The basement room felt smaller every day. Or maybe I was just shrinking, folding in on myself like paper catching fire.

I sat on the edge of my cot, rewrapping the bandages on my feet. The cuts were healing slowly—too slowly for a normal wolf, but I wasn't normal. I was nothing. The gauze came away pink with fresh blood, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

The baby. I had to think of the baby.

My hand moved to my stomach, still flat, still showing no sign of the life inside. But I felt it. A flutter. A presence. Something that was mine and mine alone now.

Footsteps thundered down the basement stairs.

I looked up as two Gamma guards filled my doorway. I recognized them—Jacob and Sam, wolves who used to nod at me in the hallways. Now their faces were blank, professional.

"Hazel Mitchell," Jacob said, his voice flat. "You're to come with us."

My stomach dropped. "Why? What's happened?"

"Alpha's orders."

They didn't give me time to put on shoes. Jacob grabbed my arm, hauling me up, and pain shot through my torn feet as they hit the cold floor. I gasped, stumbling, but Sam caught my other arm.

They dragged me up the stairs, through the Pack House, and out into the courtyard.

The morning sun was too bright. I squinted against it, my heart hammering as I took in the scene.

Alpha Marcus stood near the fountain, his expression carved from stone. Sloane was beside him, her green eyes glittering with satisfaction. And there, on the steps leading to the main entrance, stood Bryce.

His gray eyes found mine, and I searched desperately for something—anything—in them. But they were empty. Dead.

Then I saw her.

"Mom!"

She was on her knees in the center of the courtyard, her hands bound behind her back. Her graying hair hung loose around her face, and her eyes—God, her eyes were terrified.

"Hazel, no—" she started, but one of the guards cuffed her across the mouth.

I lunged forward, but Jacob and Sam held me fast. "Let her go! What are you doing?"

"The Mitchell woman has stolen from the pack," Alpha Marcus announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard. A crowd was gathering—pack members drawn by the commotion, their faces curious, hungry for drama. "Jewelry worth thousands. She used the money to pay gambling debts to Rogues."

"That's a lie!" I screamed, struggling against the guards. "She would never—"

"The evidence is clear," Sloane said, stepping forward with a folder. She opened it, displaying what looked like financial records, photographs of jewelry I'd never seen. "Your mother has been stealing for months. The pack has been more than generous in taking you both in, and this is how you repay us?"

The crowd murmured. I saw judgment in their eyes, disgust.

"Please," I begged, looking at Bryce. "Please, you know her. She took care of you when you were sick, remember? When you had that fever and your mother was away, she sat with you for three days—"

"Enough." Bryce's voice was ice. "The debt must be paid."

An engine rumbled at the gate.

A black SUV rolled into the courtyard, its windows tinted dark. The vehicle stopped, and the back door opened.

The man who stepped out made my blood freeze.

He was massive, scarred, with eyes that were more animal than human. His scent hit me—rotten meat and violence. Rogue. But not just any Rogue.

"Viktor Blackwood," Alpha Marcus said, extending his hand. "Thank you for coming."

The Rogue King smiled, revealing teeth filed to points. "Always happy to do business with the Bloodmoon Pack."

No. No, no, no.

"You can't," I whispered, then louder, "You can't do this! Bryce, please!"

Viktor's gaze slid to my mother, and his smile widened. "She'll do nicely. I've been needing a new breeder."

Breeder. The word hit me like a slap. Breeders were Rogue slaves, forced to bear children for males who had no mates, no pack, no humanity left.

"The debt is settled," Alpha Marcus said. "Take her."

Two of Viktor's men moved forward, hauling my mother to her feet. She didn't fight. She just looked at me, tears streaming down her face.

"Mom!" I thrashed wildly, but the guards held me. "Mom, no!"

"Survive," she called out, her voice breaking. "Hazel, baby, please survive—"

They shoved her into the SUV. The door slammed shut.

I screamed, the sound ripping from my throat, raw and animal. I looked up at the balcony where Bryce stood, Sloane's arm wrapped around his waist.

"Please," I sobbed. "Please don't let them take her."

Bryce turned his back.

The SUV's engine roared to life. I watched through blurred vision as it rolled toward the gate, taking my mother, taking everything.

The guards released me, and I collapsed onto the stones, my torn feet screaming, my heart shattering into pieces too small to ever put back together.

The crowd dispersed. The show was over.

I knelt there alone, the sun beating down, and felt something inside me break. Not just my heart. Something deeper. Something that could never be repaired.

Seven days later, Bryce came for me again.

I was in the kitchen, trying to choke down bread I couldn't taste, when his hand closed around my wrist.

"Come on," he said, his voice manic, his eyes too bright. "I need to feel alive."

He dragged me through the Pack House, and I was too numb to fight. Too empty. The baby fluttered in my stomach, and I wrapped my free arm around myself protectively.

Outside, his sports car waited—black, sleek, modified with racing stripes and an engine that growled like a beast.

"Get in," Bryce ordered.

I looked at the passenger seat, then at him. "Bryce, I can't—"

His eyes flashed gold. Alpha command seized my body, and I found myself opening the door, sliding into the leather seat. My hands shook as I reached for the seatbelt.

Sloane appeared at the edge of the driveway, already shifting. Her wolf was auburn and sleek, built for speed.

Bryce grinned, wild and reckless. "Let's see who's faster."

The engine roared. My fingers dug into the armrest as we shot forward, gravel spraying. Sloane's wolf raced alongside us, her paws eating up the ground.

We hit the main road, and Bryce floored it.

The world became a blur. Trees whipped past. The speedometer climbed—sixty, seventy, eighty. The road twisted ahead, hugging the cliff face, and my stomach lurched.

"Slow down," I whispered.

Bryce laughed, high and sharp. "This is living, Hazel. This is what it feels like to be free."

Ninety. One hundred.

Sloane's wolf pulled ahead, and Bryce snarled, jerking the wheel. We swerved into the opposite lane, the cliff edge so close I could see the drop—hundreds of feet to jagged rocks below.

"Bryce, please!" I pressed both hands to my stomach. "Please, the baby—"

He didn't hear me. Or didn't care.

The curve came too fast.

Bryce yanked the wheel, and the world tilted. Tires screamed. The car fishtailed, spinning, and I saw Sloane's wolf leap clear.

Then we were airborne.

For one impossible moment, everything was silent. I felt the baby flutter one last time.

The car slammed into the guardrail, metal shrieking, and my head cracked against the window.

Darkness swallowed everything whole.

Pain woke me.

Not the sharp kind—the dull, throbbing ache that meant something inside me was broken beyond repair. My eyelids felt like lead. When I finally forced them open, fluorescent lights burned into my retinas.

The infirmary. White walls. Antiseptic smell. The steady beep of a heart monitor somewhere to my left.

I tried to move, and agony lanced through my ribs. My right arm was in a cast. Bandages wrapped around my head, tight enough to make my skull throb.

But none of that mattered.

My free hand moved to my stomach. Flat. Empty. Wrong.

No flutter. No presence. Just... nothing.

"No," I whispered. My voice came out cracked, broken. "No, no, no—"

The door opened. Dr. Reeves walked in, his white coat pristine, his expression clinical. He'd been the pack doctor for twenty years, delivered half the wolves in the Bloodmoon Pack. I'd always thought he was kind.

His eyes were cold now.

"You're awake." He didn't sit. Didn't come closer. Just stood at the foot of the bed like I was something distasteful. "The crash caused severe internal trauma. We did what we could."

My throat closed. "The baby?"

"Gone." One word. Flat. Final. "The fetus didn't survive the impact. Frankly, Miss Mitchell, it's a miracle you did."

Fetus. Not baby. Not child. Fetus.

The room tilted. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the roaring in my ears.

"You're lying," I gasped. "You have to be lying—"

"I assure you, the miscarriage was complete." He checked his watch like he had somewhere better to be. "You'll be released tomorrow. Try to rest."

He left.

I stared at the ceiling, my hand still pressed to my empty stomach, and felt something crack open inside my chest. Not my heart—that had shattered weeks ago. This was deeper. Darker.

The door opened again.

Bryce stood in the doorway, and for one desperate second, I thought he'd come to mourn with me. To hold me. To tell me he was sorry.

Then I saw his face.

Relief. That's what I saw in his gray eyes. Relief.

"Good," he said, stepping inside. "You're awake."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, casual, like we were discussing the weather. "The doctor told me. About the... situation."

Situation. Our child was a situation.

"Honestly, Hazel, it's for the best." His voice was light, almost cheerful. "That Rogue spawn would've been a stain on the Knight bloodline. Now we can all move forward."

Rogue spawn.

He thought—he actually believed—

"It was yours," I whispered. My voice shook. "It was your baby, Bryce. Your heir."

"Don't." His expression hardened. "Don't insult me with more lies. Sloane told me everything about your little forest meetings. The money you stole. You're lucky I don't throw you out with the other Rogues."

He turned to leave.

Something inside me snapped.

Heat exploded through my chest, burning away the numbness, the grief, everything. My vision blurred gold at the edges. A voice—not mine, but mine—snarled in my head.

*He killed our pup.*

My wolf. After eighteen years of silence, she was finally awake.

And she was furious.

"Get out," I heard myself say. My voice was different. Deeper. Layered with something primal.

Bryce paused, glancing back. His eyes widened slightly. "Your eyes—"

"Get. Out."

He left quickly, and I was alone with the rage.

The wolf in my head growled, pacing, demanding blood. Demanding justice. But I pushed her down, forced myself to think.

They'd taken everything. My mother. My baby. My dignity.

But they'd made one mistake.

They'd taught me how to do the pack's books.

I waited until midnight. The infirmary was quiet, the night nurse dozing at her station. I slipped out of bed, my body screaming protest, and found my clothes in the corner—torn, bloodstained, but wearable.

The Pack House was dark. Everyone was at the celebration in the main hall—Sloane's victory party for winning the race. I could hear music, laughter, the clink of glasses.

I made my way to Alpha Marcus's office. The door was locked, but I'd watched him enter the code a hundred times while delivering papers.

0-8-1-5. Bryce's birthday.

The lock clicked.

Inside, his computer sat on the massive oak desk. I powered it on, my hands steady despite the pain radiating through my ribs.

The pack's financial system loaded. I knew every password, every account number. I'd been the one entering invoices and payments for months while they treated me like furniture.

I pulled up the main operating account. Seven million dollars. The pack's liquid assets, ready for investments and emergency expenses.

My fingers flew across the keyboard. There was a bylaw—ancient, barely used—about severance for rejected mates. Compensation for the severed bond. It entitled the rejected party to forty percent of the rejecting Alpha's accessible wealth.

Forty percent of seven million was two point eight million dollars.

I created the offshore account in thirty seconds. Routed the transfer through three different banks. Attached the bylaw citation as legal justification.

One click. That's all it took.

The money vanished from the Knight Pack accounts and reappeared in mine.

I sat back, staring at the screen, and felt my wolf's satisfaction rumble through me.

*Good,* she purred. *Now we run.*

I cleared the browser history, shut down the computer, and walked out of the office.

By the time they discovered the theft, I'd be gone.

By the time they realized what I'd done, I'd be someone they couldn't touch.

I was done being the victim.

I was done being weak.

The Omega they'd broken was dead.

And something new—something dangerous—was rising from the ashes.