The annual Moon Festival was supposed to be a celebration of the Goddess and the pack’s unity. For me, it was a parade of humiliation. The air was thick with the scent of roasted venison and pine, mingled with the laughter of pack members who pretended I was invisible. Or worse, those who stared with open disgust.

Dressed in a drab, oversized servant’s uniform that hung loosely on my thinning frame, I balanced a tray of champagne flutes. My hands trembled. Every clink of glass against glass sounded like a judgment. I kept my eyes on the grass, navigating the crowd, trying to avoid the dais where Ryker sat. He looked regal, powerful—and completely captivated by Natalia, who was preening in a silver gown that clung to her curves.

"Angelina."

The sharp hiss of my name made me freeze. A hand clamped around my upper arm, nails digging into the tender flesh. I didn't need to look up to know it was my mother, Margaret. She didn't smell like a mother; she smelled like cold ambition and expensive perfume.

"Come with me," she ordered, her voice low and dangerous. "Now."

She dragged me away from the festivities, behind the heavy canvas of the supply tents where the music faded into a dull thrum. I stumbled, nearly dropping the tray, but she slapped it out of my hands. The glasses shattered, sparkling shards littering the dirt.

"Look at you," she spat, her face twisted in a sneer. "Pathetic. You couldn't hold an Alpha's attention for three days, let alone three years. You’ve shamed this family, Angelina. You’ve made us a laughingstock."

"Mother, please—" I started, but she shoved me backward.

"I am fixing your mess," she interrupted. "If you can't be a Luna, you can at least be useful currency."

She gestured into the shadows. A figure stepped out, and my blood turned to ice. It was a Lycan, but not like the noble warriors of the stories. This man was hunched, his skin covered in grime and weeping sores, his aura reeking of rot and madness. He was a feral outcast, someone the pack usually killed on sight.

"He needs a mate to breed with," my mother said coldly, as if she were selling a used car. "He has a small territory on the southern border. It’s a strategic buffer zone. He agreed to the alliance in exchange for... you."

"No," I whispered, backing away until my spine hit a tree. "You can't do this. I’m your daughter."

"I have one daughter," Margaret replied, her eyes devoid of love. "Natalia. You are just a burden."

She shoved me toward the feral male. He grinned, revealing yellow, jagged teeth, and lunged. His hand, sticky and hot, clamped onto my wrist. Pure terror surged through me, overriding my exhaustion. My free hand scrabbled against a nearby table, fingers closing around the neck of a heavy wine bottle.

I didn't think. I swung.

The bottle connected with the side of his head with a sickening crack. Red wine exploded like blood. The Lycan roared, stumbling back and releasing me. I didn't wait to see if he fell. I turned and ran, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I tore through the underbrush, gasping for air, heading toward the safety of the main bonfire. But just as I broke through the treeline, a figure stepped into my path.

Natalia.

She stood perfectly still, blocking my way. She wasn't surprised. She was smiling.

"Going somewhere, sister?" she asked, her voice smooth as silk.

"Mother... she tried to..." I gasped, pointing back at the darkness.

"Oh, I know," Natalia said, stepping closer. "But we can't have you running off and ruining the mood, can we? Ryker needs a reason to get rid of you permanently. Simply being an Omega isn't enough."

Before I could react, Natalia reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, dark vial. She shoved it into the pocket of my apron. Then, with a violent jerk, she ripped the bodice of her own silver gown, exposing her shoulder. Her claws elongated, and she raked them down her own cheek, drawing three lines of bright red blood.

Then, she screamed. It was a bloodcurdling sound of fake terror.

"Help! Guards! Ryker!"

"Natalia, stop!" I cried, reaching out, but guards were already swarming us. Ryker burst through the crowd, his Alpha aura flaring so hot it nearly brought me to my knees.

"She attacked me!" Natalia sobbed, collapsing into Ryker’s arms, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She’s working with the rogues! She tried to kill me because she wants you back!"

"Liar!" I screamed, but a guard backhanded me, sending me sprawling into the dirt.

Ryker looked at Natalia’s bleeding face, then at me. His expression was terrifyingly blank. "Search her."

The Beta ripped my apron off, reaching into the pocket. He pulled out the vial Natalia had planted. He uncorked it and sniffed. "Rogue scent masking agent. And wolfsbane."

A collective gasp went through the crowd. In the werewolf world, conspiring with rogues was treason. Using wolfsbane was a death sentence.

"I didn't!" I pleaded, looking at Ryker. "She planted it! My mother tried to sell me to a feral! Please, Ryker, look at me! I was your wife for three years!"

Ryker didn't look at me. He looked at the vial, then at Natalia’s tears. When he finally turned his gaze to me, there was nothing left—no history, no pity, not even anger. Just cold, hard duty.

"Angelina Rogers," he announced, his voice booming over the crackle of the bonfire. "For the crime of treason and attempted murder of the future Luna, I sentence you to exile."

Exile. It was usually a chance to survive as a rogue. But Ryker wasn't finished.

"You are to be taken to the Dead Zone," he commanded.

The crowd went silent. The Dead Zone was a frozen wasteland north of our territory. No shelter. No food. Only madness and death. It was an execution without the blade.

"Ryker, please," I whispered, the fight draining out of me. "You’re killing me."

He turned his back, wrapping his arm around Natalia. "Take her away. If she returns, kill her on sight."

Two warriors grabbed my arms, dragging me backward toward the waiting SUV. I watched my family—my mother smirking in the shadows, Natalia burying her face in Ryker’s chest—get smaller and smaller. I didn't scream anymore. I simply let the darkness take me.

The cold wasn't just a temperature anymore; it was a living thing. It had teeth, and for the last two days, it had been chewing on my bones.

I stumbled, my boots—thin, cheap things meant for scrubbing floors, not trekking through the Dead Zone—sinking deep into the snow. I couldn't feel my toes. I couldn't feel my fingers. The only thing I could feel was the phantom pain in my chest where Ryker had severed our bond, leaving a gaping, ragged hole that the freezing wind whistled through.

I fell again. This time, I didn't try to get up. The snow was deceptively soft, like the down pillows in the Alpha suite I had never been allowed to sleep in. It whispered to me, promising sleep. Promising an end to the humiliation.

*Just close your eyes, Angelina,* I thought. *No one is coming. No one cares.*

A twig snapped. Then a low, guttural growl vibrated through the ground beneath my cheek.

I forced my heavy eyelids open. Shadows were detaching themselves from the treeline. Gaunt, mangy shapes with yellow eyes that glowed with hunger. Rogues. Not the noble kind who sought freedom, but the feral kind who had lost their minds to the wild.

There were five of them. They circled me, their ribs showing through patchy fur, saliva dripping from their jaws. They smelled of rot and old blood.

The leader, a grey wolf with a missing ear, lunged. I didn't even flinch. I just closed my eyes, waiting for the teeth.

But the bite never came.

A thunderous roar shook the very air, followed by the sickening sound of snapping bone. Something massive and hot slammed into the snow beside me, spraying ice across my face.

I gasped, my eyes flying open. Standing over me was a monster. A wolf the size of a small horse, with fur as black as the void and a thick snarl of scar tissue running down his flank. He moved with a speed that defied physics. The feral rogues didn't stand a chance. The black wolf was a blur of violence, tearing through them with efficient, brutal precision. In seconds, the snow was painted red.

The last rogue turned to flee, but the black wolf caught him by the spine, silencing him with one decisive crunch.

Silence fell over the clearing, heavy and metallic. The black wolf turned toward me. I shrank back, expecting him to finish what the others had started. He was terrifying, radiating a power that felt ancient and dark.

But as he lowered his massive head, his amber eyes weren't filled with bloodlust. They were filled with… worry?

He chuffed softly, nudging my frozen shoulder with his wet nose. The heat radiating from his body was intoxicating. He crouched low, whining until I understood. He wanted me to climb on.

With the last of my strength, I dragged myself onto his back, burying my hands in his thick fur. As he took off, running effortlessly through the deep drifts, I let the darkness finally take me.

***

Warmth. That was the first thing I noticed. The crackle of fire. The scent of pine, sage, and old paper.

I blinked, my vision blurry. I was lying in a bed—a real bed, with heavy quilts tucked around my chin. The room was rustic, built of logs and stone, illuminated by the golden glow of a fireplace.

"She wakes," a voice rasped. It sounded like dry leaves skittering over pavement.

I tried to sit up, but a gentle hand pushed me back down. "Easy. You’ve been frozen halfway to the grave."

The man sitting beside the bed was intimidating. He had dark hair that fell into his eyes and a jagged scar running from his jaw down his neck, disappearing into his shirt. It was the same scar I had seen on the wolf. He held a mug of something steaming.

"Drink," he ordered. His voice was deep, rough, but not unkind.

I took a sip. It was herbal tea, laced with honey. It burned pleasantly going down. "Who… who are you?" I rasped.

"Parker," he said simply. "And you are safe here."

From the shadows of the room, an older woman shuffled forward. She was tiny, her back bent with age, her white hair braided down to her waist. Her eyes were milky white—blind.

She reached out, her wrinkled fingers hovering over my face before gently touching my cheek. A strange shiver went through me, not from cold, but from recognition.

"The Moon Child," she whispered, a smile breaking across her weathered face. "She has finally come home."

I looked at Parker, confused. "I… I don't understand. I'm just an Omega. I was exiled."

Parker didn't look at his grandmother. He kept his intense amber gaze on me. "You're not an Omega here, Angelina. Here, you're just a survivor."

Over the next few weeks, the cabin became my world. Parker was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. He changed the bandages on my frostbitten toes with hands that were calloused yet impossibly gentle. He cooked thick venison stews that filled the hollow ache in my stomach.

One evening, as he was applying a cooling salve to the windburn on my face, his thumb brushed against my jawline. A spark, electric and sharp, jumped between our skin.

My breath hitched. Inside my chest, deep in the place where my wolf had been silent and dormant for twenty years, I felt a flutter. A thump. A second heartbeat.

My wolf. She was stirring.

She had never responded to Ryker. Not once in three years. But now, under the touch of a scarred rogue in a cabin at the edge of the world, she was waking up.

I looked up at Parker, my heart hammering against my ribs. He froze, his hand still on my cheek, his pupils blowing wide. He felt it too.

"Rest," he said abruptly, pulling his hand away and standing up. His voice was strained, as if he were fighting a leash. "You need to heal."

He walked out into the snowy night, leaving me breathless and terrified by the sudden, undeniable truth: I wasn't just surviving anymore. I was coming alive.

The morning air bit at my cheeks as Parker led me to a clearing behind the cabin. Snow crunched under my boots—proper boots this time, thick leather ones he'd somehow procured for me. My breath came out in white puffs, but for the first time in weeks, I wasn't shivering.

"You need to learn to protect yourself," Parker said, his voice cutting through the crisp silence. He pulled a dagger from his belt, the blade gleaming silver in the pale sunlight. "The world isn't kind to she-wolves who can't fight back."

I stared at the weapon, my stomach clenching. "I don't know how—"

"You'll learn." He pressed the handle into my palm, his fingers brushing mine. That same electric spark shot up my arm, making my wolf stir restlessly in my chest. "Feel the weight. Get used to it."

For the next hour, he showed me how to hold it, how to thrust, how to block. My movements were clumsy at first, but gradually, something clicked. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was the memory of that feral Lycan's hands on me. But I started to move with purpose.

"Better," Parker murmured, circling me like a predator. "Now, tracking. You need to know when danger is coming."

He knelt in the snow, pointing to barely visible indentations. "Rabbit tracks. See how the back paws land in front? They're running from something." His finger traced another set of marks. "Fox. Hunting."

I crouched beside him, studying the patterns. His scent—pine and something wild and masculine—wrapped around me like a blanket. My wolf pressed against my ribs, wanting to get closer.

"Your turn," he said, standing. "Find my tracks from yesterday."

I searched the clearing, following the faint impressions his boots had left. It was harder than it looked, but slowly, I began to see the story the snow told. Where he'd paused. Where he'd changed direction. Where he'd—

"Good," his voice came from directly behind me.

I spun around, startled, and lost my footing on a patch of ice. I went down hard, but before I could hit the ground, Parker caught me. We tumbled together, and suddenly I was pinned beneath him in the snow, his hands braced on either side of my head.

Time stopped.

His amber eyes were inches from mine, pupils dilated. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell that intoxicating scent that made my wolf howl with recognition. The mate bond—I felt it like lightning in my veins, white-hot and undeniable.

Parker's breathing was ragged. His gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes. For a heartbeat, I thought he might kiss me. I wanted him to. Heat pooled low in my belly, a sensation I'd never felt with Ryker, not once in three years.

Then Parker jerked back like I'd burned him. He scrambled to his feet, putting distance between us, his jaw clenched tight.

"That's enough for today," he said roughly, not meeting my eyes.

He stalked back toward the cabin, leaving me breathless and confused in the snow.

Later that afternoon, I was cleaning the main room when I noticed a loose floorboard near the fireplace. Curious, I pried it up and found a small iron chest hidden beneath. It was locked, but the key hung on a nail just inside the hiding spot.

My hands trembled as I opened it.

Inside were dozens of letters, all addressed to me in careful handwriting. The dates went back three years—starting just after my forced mating to Ryker. With shaking fingers, I pulled out the first one.

*Angelina,*

*I watched you in the garden today. You were humming that song again, the one your grandmother taught you. Ryker walked past without even looking at you. The bastard doesn't deserve you.*

*I left healing herbs by the eastern border. For your cough. Please find them.*

*Always watching,*

*P*

My heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed another letter, then another. They were all the same—Parker watching me from the shadows, documenting Ryker's cruelty, leaving anonymous gifts. He'd been my guardian angel for years, and I'd never known.

The last letter was dated just a week before my exile:

*My beautiful mate,*

*I can't stand watching him hurt you anymore. Soon, I'll find a way to claim you properly. I just need to survive long enough to be worthy of you.*

*The exiled king dreams of his queen.*

*Forever yours,*

*Parker*

"You weren't supposed to find those."

I spun around. Parker stood in the doorway, his face a mask of resignation and fear.

"Exiled king?" I whispered, clutching the letters to my chest. "Parker, what does that mean?"

He stepped into the room, his movements careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. "It means I'm a hunted man, Angelina. It means I couldn't claim you because doing so would have put a target on your back."

"Claim me?" My voice cracked. "You knew? All this time, you knew we were mates?"

His amber eyes met mine, raw with years of suppressed longing. "From the moment I first caught your scent. You were meant to be mine, not his. Never his."

The letters scattered from my hands as the truth crashed over me like a wave.