Dawn broke over the horizon as I stood outside the pawnshop, clutching my velvet jewelry pouch with trembling fingers. The shop wasn't open yet, but I couldn't afford to wait. Michael needed medicine, and Alexander needed his ransom money. Every dollar counted now.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, exhaustion pulling at my bones. Since returning from the hospital with Michael three weeks ago, I'd barely slept more than two hours at a stretch. Between his constant medical needs and my desperate scramble for money, rest had become a luxury I couldn't afford.

"You're here early, Luna," said Mr. Patterson, the elderly shop owner, unlocking the door with a sympathetic smile. He was one of the few who still called me by my title, though whispers had already begun spreading through the pack about Alexander's disappearance.

I laid out my treasures on the counter—my grandmother's pearl necklace, the diamond earrings Alexander had given me on our first anniversary, my mother's gold bracelet. Each piece carried memories, stories, pieces of my heart. Mr. Patterson examined them carefully, his expression softening.

"These are beautiful pieces, Luna. Family heirlooms?"

"Yes," I whispered, my throat tight. "But my family needs the money more than the memories now."

He offered me a fair price—more than fair, really—but it was still only a fraction of what I needed. I accepted gratefully, tucking the cash into my worn purse before hurrying to my first job of the day.

By noon, I was delivering messages across pack territories as the official messenger, my feet blistered in worn shoes. By evening, I was sorting herbs in the healer's hut, fingers stained and cracked. And by midnight, I donned scrubs at the human hospital two towns over, working as a night nurse until the early hours.

Three jobs, barely six hours of sleep between them, and a sick baby waiting at home with a rotating cast of reluctant pack members watching him. This was my life now—a desperate race against time.

*How much have you gathered?* Alexander's voice would sometimes whisper through our mate bond, weak and strained. Each time, I felt the same stab of failure when I had to admit it wasn't enough.

*I'm trying,* I would respond, pouring my love and determination through our connection. *I won't let you down.*

The worst was when his pain would bleed through our bond, sharp and visceral. On those nights, I would curl around Michael's tiny form and weep silently, my body shaking with Alexander's phantom agony.

When I saw the flyer for the paid blood donation trials, I didn't hesitate. The pharmaceutical company was offering substantial compensation for werewolves willing to participate in their research. The catch? Multiple donations over several months, more blood than was strictly safe to give.

"Your vitals are concerning," the nurse said during my third month in the program, frowning at her clipboard. "Your iron levels are dangerously low. We should stop the trial for you."

"Please," I begged, desperation making my voice crack. "I need the money. My son—he's sick. I can take iron supplements."

She hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. As the needle slid into my vein, my wolf whimpered, instinctively recoiling from the invasion. I closed my eyes, picturing Alexander's face, imagining him enduring far worse at the hands of the Rogue King. My discomfort was nothing compared to his suffering.

Six months into our nightmare, Alexander's voice crashed into my mind while I was changing Michael's bandages from his latest medical procedure.

*Victoria! I'm critically wounded. I need blood—blood from my lineage.*

My heart stuttered. *What do you mean?*

*Our son,* he replied, his mental voice ragged. *He carries my bloodline. The rogues have a healer who can perform a transfusion, but I need Michael's blood. It's the only way I'll survive.*

I stared down at my baby boy, now nearly seven months old but still so fragile. His skin was pale, his tiny body already weakened by countless tests and treatments for his premature condition.

*There must be another way,* I pleaded.

*There isn't,* Alexander's voice was firm despite its weakness. *If you love me, you'll do this.*

Two hours later, I carried Michael into the pack's infirmary, my steps leaden. The pack healer, Dr. Winters, looked at me with concern when I explained what was needed.

"Luna, he's very small for a blood donation," she warned. "It could compromise his already fragile health."

"My mate will die without it," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "Please."

Michael's screams tore through me as the needle pierced his tiny arm. I held him, singing our lullaby through my sobs, feeling like my heart was being ripped from my chest with each drop of blood that filled the collection bag.

"Shh, baby," I murmured against his downy hair. "This is for Daddy. You're saving Daddy."

But as Michael's cries weakened, his little body going limp in my arms, a terrible thought slithered into my mind: What kind of father would demand blood from his infant son? What kind of mate would I be, to give it?

Yet I had given it. And as the healer rushed to stabilize my now-unconscious child, I realized with dawning horror that this might not be the last time Alexander would ask.

The first time they took Michael's blood for Alexander, my son was seven months old. The second time, he was ten months. By the third time, I began to question the frequency.

"It's too soon," I whispered into our mate bond when Alexander's demand came just six weeks after the last draw. "He's still so pale, Alex. The doctor says his iron levels—"

*He needs me to survive, Victoria.* Alexander's voice cut through my thoughts, suddenly hardening into the unmistakable Alpha tone that sent shivers down my spine. *Would you have our son grow up without a father because you were too weak to do what's necessary?*

The command hit me like a physical blow. My wolf whimpered, instinctively submitting to her Alpha's will despite her maternal instincts screaming in protest.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, tears streaming down my face as I cradled Michael's sleeping form. "Of course we'll help you."

Each time was the same—Michael's tiny screams growing weaker, his little body more fragile. After each transfusion, he would sleep for days, his skin nearly translucent, blue veins visible beneath the surface. And each time, the guilt would eat at me a little more.

By Michael's second birthday, he could barely walk across our small apartment without becoming winded. His checkups were a litany of concerns—developmental delays, anemia, weakened immune system. The doctors couldn't understand why he wasn't improving despite their treatments.

How could I tell them I was allowing his lifeblood to be drained for a father he had never met?

"Mommy, hurt," Michael whimpered one night, his tiny fingers clutching at his chest as he struggled to breathe after a particularly large donation.

I held him close, rocking him gently as I hummed our lullaby, the one constant comfort I could offer. "I know, baby. I know it hurts. But you're helping Daddy. You're so brave."

My words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

That night, after Michael finally fell asleep, I stared at our bank account on my phone screen. After two years of working three jobs, participating in every medical trial that would accept me, and selling everything of value we owned, I had managed to save $432,781. Still far short of the $666,000 ransom.

I closed my eyes, exhaustion settling into my bones. How much longer could we go on like this? How much more could Michael give before there was nothing left?

The answer came sooner than I expected.

Three nights later, I was leaving the ranger's clinic after my late shift when rough hands grabbed me, pulling me into the shadows between buildings. The stench of rogue wolves filled my nostrils as three men surrounded me, their eyes gleaming with malice in the darkness.

"Look what we found," the largest one sneered, pressing a knife against my throat. "A little Luna all alone."

"Please," I whispered, thinking of Michael asleep at home with the reluctant babysitter from the pack. "I don't have anything valuable."

"We know who you are," another said, his voice like gravel. "We know your mate owes our Alpha money. Since he can't pay..." The knife pressed deeper, drawing a thin line of blood.

Panic surged through me, but beneath it, something else stirred—a desperate, wild idea.

"If you harm me," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, "Marcus Black will hunt you down himself."

The knife faltered. "What did you say?"

"I'm under the protection of Rogue King Marcus Black," I continued, the lie burning my tongue. "I'm his Luna."

The rogues exchanged uncertain glances. "Marcus Black doesn't have a Luna," one muttered, but doubt had crept into his voice.

"Ask him yourself," I challenged, praying they wouldn't call my bluff. "Tell him you threatened Victoria Kane. See how long you live afterward."

After a tense moment, the knife withdrew. The leader spat at my feet before backing away. "This isn't over," he growled, but they melted into the shadows as quickly as they had appeared.

I collapsed against the wall, heart hammering in my chest, wondering what madness had possessed me to invoke the name of the very man who held my mate captive.

Two days later, desperation drove me to a secret location—a blood drive offering triple pay for werewolf donors. The money was too good to pass up, despite Dr. Winters' warning that I was becoming dangerously anemic myself.

I sat in the waiting area, filling out paperwork with trembling hands, when a commotion near the entrance caught my attention. Men in black clothing entered, their postures screaming authority despite their civilian clothes. Pack members around me lowered their eyes instinctively, a response to power.

And then I saw him—tall, broad-shouldered, with amber eyes I would recognize anywhere.

Marcus Black. The Rogue King who supposedly held my mate captive.

Except he wasn't just the Rogue King.

He was Alexander.

My wolf howled in recognition, surging forward with such force I nearly shifted right there. The scent that had been missing from our home for two years filled my nostrils—pine, smoke, and something uniquely *him*.

I stood frozen, paperwork forgotten in my lap, waiting for his head to turn, for his eyes to widen in recognition, for our bond to flare to life with his proximity.

But Alexander—Marcus—never even glanced my way. He walked past, deep in conversation with a slender man beside him, discussing what sounded like arrangements for an emergency blood transfusion.

He couldn't smell me. Couldn't sense me. Couldn't feel the mate bond vibrating between us.

Because there was no true mate bond to feel.