The anniversary of Hadassah’s death always tasted like ashes in my mouth. It was a day of mourning for the Silver Pack, a day of silence in our penthouse, and a day where I ceased to be Talia Young, the wife, and became simply the reliquary for a dead saint.

I stood in the kitchen of our Manhattan penthouse, my hands trembling as I arranged white lilies—Hadassah’s favorite—into a crystal vase. The silence of the apartment was heavy, suffocating. Jaxon was in his study, the room I was forbidden to enter unless summoned. It was his shrine to her. But tonight, I needed a specific vase, the tall blue one he kept on the mantel. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I made everything perfect, he might look at me. really look at me, not just through me to the ghost he loved.

I walked down the hallway, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of my footsteps. The door to the study was ajar. I raised my hand to knock, but the sound of his voice froze me.

“She’s weak, Jaxon. It’s been three years. The pack needs a strong Luna, not a mouse who jumps at her own shadow.” It was Elena, his mother. Her voice dripped with the same disdain she had shown me since I was a child.

My heart hammered against my ribs—Hadassah’s heart. It skipped a beat, a traitor in my own chest.

“I don’t care about her strength, Mother,” Jaxon’s voice was low, vibrating with that Alpha tone that usually made my knees weak. But tonight, it made my blood run cold. “I don’t keep her here for her personality. I don’t keep her here because she’s a good Luna.”

“Then why?” Elena pressed. “Why refuse the Council’s suggestion to reject her and take a chosen mate? You have needs. The pack has needs.”

There was a pause, a silence so loud it rang in my ears. Then, Jaxon spoke, his voice void of any warmth, any affection. It was clinical. Detached.

“Because Hadassah’s heart beats inside her chest. As long as Talia breathes, a part of Hadassah is still alive. I will not let that heart stop. I will not let it go. She is just the vessel, Mother. You don’t throw away the box that holds the diamond.”

The vase slipped from my fingers.

It hit the floor with a shattering crash that echoed like a gunshot. Shards of crystal exploded across the hardwood.

Jaxon was at the door in a second. He loomed over me, his eyes flashing gold, his wolf rising to the surface. He didn’t look concerned. He looked annoyed. He looked at the broken glass, then at me, with the same cold indifference one might show a clumsy servant.

“Clean it up, Talia,” he commanded, the Alpha power in his voice forcing my head down in submission. “Stop being so dramatic. It’s just glass.”

He turned his back on me and slammed the door.

I fell to my knees, not to clean, but because my legs could no longer hold me. A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my abdomen. It wasn’t just the heartbreak. It was physical. A cramping, twisting agony that doubled me over. I gasped, clutching my stomach, the room spinning.

*The vessel.* That’s all I was.

I don’t remember calling the car. I don’t remember the ride to the pack hospital. I only remember the sterile smell of antiseptic and the white lights burning my eyes as I lay on the gurney, curling into a ball to protect a stomach that felt like it was on fire.

Dr. Evans, the pack healer, came in with a grim expression. He held a clipboard, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Talia,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. You’re miscarrying.”

The world stopped. Miscarrying? I didn’t even know I was pregnant. A baby. Jaxon’s baby. A little life that was mine, truly mine. And now it was gone, swept away in a tide of stress and rejection.

“There’s… something else,” Dr. Evans continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. He looked around to ensure the door was closed. “We ran a toxicology screen. Your hormone levels are chaotic. We found high concentrations of Wolfsbane root and mild suppressants in your system.”

I stared at him, numb. “I don’t understand. I don’t take anything.”

“It’s a contraceptive mixture, Talia. Ancient, but effective. And dangerous for an Omega’s constitution.” He hesitated. “The Alpha… Jaxon insisted on your dietary supplements. He told me he couldn’t risk the strain of a pregnancy on your heart. On Hadassah’s heart.”

The cruelty of it stole the air from my lungs. He hadn’t just seen me as a vessel; he had actively poisoned me to keep his shrine pristine. He killed our child before I even knew it existed, all to protect the organ of a dead woman.

My phone buzzed on the bedside table. The screen lit up with a news alert, a bright, cheerful ding in the silent room of my tragedy.

*SPOTTED: Alpha Jaxon Morgan and Assistant Capri Arnold entering the St. Regis Hotel. Is there a new Luna rising?*

The photo was grainy, but clear enough. Jaxon, his hand possessively on the small of Capri’s back, leaning in to whisper something in her ear. He wasn’t grieving tonight. He wasn’t mourning Hadassah.

He was with her.

I lay back against the pillows, the tears finally coming, hot and fast. I was empty. My womb was empty. My marriage was a lie. And the heart beating in my chest, the one he loved so much, felt like it was breaking all over again.

The white gown felt like a shroud. It was silk, expensive, and suffocatingly tight across my chest—across Hadassah’s heart. Jaxon had chosen it. He said white represented purity, the way a Luna should look. But looking in the mirror, all I saw was a pale imitation of the sister he actually wanted.

“Stop fidgeting,” Jaxon snapped, adjusting his cufflinks in the reflection behind me. His eyes, usually so cold, held a flicker of irritation. “You look fine, Talia. Just… try to stand taller. Like she did.”

He didn’t need to say her name. It hung in the air between us, heavy and choking. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. It had been a week since the miscarriage, a week since I learned he had been poisoning me to protect a dead woman’s organ. My body still ached, empty and hollowed out, but Jaxon insisted on the Pack Charity Gala. Appearances, he said, were everything.

The ballroom of the pack house was glittering with crystal chandeliers and the fake smiles of high-ranking wolves. I moved through the crowd like a ghost, Jaxon’s hand gripping my elbow tight enough to bruise. He steered me from donor to donor, accepting their praise for his leadership while I stood silently by his side, the perfect, mute accessory.

“Excuse me,” I murmured, pulling away when the suffocation became too much. Jaxon barely nodded, already engrossed in conversation with a Beta from a neighboring pack.

I sought refuge in the ladies’ room, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection looked back at me—hollow eyes, trembling lips. I wasn't a Luna. I was a spare part.

The door clicked open. The scent of expensive perfume and ozone filled the small space. Capri Arnold.

She didn’t look like a mistress. She looked like a queen. Her red dress was cut low, daring, and her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. She moved toward the sinks, pulling a lipstick from her clutch.

“Rough night, Talia?” she asked, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. “You look… tired.”

“I’m fine,” I said, reaching for a paper towel. My hands shook.

Capri laughed, a low, throaty sound. She leaned against the marble counter, blocking my exit. “You know, Jaxon hates it when you look weak. It reflects poorly on him. On the pack.”

“I don’t care what Jaxon thinks,” I whispered, though the lie tasted like ash.

“Oh, but you do. That’s the sad part.” She took a step closer, invading my personal space. Her eyes dropped to my stomach, and a cruel smirk played on her lips. “He told me about the… unfortunate event last week. The baby.”

The air left the room. “He told you?”

“Jaxon tells me everything, sweetie. Pillow talk.” She placed a hand on her own abdomen, a protective, possessive gesture. “It’s probably for the best. Your body isn’t built for carrying an Alpha’s heir. It’s too… fragile. Too broken.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But don’t worry. The pack won’t be without an heir for long. While you hold the dead heart, I hold the living future.”

I stared at her hand on her stomach. Pregnant. The room spun. He had poisoned me to stop a pregnancy, yet he had knotted with her? He had given her what he stole from me?

“You’re lying,” I choked out.

“Am I?” She smiled, then reached for her glass of red wine sitting on the counter. “Oops.”

With a flick of her wrist, the dark liquid splashed across my chest. The cold wetness soaked instantly into the white silk, spreading like a fresh, bloody wound over Hadassah’s heart.

“Oh no,” Capri gasped, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Look at what you’ve done. So clumsy.”

She breezed past me, leaving me dripping in crimson stain.

When I walked back into the ballroom, the hush was immediate. hundreds of eyes turned to me. The stain was unmistakable. It looked like I had been shot in the chest.

Jaxon marched over, his face thunderous. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t smell the wine or the distress rolling off me in waves.

“What is wrong with you?” he hissed, gripping my arm so hard his claws pricked my skin. “Can you not go one evening without embarrassing me? Hadassah never would have been so careless. She had grace. You’re just… a mess.”

The whispers of the pack surrounded us. *Look at her. Pathetic. Not fit to be Luna.*

Something inside me snapped. It wasn’t a loud crack, but a quiet, final release. The tether that held me to him, to this life, severed.

“I’m sorry, Alpha,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’ll go.”

I didn’t wait for his dismissal. I turned and walked out of the ballroom, head high, the red stain burning against my skin. I didn't cry. I had no tears left.

Back at the penthouse, the silence was different. It wasn’t lonely; it was expectant.

I bypassed the master bedroom and went to the guest room closet. I pulled out a single suitcase. I didn’t pack the jewelry he gave me. I didn’t pack the clothes he bought to make me look like her. I packed my jeans, my sweaters, the worn copy of *Pride and Prejudice* my father used to read to me before the accident.

From the bottom of my underwear drawer, I pulled out the envelope. The logo of the Berlin Heart Research Center was crisp and professional. They wanted me for my mind, not my chest. They wanted Dr. Talia Young, not Luna Morgan.

I sat at the vanity and pulled off the diamond wedding ring. It felt heavy, like a shackle. I placed it on the velvet pillow next to the divorce papers I had printed at the library three days ago. Next to them, I laid the grainy sonogram of the baby I never got to meet. The only evidence that I had existed as a mother, even for a moment.

*I, Talia Young, reject you, Jaxon Morgan, as my mate.*

I whispered the words into the empty room. The pain hit immediately—a searing, burning agony in my chest as the bond began to tear. It felt like my soul was being ripped in half. I doubled over, gasping, sweat beading on my forehead. My wolf howled in mourning, but I gritted my teeth and forced myself to stand.

I grabbed my phone, disabled the GPS, and opened the pack link settings. With a trembling finger, I pressed ‘Disconnect.’

The mental silence was deafening. The background hum of the pack, of Jaxon’s presence in my mind, vanished instantly. I was alone. Truly alone.

I zipped up the suitcase. The pain was excruciating, but for the first time in three years, the heart beating in my chest felt like my own.

The wind in Berlin had a bite to it that Manhattan never did, but I welcomed the cold. It felt clean. It felt like it was stripping away the layers of the person I used to be. It had been three months since I left the Silver Pack, three months since I severed the bond that tethered me to Jaxon. The phantom pain in my chest had dulled to a manageable ache, replaced by the steady, rhythmic beep of monitors in the Berlin Heart Research Center.

“Dr. Young,” Dr. Weber called out, his German accent thick and warm. “I have a patient I want you to take lead on. He is… difficult, but not in the way you might think.”

I smoothed the front of my white coat—a symbol of my own achievements, not a costume Jaxon had picked out. “What’s the case?”

“Trace Jensen. Twenty-six. Dilated cardiomyopathy. He’s on the transplant list, but his antibodies are high. He is resigned to the inevitable.”

I walked into Room 402 expecting a frail, bitter man. Instead, I found someone sitting by the window, bathed in the gray winter light, sketching in a leather-bound notebook. Trace Jensen was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at—sharp cheekbones, messy blonde hair, and a pallor that spoke of his failing heart.

He looked up as I entered, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. There was no Alpha dominance in his gaze, no assessment of my breeding potential. Just curiosity.

“Another one?” he asked, his voice raspy but playful. “Dr. Weber sends in a new doctor every week to tell me to have hope. You’re too pretty to be the bearer of bad news.”

“I’m not here to sell you hope, Mr. Jensen,” I said, keeping my voice professional as I checked the monitors. “I’m here to monitor your output. I’m Dr. Young.”

“Dr. Young,” he tested the name. “You look like you’ve seen more ghosts than I have, and I’m the one with one foot in the grave.”

His observation startled me. For a second, my hand went to my chest, to Hadassah’s heart. “We focus on the living here, Trace.”

Over the next few weeks, Trace became the brightest part of my day. He didn’t treat me like a wolf, or an Omega, or a vessel. He treated me like a woman.

One afternoon, during a routine check of his blood pressure, I noticed his pen moving furiously across the page. He was staring at me, then back at the paper.

“What are you drawing?” I asked, wrapping the cuff around his arm.

He hesitated, then flipped the notebook around. The sketch was charcoal, stark and shadowed. It was me, but not the me I saw in the mirror. The woman in the drawing had a set jaw and eyes that burned with defiance. She looked like a survivor.

“Is that how you see me?” I whispered.

“That’s who you are,” Trace said softly. He closed the book. “You have a sadness, Talia. It’s deep. But underneath it, there’s this… ferocity. I envy it.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. “Why?”

“Because I’m terrified,” he admitted, the playful mask slipping. “I’ve spent my whole life waiting to die. I never learned how to fight for anything because I didn’t think I’d be around to keep it. But you… you look like you’ve fought a war and won.”

“I didn’t win,” I said, my voice trembling. “I just ran away. I was afraid of living as a ghost in someone else’s life.”

“Then don’t be a ghost,” he said, reaching out to cover my hand with his. His skin was cool, but his touch sent a jolt of warmth through me that had nothing to do with a mate bond. “Come out with me. Tonight.”

“Trace, you’re a patient. It’s against protocol.”

“I’m dying, Talia. Protocol is for people with time. Please. The Christmas market is open at Gendarmenmarkt. I want to see the lights one last time. I don’t want to see them alone.”

How could I say no to that?

The market was a sensory explosion. The scent of roasted almonds and Glühwein filled the crisp night air. Snow began to fall in large, lazy flakes, dusting the tops of the wooden stalls. Trace walked beside me, bundled in a thick wool coat, his breathing slightly labored but his smile genuine.

We stopped at a stall selling handmade scarves. I reached for a white one, out of habit. Jaxon always insisted on white.

“No,” Trace said, gently taking it from my hand. He reached for a deep, emerald green one. He wrapped it around my neck, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my throat. I didn't flinch. “This one. It brings out the gold in your eyes. It makes you look alive.”

He didn’t compare me to anyone. He didn’t mention a sister he never knew. He just saw me.

We bought two mugs of steaming spiced wine and stood near a massive Christmas tree, watching children ice skate nearby. The cold bit at my cheeks, but I felt warmer than I had in years.

“Thank you,” Trace said, turning to face me. The lights from the tree reflected in his eyes.

“For the wine?”

“For being real,” he said. “Everyone treats me like glass. You treat me like a man.”

He stepped closer. The space between us charged with an electricity that felt different from the Alpha command I was used to. It wasn’t demanding. It was asking.

“I know I don’t have much to offer,” he murmured, his breath forming a cloud between us. “My heart is failing, Talia. It’s a broken engine.”

“It beats,” I whispered, placing my hand over his chest, feeling the erratic but stubborn rhythm beneath his coat. “That’s enough.”

Trace leaned down, giving me every chance to pull away. I didn’t. When his lips brushed mine, it wasn’t a claim. It was a gift. It was soft, tasting of cinnamon and wine, and for the first time, the heart pounding in my chest didn’t feel like Hadassah’s. It felt entirely, wonderfully mine.