The nursery smelled of stale air and sickness. It had been twenty days since I held my daughter, twenty days of scrubbing floors while my heart bled. When Rhys finally granted me a five-minute supervised visit, I nearly tripped over my own feet running up the stairs.

"Thea?" I whispered, pushing open the door.

My baby was curled into a tight ball in the center of her crib. Her breathing was ragged, a wet, rattling sound that made my skin cold. I reached through the bars, my hand brushing her forehead. She was burning up. The heat radiating from her small body wasn't just a fever; it was an inferno.

"Mommy?" Her eyelids fluttered open. Instead of her usual soft brown irises, a flicker of molten gold flashed in the dim light.

My breath hitched. Gold. That was the sign of an Alpha wolf surfacing. But Thea was only two. It was too early. Far too early.

"She's shifting," I gasped, turning to where Rhys stood by the door, his arms crossed. "Rhys, look at her eyes. She's trying to shift. Her body can't handle it yet. We need a specialist from the city immediately."

Rhys pushed off the doorframe, frowning, but before he could take a step, Alessia glided between us. She placed a calming hand on his chest, her touch possessive.

"Oh, Isabelle," she sighed, shaking her head with pity. "Always so dramatic. It’s just a seasonal flu. The fever causes hallucinations and light sensitivity. I’ve already administered a cooling draft."

"It is not the flu!" I screamed, pointing at the crib. "Look at her! Her wolf is clawing to get out! If you don't stabilize her, the energy will burn her organs!"

"Enough!" Rhys’s voice boomed, making Thea whimper. He glared at me, his eyes cold. "Alessia is the Head Healer. You are a wolfless servant who is hysterical from grief. You are projecting your own brokenness onto our daughter."

"Our daughter?" I choked out. "You’re letting that woman kill her!"

"Get out," Rhys commanded, pointing to the hall. "Your visit is over."

I was dragged out by two Delta guards, my fingernails scraping against the doorframe as I screamed Thea’s name.

I couldn't go back to the Omega quarters. Not yet. Panic was a living thing inside me, gnawing at my ribs. I knew what I saw. I knew pack medicine. I needed proof.

Waiting until the guards turned the corner, I slipped into the shadows of the hallway. My human feet were silent on the carpet as I crept toward the infirmary. The door was ajar.

I moved to the counter where Thea’s chart lay open. Beside it was a tray of vials filled with a murky, violet liquid. I picked one up, squinting at the label. It was handwritten: *Growth Blocker - Subject T.*

I uncorked it and sniffed. Even without my wolf senses, the scent was unmistakable. Acrid. Bitter. Metallic.

Wolf-bane.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you," a voice purred from behind me.

I spun around, nearly dropping the vial. Alessia leaned against a cabinet, a cruel smile playing on her lips. She didn't look worried. She looked amused.

"You're poisoning her," I whispered, horror icing my veins. "You're suppressing her wolf with wolf-bane. That’s why she’s burning up. Her wolf is fighting the poison."

Alessia walked forward, snatching the vial from my trembling fingers. "Suppessing? No. I'm experimenting. Alpha bloodlines are so... resilient. It’s fascinating to see how much chemical stress they can endure before they snap."

"I'll tell Rhys," I hissed, stepping back. "I'll show him this."

"Go ahead." Alessia laughed, a dark, hollow sound. "He’s high on my pheromones, Isabelle. I could tell him the sky is green and he’d believe me. But if you say one word, I’ll double the dose. She’s strong, but she won’t survive the night if I decide to speed things up."

She leaned in close, her breath smelling of mint and malice. "Now, run along, little Omega. It’s my birthday party tonight. I don't want you ruining the mood."

Two hours later, the sky tore open. Thunder shook the foundations of the Pack House, rattling the single small window of the Omega quarters where I was locked in.

The storm mirrored the chaos in my soul. Outside my door, I could hear the muffled thumping of bass from the main hall. They were celebrating. Rhys was toasting the woman who was murdering his child.

I pressed my ear against the cold wood of the door, straining to hear anything from the upper floors.

Suddenly, a sensation hit me—a phantom pain in my chest, sharp and agonizing. Even without my wolf, the maternal bond screamed.

*Thea.*

In my mind’s eye, I saw her. Her small back arching off the mattress. Her bones cracking as the forced shift ripped through her fever-weakened body. She was seizing.

"Help!" I pounded on the door with both fists. "Someone help her! Rhys! Please!"

The music grew louder, drowning out my screams. The storm raged outside, and upstairs, alone in the dark, my daughter began to die.

The glass shattered against my elbow, sending a spiderweb of pain shooting up my arm, but I barely felt it. The only thing I could feel was the phantom tether in my chest, pulling me toward the nursery. Toward Thea.

Rain lashed against my face as I scrambled through the broken window of the Omega quarters, dropping onto the muddy grass below. My surgical scar—the jagged line where Alessia had stolen my wolf—burned like fire, but I forced my legs to move. I ran around the side of the Pack House, the bass of the party music thumping against the walls like a second, cruel heartbeat.

They were celebrating. While my baby was dying, they were popping champagne.

I burst through the side service entrance, dripping wet and bleeding. Two Delta guards were stationed at the bottom of the servants' stairs. They stepped forward, blocking my path, their faces impassive.

"Omega Isabelle," one grunted. "You are confined to quarters."

"Get out of my way!" I screamed, clawing at the Alpha command that used to be in my voice. It came out as a desperate, human shriek. "She’s dying! Thea is dying!"

They didn't move. They were following Rhys’s orders.

Desperation clawed at my throat. I had no wolf, no voice, no authority. But I still had the bond. The mate bond, tattered and rejected, still existed deep in the marrow of my bones. I closed my eyes, gathering every scrap of pain, every ounce of terror, and I hurled it into the void where Rhys used to be.

*Rhys!* I screamed into the mental link, the effort making my nose bleed. *Rhys, listen to me! Thea is dying! Help us! Please, just this once, hear me!*

For a heartbeat, the music downstairs seemed to falter in my mind. I felt him. I felt a flicker of confusion, a hesitation on the other end of the line. He heard me. He was there.

*Rhys, please—*

Then, it happened. A wall of ice slammed down between us. It wasn't a drift; it was a violent, deliberate shut-out. He didn't just ignore me; he crushed the connection. I felt the distinct sensation of him turning away, choosing the sweet, fake scent of his mistress over the agony of his mate.

He blocked me.

"No!" I howled, the sound ripping from my chest.

I threw myself at the guards. I didn't fight like a Luna; I fought like a mother. I bit the hand that grabbed my arm. A heavy fist slammed into my side, right over my healing incision. White-hot agony exploded in my gut, doubling me over, but I used the momentum to scramble past them, crawling up the stairs on my hands and knees.

I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

I crashed into the nursery, the door banging against the wall. The room smelled of ozone and scorched sheets—the scent of a shift gone wrong.

"Thea!"

She was on the floor. She must have fallen from the crib in her convulsions. Her tiny body was arching, her back bowing at an impossible angle. Her skin was gray, burning with a heat that radiated across the room.

I scooped her up, ignoring the way her fever blistered my cold, wet skin. "Mommy's here, baby. Mommy's here."

Her eyes were wide open, the gold of her wolf flickering and dying, leaving behind a dull, flat brown. She was shaking so hard her teeth clicked together.

"Hold on," I sobbed, rocking her back and forth. "Don't go. Please, Thea, don't go. Daddy is coming. He's coming."

It was a lie. We both knew it.

Thea’s gaze drifted past me, toward the door, searching for the Alpha aura that should have been there to anchor her. She let out a small, wet breath. Her hand, tiny and trembling, reached up to touch my cheek.

"Daddy?" she whispered.

Then, the tension left her body. The heat vanished in a single, terrifying second, replaced by a stillness that was heavier than the storm outside. Her hand fell from my face.

"Thea?" I shook her gently. "Baby?"

Silence.

Outside, thunder cracked, shaking the house to its foundations. But inside the nursery, the world had ended.

***

I didn't move for hours. I sat on the floor, holding her cold body against my chest, staring at the shadows dancing on the wall. The party music had finally died down. The storm had passed.

The door creaked open.

Light from the hallway spilled in, blinding me. Rhys stood there. He was disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He smelled of expensive cologne and Alessia’s cloying vanilla perfume. He swayed slightly, a goofy, intoxicated grin on his face.

"What is this drama now, Isabelle?" he slurred, squinting into the dark room. "Alessia said you were throwing a tantrum. Why is the baby on the floor?"

He didn't smell it yet. The death. The drugs Alessia had pumped into him masked everything.

I didn't look at him. I just smoothed Thea’s hair, over and over.

Rhys stumbled forward, annoyance rolling off him in waves. "I’m talking to you. Put her back in the crib. You’re spoiling her."

He reached down to grab Thea’s arm. His fingers brushed her skin.

He froze. The glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the floorboards, splashing amber liquid near my knees.

"Thea?" His voice sobered instantly, the Alpha command trying to assert itself. "Thea, wake up."

She didn't move.

Rhys fell to his knees. He snatched her from my arms, shaking her limp body. "What did you do?" he roared, turning on me, his eyes wild with panic and confusion. "What did you do to her?"

"I called you," I whispered, my voice dead. "I screamed for you."

"Liar!" He clutched Thea to his chest, but he wasn't comforting her; he was hoarding her, as if he could squeeze the life back into her lungs. "You didn't call! I would have known!"

"You blocked me," I said, looking right into his eyes. "You felt me, and you blocked me to go back to her."

Guilt flashed across his face—a quick, ugly thing—before it hardened into rage. He couldn't accept it. He couldn't be the villain in his own story.

"No," he snarled, standing up with Thea’s body, towering over me. "This is your fault. Her blood was weak. She got those defective genes from you. If you hadn't been so hysterical, if you hadn't panicked..."

He backed away from me, looking at our daughter’s corpse with a mixture of horror and disgust. "She was weak stock. Just like her mother."

The morning sky was the color of a fresh bruise, swollen and purple with unshed rain. The entire Silverclaw Pack had gathered on the main lawn, a sea of black umbrellas and hushed whispers. They were waiting for the funeral procession to the Hallowed Grounds, the sacred white stone garden where our ancestors slept under the Moon Goddess’s watch.

But we weren’t going to the garden.

I stood alone, separated from the crowd by two Delta guards. I wore no black veil, only my ragged Omega uniform. My arms felt impossibly light without the weight of my daughter in them. Thea was in the center of the clearing, inside a plain pine box that looked more like a crate for shipping vegetables than a coffin for an Alpha pup.

Rhys stood on the porch, looking down at us. He wore his ceremonial Alpha blacks, but his face was grey, his eyes glassy and vacant. Alessia stood right beside him, her hand resting possessively on his forearm. She was wearing white—a stark, insulting contrast to the mourning pack. She leaned up, whispering something into Rhys’s ear. Her lips brushed his lobe, and I saw his jaw tighten.

He stepped forward, clearing his throat. The pack fell silent.

"There will be no procession to the Hallowed Grounds today," Rhys announced. His voice was flat, devoid of the rich timber that used to make my wolf purr. It sounded mechanical.

A ripple of shock went through the crowd. Even the guards beside me shifted uncomfortably.

"Thea..." Rhys paused, his gaze flickering to the pine box and then quickly away, as if looking at it burned him. "The child failed the shift. She succumbed to her own biological inadequacy. Our laws are clear. Only those who live as wolves may sleep with the wolves."

"She was two!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my raw throat. "She was your daughter!"

"She was weak stock!" Rhys roared back, the Alpha command slamming into me like a physical blow, forcing me to my knees in the wet grass. "She proved she did not have the strength to carry the Silverclaw blood. To bury her with the heroes of this pack would be an insult to their memory. It would show our enemies that we honor failure."

Alessia nodded solemnly, wiping a fake tear from her dry cheek. "The Alpha is right," she projected her voice, smooth as poisoned honey. "We must be strong. We must purge the weakness to protect the pack."

Rhys gestured to Marcus, a burly Delta warrior who stood by the coffin. Marcus looked down at his boots, shame radiating off him. "Take it to the Wasteland," Rhys ordered. "Bury it with the others."

It. He called her *it*.

The world tilted on its axis. The Wasteland wasn't a cemetery. It was a dumping ground at the edge of the territory, a muddy ravine where we threw the bodies of executed Rogues, diseased livestock, and traitors who had been stripped of their rank. It was a place of rot.

"No," I whimpered, scrambling to my feet. "Rhys, please! Don't do this!"

But the procession was already moving. Marcus hoisted the small box onto his shoulder with ease—she was so small, so light—and began the trek toward the treeline. Rhys and Alessia followed, and the rest of the pack fell in line, heads bowed in submission.

I ran. I stumbled over roots and slipped in the mud, trailing behind them like a ghost.

The smell hit us before we saw the pit. The stench of decay, wet fur, and sulfur. The Wasteland was a scar on the earth, a deep gully filled with trash and bones. Flies buzzed in thick, black clouds, indifferent to the rain that had started to fall.

Marcus stopped at the edge of a shallow, freshly dug hole. It was barely two feet deep. Muddy water was already pooling at the bottom.

"Do it," Rhys commanded. He stood under a large black umbrella that Alessia held over him, keeping him dry while I was soaked to the bone.

Marcus lowered the box. He didn't do it gently. The mud was slippery, and his grip faltered. The box slid from his hands and landed with a wet thud in the muck.

It landed crookedly.

I pushed past the guards, falling to my knees at the edge of the ravine. My eyes locked on the grave. The box had landed right next to a bloated, gray mound of fur. A coyote. A feral, mangy scavenger that had been shot by patrol last week. Its rotting, open mouth was pressed against the wood of my daughter's coffin. Its dead, cloudy eyes seemed to stare right at me.

My baby. My sweet, innocent Thea, who smelled like milk and sunshine. She was lying in the mud next to vermin.

Something inside me shattered. It wasn't a break; it was an explosion. The last tether of my sanity, the last shred of my love for Rhys, the last instinct of self-preservation—it all snapped.

I didn't feel the rain anymore. I didn't feel the grief. I felt only fire.

My hand went to my boot. The handle of the silver fruit knife I had stolen from the kitchen tray three days ago was cold against my palm.

"You monster," I whispered.

I didn't lunge at Rhys. He was too strong, too guarded. My eyes locked on the white dress. The pristine, spotless white dress that mocked my daughter’s dirty grave.

I moved faster than I had ever moved in my human form. I wasn't running; I was hunting.

"Isabelle, stop!" Marcus shouted, but he was too late.

I crashed into Alessia. The impact knocked the umbrella from her hand, sending it spinning into the mud. We hit the ground, mud splashing up around us. Her eyes went wide with shock, her mouth opening in a silent scream.

"You put her there!" I shrieked, raising the knife. "You killed her!"

I brought the blade down.

I aimed for her heart, but she twisted. The silver blade sliced deep into her upper arm, tearing through the expensive white silk and sinking into flesh.

Blood—bright, hot crimson—sprayed across my face, mixing with the rain.

Alessia screamed, a high-pitched, terrified sound that echoed through the silent woods. "Rhys! She's crazy! Kill her!"

I yanked the knife back for a second strike, my teeth bared in a snarl that required no wolf to understand. I wanted to carve the life out of her. I wanted her to rot in that pit instead of my baby.