page like a brand. I felt something tear inside me as I wrote—the mate bond itself protesting, fighting against my will.

"I reject the pain you've brought me. I reject the humiliation. I reject a love that was never real."

Tears splashed onto the paper, blurring the ink. I didn't stop writing.

"I reject Skye's cruelty and my mother's hatred. I reject being wolfless. I reject being invisible."

The pain intensified with each word, but something else was growing alongside it—a terrible, wonderful sense of freedom.

When I finished, I read the words once more. They were my declaration of independence. My suicide note to the life I'd endured for too long.

I packed quickly—a single duffel bag with essentials. Clothes. A few books. The small savings I'd hidden away. Nothing that would be missed.

The pack house was still distracted by the celebration as I slipped out through the servants' entrance. The night air hit my face, cool and sweet with promise.

I moved silently through the territory, keeping to the shadows. The border patrols were sparse tonight—most warriors were at the feast. I found a weak spot in the perimeter, a place where the scent markers were old and fading.

With one last look at the lights of the pack house in the distance, I stepped across the boundary.

The moment my foot touched neutral ground, something shifted inside me. The mate bond stretched, thinned. It didn't break—not yet—but it was the first step toward freedom.

* * *

"The electroconvulsive therapy isn't a cure-all," Dr. Chen explained gently. "But for cases like yours, where the depression has become life-threatening, it can be a powerful tool."

I nodded numbly from my position on the hospital bed. The human psychiatric facility was clean and bright—so different from the dark, oppressive pack house.

"You understand the risks?" she continued. "Memory loss is a possible side effect. Sometimes permanent."

"Good," I whispered. "I want to forget."

She studied me with concerned eyes. "Margot, I need to be sure you understand—"

"I understand," I interrupted. "I want to forget everything. Please."

The first treatment was the worst. The electricity coursed through my brain like lightning, scrambling everything I was. When I woke up, hours later, there were holes in my memory—small ones at first.

But with each session, the holes grew larger. Days disappeared. Then weeks. Then years.

I embraced the emptiness. Welcomed it.

"Your progress is remarkable," Dr. Chen noted during our final session. "But I'm concerned about your decision to continue with the intensive protocol."

"I'm not going back," I said simply. "I need to be sure nothing remains."

She didn't understand what I meant—couldn't understand. But she honored my request.

The last treatment wiped away the final fragments of my old life. When I woke up, I knew my name. I knew basic things—how to read, how to speak. But the details of my past were gone.

In their place was peace. Blessed, empty peace.

* * *

Back in the pack house, Skye paced nervously in my empty room.

"She's gone," she hissed to herself. "She actually left."

Finding the journal was an accident—she'd been searching for anything valuable she could claim as her own now that I was gone.

But when she flipped it open and saw the rejection letter, her eyes widened with horror.

"No," she whispered, snatching up the pages. "No, no, no!"

She read it twice more, her hands shaking. If Hayes found this—if he knew I'd rejected him before I left—he would search for me. He would find me. And then everything she'd worked for would be lost.

With trembling fingers, she pulled out a lighter and set the pages ablaze. They curled and blackened in the sink, my final words to him reduced to ash.

Then she had an idea—a way to ensure Hayes would never look for me.

Working quickly, she gathered my bloodied clothes from the laundry where they'd been forgotten after my fall. She took them to the treacherous river that marked the eastern boundary of pack territory.

There, among the rocks and rushing water, she carefully arranged the scene—my clothes torn and bloody, a forged suicide note weighted down with stones.

She added rogue scents she'd collected from previous attacks—enough to convince any tracker that I'd been taken or killed.

As she worked, a smile spread across her face. By morning, Hayes would believe his mate was dead. And no one would ever question it.

No one would ever look for me again.

The trackers led Hayes through the snow-covered forest, their expressions grim. I wasn't there to witness it, but I can imagine how his face must have looked—hope battling with dread as they approached the river.

"Alpha," the lead tracker said, his voice barely audible above the rushing water. "We found these near the eastern boundary."

He held up my bloodied clothes, carefully preserved in an evidence bag. The fabric was torn, stained dark red with my blood—blood from the fall that Skye had orchestrated.

Hayes took the bag with trembling hands. "Where did you find them?"

"By the riverbank, sir." The tracker pointed to a spot where the ice had broken, creating a deadly swirl of black water. "There was... evidence of struggle."

I can't imagine what Hayes felt in that moment. The mate bond, which had been stretched thin by distance and my rejection, would have suddenly gone silent—completely dormant due to the ECT treatments that had scrambled my memories and severed our connection.

"Margot," he whispered, and the sound carried through the forest like a wounded animal's cry.

One of the trackers handed him a piece of paper, protected in plastic. Skye's careful forgery—my supposed suicide note.

"I can't bear this pain anymore," it read. "Please forgive me for being weak."

Hayes's legs gave out. He collapsed into the snow, his body convulsing with grief. The trackers watched in horror as their Alpha's powerful aura—that terrifying force that had commanded respect and fear—crumbled around him.

"Alpha!" Beta Marcus rushed forward, but Hayes was beyond hearing.

"She's gone," he moaned, clutching the note. "She's gone."

The mate bond's sudden silence had convinced him. In his mind, I was dead.

---

Months passed. The Obsidian Moon Pack fell into disarray as their Alpha retreated further into himself.

"Another bottle," Hayes slurred, his once-powerful voice now ragged from bourbon and grief. "Bring me another bottle."

Beta Marcus exchanged worried glances with the pack Healer. "Alpha, you need to rest. The pack needs you."

"The pack needs a Luna," Hayes muttered, taking another swig directly from the bottle. "They need Margot."

The room spun around him as he stumbled to his office window. Outside, pack members went about their duties, but he could feel their tension—their fear. An Alpha without control was dangerous.

"Marcus," he called, his voice suddenly sharp. "Do you smell that?"

Beta Marcus approached cautiously. "Smell what, Alpha?"

"That scent." Hayes inhaled deeply, his eyes wild. "Flowers. Her scent. She's here."

There was nothing—just the stale smell of alcohol and desperation—but Hayes was beyond reason.

"She's watching me," he whispered, spinning around. "Margot, I know you're here."

The hallucinations had started weeks ago. First, he'd catch glimpses of movement in the corners of his eyes—a flash of my hair, the curve of my shoulder. Now he could smell me everywhere.

"Alpha," Marcus said gently, "perhaps you should see the Healer again."

Hayes's face contorted with rage. "Don't tell me what to do! I am Alpha!"

His aura flared unpredictably, making Marcus flinch. It was a shadow of its former strength—erratic, dangerous only in its instability.

"Get out," Hayes growled, throwing the empty bottle against the wall. It shattered, glass shards raining down like tears.

---

The Northern Lights Lodge stood solid against the Alaskan wilderness, its windows glowing warm amber in the perpetual twilight of winter.

"You're hired," Mrs. Winters said, studying me with shrewd eyes. "We need someone who can think on their feet around here."

I smiled—a real smile, not the careful mask I'd worn for so long. "Thank you. I won't let you down."

The lodge was nothing like the pack house—no oppressive hierarchy, no constant fear. Just a rustic sanctuary for travelers seeking the aurora borealis.

As I walked through the lobby, a low whine caught my attention. A large wolf-dog hybrid lay near the fireplace, his mismatched eyes following me with curious intelligence.

"That's Barnaby," Mrs. Winters explained. "Rescue. He's got some wolf in him, but he's all dog when it comes to loyalty."

I knelt beside him, extending my hand slowly. "Hello, Barnaby."

He sniffed me carefully, then pressed his head into my palm with unexpected gentleness.

Something stirred inside me—a feeling I couldn't name. It wasn't memory; those were gone. It was something deeper, more primal.

Barnaby's eyes seemed to say he understood me perfectly.

"You two will get along fine," Mrs. Winters observed. "He's a good judge of character."

As I scratched behind his ears, I felt a strange sense of peace settle over me. Whatever I'd been running from—whatever had driven me across the country to this frozen outpost—seemed distant now.

Barnaby leaned against my leg, his warmth a silent promise of protection and companionship.

I was safe here. I was free.

But as the wind howled outside and Barnaby pressed closer to me, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was looking for me—someone whose voice I couldn't quite remember, but whose pain I somehow shared.