The pain of rejection still burned through my veins as Giovanna's voice sliced through the chaos.

"I have evidence," she announced, her red hair gleaming like blood in the dim light of the packhouse hallway. "Evidence of why Thomas really died."

She produced a small vial filled with purple liquid from her pocket. The crowd of pack members gathered outside Colton's suite drew back with gasps.

"This," Giovanna held the vial up to the light, "was found in Mariah's room this morning."

Elena, our pack healer, stepped forward. "That's—"

"Poison," Giovanna finished for her. "The same poison that was found in the pack's water supply yesterday. The stress of discovering his daughter's treachery triggered Thomas's heart attack."

I shook my head, blood still trickling from my nose where the rejection had physically wounded me. "No, I would never—"

"Silence!" Colton's Alpha Command hit me like a physical blow, stealing my words.

Elena's eyes met mine briefly, filled with doubt. "Alpha, I should examine—"

"You examined the water supply yesterday," Colton cut her off. "Did you not find traces of this same poison?"

"Yes, but—"

"And did you not state that such poison could cause cardiac episodes in those with weakened hearts?"

Elena hesitated. "Yes, but I never said—"

"Enough." Colton's voice was ice. "Take her to the cells. She'll be transported to Grimwolf at dawn."

Two Delta guards seized my arms. I could smell their disgust as they dragged me through the packhouse, past the horrified faces of guests who had come to celebrate what should have been my mating ceremony.

"Colton, please!" I cried out as they pulled me down the grand staircase. "It's not true!"

But he had already turned away, Giovanna's arm sliding possessively through his as she whispered something in his ear.

---

Three months into my sentence at Grimwolf Correctional Facility, I huddled on the thin mattress in my cell, trying to ignore the constant dampness that seeped through the silver-reinforced walls. The prison for rogue wolves was underground, the air thick with the scent of mold and despair.

I pressed my hand against my stomach, feeling the slight swell that had appeared despite the meager rations. Something was wrong—my cycle had stopped, and nausea plagued me each morning.

"Prisoner Ferguson," a guard called, unlocking my cell. "Medical check."

The prison medic, a sour-faced woman with dull eyes, examined me in the sterile infirmary. Her hands paused as she pressed against my abdomen.

"You're pregnant," she stated flatly.

The words echoed in my mind. Pregnant. With Colton's pup.

"Does the Alpha know?" she asked.

"No," I whispered. "But he should."

That night, I wrote a letter with a stolen pencil stub, explaining everything. The guard who collected it smirked as he took it from my trembling hands.

"I'll make sure he gets it," he promised.

But I never saw him again. Instead, I was moved to solitary confinement.

"Alpha's orders," the new guard sneered. "To hide your shame."

---

Six months later, the first contractions hit me like lightning bolts as a storm raged outside my solitary cell. I screamed, clutching my swollen belly.

"Help!" I cried as pain tore through me. "My baby's coming!"

The door burst open. Three guards entered, their faces grim beneath their helmets.

"Quiet," one ordered, injecting something into my arm.

Not a pain reliever—something to weaken me further.

"No," I begged as they forced me onto the cold floor. "Please, get a doctor!"

"Alpha Luna gave us instructions," the female guard said, her hands pressing roughly against my stomach. "This won't take long."

They were forcing labor prematurely. I fought them with every ounce of strength I had left, but months of malnutrition had weakened me beyond measure.

"Stop fighting," the guard hissed. "This will hurt more if you resist."

Something tore inside me as another contraction hit. Then came a new sound—tiny, defiant, alive.

My baby's cry.

"That's it," the guard said, reaching between my legs.

I felt a small body slip from mine, heard that strong, healthy cry again.

"Please," I sobbed. "Let me see my baby!"

But they were already backing toward the door, a bundle wrapped in a blood-stained sheet in the female guard's arms.

"Where are you taking him?" I screamed, trying to follow but collapsing from the sedative they'd given me.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was my son's tiny fist, reaching out as they carried him away.

When I woke, the cell was empty save for a single guard standing over me.

"The pup?" I croaked.

"Stillborn," he said mechanically. "Incinerated as per protocol."

Something broke inside me then—something deeper than the mate bond, more primal than grief. As I curled around my empty womb, I made a silent vow: This would not be the end of my story. Somehow, someday, I would find my son. And I would make them all pay for what they had done.

The heavy iron gates of Grimwolf Correctional Facility groaned open behind me. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of hell had passed since I'd been dragged away from everything I loved.

"Prisoner Ferguson," the guard sneered, shoving a small bag of belongings into my arms. "You're free to go."

Free. The word tasted bitter on my tongue.

"Remember the terms of your parole," he continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "No leaving Silver Moon territory. No contact with neighboring packs. Daily check-ins with the Alpha's Beta."

I nodded, unable to speak through the lump in my throat. The mate bond rejection had left me hollow, my wolf silent within me. The prison doctor had confirmed what I already suspected—my wolf had retreated so deeply she might never return. I was wolfless now. An Omega.

"You've got nowhere to go, do you?" the guard mocked. "No family, no friends, no money."

I clutched my father's silver locket through my threadbare shirt. He was all I had left.

"The Silver Moon Pack House is hiring cleaners," he added with a cruel smile. "For traitors like you."

The walk back to the pack house took hours. Each step sent pain shooting through my malnourished body. By the time I reached the imposing gates, the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the manicured grounds.

"Name?" demanded the new gate guard—someone who hadn't witnessed my downfall.

"Mariah Ferguson," I whispered, the name feeling foreign on my lips.

His eyes widened slightly. "The traitor."

"The cleaner," corrected an older woman approaching from the house. "If you want to eat, that is."

She led me to a small office where a housekeeper's uniform waited. Gray, shapeless, marking me as the lowest of the low.

"You'll start with the east wing," she instructed. "Bathrooms first, then floors. The nursery wing is off-limits unless specifically ordered to clean there."

Nursery. The word pierced my heart. My child—my son—was somewhere in this house, being raised by the woman who had destroyed my life.

---

Three weeks passed in a blur of scrubbing floors and emptying trash. I kept my head down, avoided eye contact, and tried not to think about what might have been.

"Mariah!" The head housekeeper's sharp voice cut through my thoughts. "Nursery spill. Now!"

I grabbed my cleaning supplies and hurried up the forbidden wing. The scent hit me before I reached the door—milk, baby powder, and something else. Something that made my heart stop.

"Quickly," a nanny instructed, pointing to a puddle of spilled formula near an ornate crib. "And don't touch anything else."

I dropped to my knees, scrubbing at the hardwood floor. From the corner of my eye, I could see small fingers grasping the bars of the crib.

"Mama?" a tiny voice questioned.

"No, sweetheart," the nanny corrected gently. "That's just the cleaning lady."

I froze, my hand still pressed to the floor. Slowly, I turned my head.

A toddler with dark hair and solemn eyes stared back at me. As our gazes locked, he reached out his hand toward me.

"Up," he demanded.

Before the nanny could stop him, his tiny fingers touched mine. A spark—like static electricity but warmer—shot up my arm.

And then I caught it—his scent. Cinnamon and old books. My father's scent. Mixed with rain—Colton's signature fragrance.

My son. My Jase.

"Get away from him!" The nanny yanked me back by my collar. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I stammered, but it was too late. I knew. And somehow, deep down, he knew too.

---

I found Colton in the west hallway the next day, alone for once without Giovanna at his side.

"Alpha," I whispered, my voice weak from disuse. "I need to speak with you."

He turned, surprise flickering across his face before hardening into disgust. "You shouldn't address me directly."

"Please," I insisted, stepping closer. "About the baby—about Jase—"

"Mariah!" Giovanna's voice sliced through the air as she rounded the corner. "What are you doing?"

She rushed to Colton's side, her eyes wide with manufactured fear. "She was in the nursery yesterday, talking to Jase. She said she was going to take him away from us."

"What?" Colton's expression darkened dangerously.

"No!" I protested. "I would never—"

"She's obsessed," Giovanna whispered, clinging to him. "She thinks he's hers because she's delusional from the rejection."

Colton's hand shot out, gripping my throat as he slammed me against the wall. "You will never come near my son again."

"Your son?" I gasped. "He's—"

"Silence!" Colton snarled, reaching for something in his pocket. A small bottle filled with amber liquid. "This will help you remember your place."

He uncorked it and forced it between my lips. The liquid burned like fire down my throat, spreading poison through my veins.

"Wolfsbane," he growled as I choked and clawed at my throat. "To make sure you never speak lies about my family again."

The pain was excruciating as the concentrated herb burned my vocal cords and sank deeper, wrapping around what remained of my wolf like chains.

As darkness closed in around me, I heard Giovanna's satisfied laugh. And I knew—this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The pain in my side had become a constant companion, a dull ache that flared into agony whenever I shifted position too quickly. Three months had passed since Giovanna's latest scheme had unfolded.

"Critical condition," Elena had announced to the pack, her eyes carefully avoiding mine as she stood beside Giovanna's bed. "Renal failure. She needs a transplant immediately."

I'd been summoned to the pack house's medical bay, where Elena had drawn my blood with trembling hands.

"You're the only match," she whispered later, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Mariah. She has something on me—my family..."

Now I lay strapped to an operating table, the cold metal seeping through the thin hospital gown they'd forced me into. The surgical lights blinded me as figures in masks hovered above.

"Alpha has authorized the procedure," someone said. "Patient is secured."

"No anesthesia?" Another voice questioned.

"Alpha's orders. We need her conscious enough to feel... for compliance later."

I struggled against the restraints as a needle plunged into my arm. Not anesthesia—something else. Something that kept me awake but paralyzed as they cut into my side.

"Taking the left kidney," Elena's voice drifted above me. "Blood pressure dropping..."

The pain was beyond anything I'd experienced—worse than rejection, worse than childbirth in that cold prison cell. I screamed silently as they harvested a piece of me to save the woman who had destroyed my life.

---

I woke to searing pain in the servants' quarters, curled on a narrow cot. My side felt hollow, a jagged scar marking where they'd taken my kidney. The wound was crudely stitched, already infected at the edges.

"Water," I croaked, my voice still raw from the wolfsbane.

A young Omega girl appeared, her eyes wide with fear. "Don't move. You'll tear the stitches."

"How long?" I managed.

"Three days since the surgery." She helped me sip from a cup. "They said you were donating to save Luna Giovanna."

I coughed, the movement sending fresh waves of agony through my body. "Save her? Or save her position?"

The girl's eyes widened further. She glanced nervously at the door before whispering, "There are rumors. Some say she's not really sick at all."

Of course she wasn't. This had never been about saving Giovanna's life—it was about ensuring I could never escape, never fight back. A wolf with one kidney was weaker, more vulnerable.

---

Weeks passed as I slowly recovered. The scar healed into a twisted ridge of flesh that pulled whenever I moved. I'd lost weight, my clothes hanging loose on my diminished frame.

One evening, while cleaning the west wing, I discovered a forgotten ballroom. Dust sheets covered furniture and paintings, but in the corner stood an old grand piano, its mahogany case dulled with neglect.

Something stirred within me—not my wolf, who remained silent, but something deeper. I approached the piano hesitantly, lifting the fallboard to reveal yellowed keys.

My fingers hovered over them, remembering. Before everything—before Colton, before rejection—there had been music. My mother had played, and I had learned at her side.

I pressed a key. The note rang out, surprisingly clear despite the piano's age. Then another. And another.

A melody formed—sad, haunting, filled with all the words I could no longer speak. The music poured from my fingers, carrying my pain, my rage, my grief. For the first time since my rejection, I felt something other than emptiness.

The melody drifted through the pack house, a ghostly presence that seemed to touch everyone who heard it. I didn't notice the footsteps until it was too late.

"What is this?" Colton's voice cut through the music.

I turned to find him standing in the doorway, his face a mask of confusion and something else—something that looked almost like longing.

"Alpha," I whispered, rising from the bench.

He stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the piano. "That song..."

"It was my mother's," I said softly.

He reached out as if to touch the keys, then stopped. Behind him, Giovanna appeared, her face twisted with fury.

"She's using witchcraft," she hissed, grabbing Colton's arm. "Can't you feel it? She's trying to curse us—to curse our son!"

Colton's expression changed, the momentary softness vanishing. "Witchcraft?"

"Through the music," Giovanna insisted, her eyes wild. "She's trying to steal him away from us!"

Before I could protest, Colton lunged forward. But instead of striking me, he slammed the piano lid down with all his strength—directly onto my fingers as they rested on the keys.

The crack of bones was audible. Pain exploded through my hands as they were crushed between the heavy lid and the keyboard.

"Now you can't cast your spells," he snarled, lifting the lid to reveal my mangled fingers—twisted, broken, forever ruined.

I stared at my destroyed hands, unable to scream through the shock. My fingers—the only part of me that could still create beauty—were shattered beyond repair.

As darkness closed in around me, I heard Giovanna's satisfied laugh echoing through the ballroom. But beneath it was something else—a faint sound that might have been Colton's wolf, howling in protest at what his human half had done.